Archive for February, 2011

Ugh! Don’t Read This

Monday, February 28th, 2011

 

So. I have been sitting in front of my monitor for eleven straight hours. Except timeouts to pee and a visit I paid to Squatlo’s site for inspiration, I have been sitting here attempting to write cogent thoughts.

The net results of my endeavors today are hidden in a 7,396-word unintelligible Word document. I have tried to read it and it scares me.

My ADHD has been so out of control that I can’t string two cogent thoughts together. I started to just post what I did and damn the torpedoes.

Then I thought about how I have come to know and respect most of you and decided that it would be unsafe to our friendships to subject you to it. I have decided instead to send it to Texas governor Prick Perry.

I am unclear what has caused the severity of this brain manglement, I am unsure why this is so severe. For the first time in many years I find myself unable to even put into words what is different this time.

Ugh.

Anyway, I’m going to go get the Squirt from Dr. Sam I. Am’s house and we’re going fishing. Watching almost-my-dog Squirt vibrate on the fishing pier as she waits at high alert for one of our red-and-white plastic bobbers to show a nibble always calms my fevered brains.

Maybe just getting out in the fresh air will help.

I know that the state of my state government fuels much of the static in my brainwaves. I know that reading about the bonus structures for companies that were bailed out of financial disaster with public funds agitates my already frayed synapses.

And I have now epiphanized the answer to my current problem. I’m not just crazy, I’m mad. I’m mad as all fucking hell. I’m sick to death of sycophantic legislators sucking Christian right-wing dicks and ruining the fabric of my country.

I think I’m extra crazy today because I feel I am politically inert. With low morale, high ignorant-valued governments in place everywhere, I just feel infertile.

Ugh, and again.

Man am I a fucking downer today. I don’t even want a Carta Blanca beer, for shitsakes.

OK, maybe a couple. Manana, y’all.

Anarchy Redo; Inventional Wisdom

Sunday, February 27th, 2011

 

So. First, I want to thank my good buddies the Reckmonster, Miss Thundercat832 and Squatlo for lending me so much support yesterday. I was feeling a great loss with the revelation that the word “anarchy” has no meaning. I had reached the conclusion that there can be no actual anarchy. I’m not going to rehash all of that, look up yesterday’s bloggie posting to catch up if you need.

As usual, I was unclear as to precisely what my problem is as it relates to my anarchy dilemma. OK, wait. What I just said was unclear as well. To be precise, what I meant to say is that I did not write words that stated exactly why I was in a dilemma over losing anarchy as a meaningful word. I know exactly what my dilemma is.

Ever notice how similar dilemma is to enema? I think that is one of nature’s intelligent coincidences. Like Rick and Prick.

FUCK PRICK PERRY!!!

Holy shit, that felt good. It is quite difficult to say, but feels so very good in your mouth. Like “rubber baby buggy bumpers.” Say the fast and repeatedly.

Oh, and try this one. Say, “butt crack, butt crack, butt crack…..” as fast as you can, over and over. Start slow and then speed up like a choo-choo train pulling away from the station. I can guarantee that you will be “bucking” like a chicken.

I discovered that one way back when Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and I were first married. She was in the bed all sexed up and ready to tango, and I was having trouble getting my clothes off. I was in such a hurry to get my pants off that I managed to tangle pants and undies and twisted them tight at my waist. I guess a large portion of my ass was exposed as I struggled and Sam was making fun of me. She said, “Butt crack, butt crack, butt crack,” and started laughing.

Then I mimicked her, “Butt crack, butt crack, butt crack.”

She started back at me and went, “Butt crack, butt crack, butt cra, buck, buck, buck, buc, buc….”

We did this for hours. Try it, it will make you laugh like a kid getting tickled.

Anyway, my sense of loss of the word anarchy isn’t at the loss of losing anarchy as a means to govern. I’m not in favor of government by unruly mob. We’ve already got that here in Texas and I find it unsettling. My deep sense of loss lies instead in the yangness of the word. Maybe that should be yangity. Yangamonity? Yanger?

OK, try this. My trouble is that without a true definition to anarchy, I don’t have a yang to the yin that is right-wing Christian fuckball legislator-dominated politics.

See, my main method to control my ADHD-fueled thoughts is organization. Much of that organization comes in the form of routinization. You know, like what I posted a few days ago where I have specific routines to perform certain tasks to prevent mental de-railings.

Take, for example, the high art of peeing in sinks. Say I’m in an unfamiliar bathroom to pee. I won’t just whip it out and start peeing right away. I have a routine:

  1. Ascertain the length of excess, open counter top between counter top front edge and the leading edge of sink bowl.
  2. Compare the length observed in number 1, above, to length of personal penis.
  3. If length of penis is greater than observed length of open counter top in Number 1, above, skip step Number 6.
  4. If penis length is shorter than observed length of open counter top, remember to lean forward on tippy toes to insure that penis cap remains over sink bowl at all times.
  5. Observe and evaluate flooring. If carpeted floor, move to step 6. If hard flooring (tile, wood, flagstone, etc.), remove any rugs from underfoot, then practice leaning forward on tippy toes to insure solid footing.
  6. Move toothbrushes, night guard dealies for teeth grinders, reading glasses and such to an area at least two feet from sink edge.
  7. Check sink bowl for “splash-making” obstacles. These would include drain plugs not properly seated, those funky crenelated cultured marble sinks and also sinks that are flat and shallow.

 

OK, stop. That was a major fucking digression.

A second method of organization to help me focus is to categorize things, like: good/bad; right/wrong; weak/strong and so on.

The third way, and applicable to this conversation, is a variation of the second method I call “yin and yang”. It helps me to calm some of the many lines of thoughts spinning in my brain if I can pair them with their polar opposites. Say, for instance, sex and root canal dentistry. A yin, and a yang.

Or maybe rescuing an abandoned ostrich named Rick Perry, gay man, and the act of leaving said ostrich abandoned on a country road. Another yin with a yang.

See, the only one-word descriptive I can conjure as the yang to my state’s current government used to be “anarchy”. Most of you would say that the polar opposite of 100% Christian belief-structured rule is 100% atheistic belief-structured rule. Right?

But that isn’t a yang for me. I would be just as unhappy with a fully atheistic government for the same reasons I hate what we have now. It’s simple. I want a government that refuses to rule based upon a religious philosophy.

Ugh. I think I just made this whole discussion even more muddled. I have no idea what I am trying to say.

How about this? Drink Carta Blanca beer, vote as much with your heart as with your head, have a heart, and………………

FUCK PRICK PERRY!!!

That really feels good. Manana, y’all.

Planned Anarchy Is No Anarchy At All; ADHD Kills

Friday, February 25th, 2011

 

So. Today’s bloggie posting is an experiment. I sat down to the keyboard with absolutely nothing to say. Nothing is planned, I have no Postie Notes outline to guide me, and I don’t have anything bugging me more than anything else.

My ADHD is active, as usual, but the activities are more like the Mississippi as it rambles through the Louisiana Delta in a dry summer, rather than a flood-fueled Colorado River as it gouges new boundaries through the Grand Canyon.

Same comparative brainwave activities, different looks.

This morning’s ADHD influences are of the still-water-runs-deep variety, and that is as comfortable as my frazzled brain ever gets.

Except that I just started this entire posting with a lie. I said I had nothing to say, no planned thoughts. Except I did have a plan, which was to not have a plan. I was simply going to sit to the keyboard and start typing. But that’s a fucking plan.

Ugh.

OK, let’s examine this because now I’m wondering about the definition of a word, one of my favorites. Anarchy.

Effectively, anarchy would be when there is no structured government, right? Sort of an every man for himself dealie. Like before there was any civilization at all. Before the first two humans on planet reached any agreements– and certainly before sex had been had the first time.

I find it impossible to believe that anybody had any sex without someone setting out ground rules of some kind. Think on this logic:

“Rules equal agreement; agreement equals structure; structure equals structure and therefore, ipso facto and shazam we’ve got ourselves the first fucking government. A set of rules for interactions between one, or more, parties.”

So, and follow my logic string here because I’m having a difficult time following me, I think the next knot in my logic string is this:

“Unless you outlaw sex during anarchy, there will be no anarchy. And since you can’t stop people from sexing, there is no such thing as anarchy.”

Right? But then, if you have the rule for sex, you have a rule, which means an agreement and agreements beget (begot?) structures and then we’re back to that entire government thingie. And then there is no anarchy.

Now, I hope that you are getting the drift of my mangled thinkings this morning. I have managed to prove that one of my favorite words doesn’t exist. Anarchy is not a real word.

Now, don’t start on me with, “Yes, Mooner, but what if everyone agrees to have no rules? Won’t that negate your logicalizations?”

“Nope,” I would say. “You used the word ‘agree’ and that negates your negater and double-negativities back to my point.”

Then you might say, “OK, but what if the people don’t agree among themselves to have no rules, they just decide as individuals to have no rules.”

“Well,” I’d tell you, “how is agreeing with yourself distinguished from agreement with others in my logic string?”

It isn’t.

Double ugh.

Now I’m starting to fritz. Think about this. Anarchy is one of those words whose original design was to define limits. You know, yin to a yang. If having a government that controls all aspects of your life using a belief system that you disagree with is yin, then anarchy is yang. Right?

Like what we have in many state governments now. In my state, I’ve got a Christian-based belief system guiding men of low morals and intelligence to write stupid laws and make ignorant decisions for me. In my fevered mind I was thinking of suggesting anarchy as the antidote to the poison of their venomous governing.

Ugh, again. I think I need help with this one. I need to consult with Squatlo and Reckmonster and Thundercat832, get a side of the Peachster and find a way to logicalize myself back into anarchy.

The sick result of today’s bloggie plan is this conclusion. With my ADHD-fueled synapses creating dozens of disparate and disconnected thoughts, and all without any organization whatsoever, the only anarchy in the world might be inside my own brain.

Ugha-ugha-ugh.

I need a Carta Blanca beer and some therapy.

Manana, y’all.

Lost Focus Found; Re-Lost

Wednesday, February 23rd, 2011

 

So. Ever since I wrote yesterday’s bloggie posting here to Webberville, my brain has been fritzed. That is to say my ADHD has been more vigilant than a pack of Arizona Tee-baggers at a Mariachi concert.

Yesterday’s writings were to be an admission of culpability on my part, one of the continuing admissions deemed to be so very fucking important to my psycho therapist. While admitting to you just HOW crazy I am, the same ADHD that MAKES me so crazy interrupted my brain waves, stole the signal and reprogrammed the broadcast. Somehow I managed to mangle a confession and transform it into a sexing story. Go figure.

Net results: the following conversation with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson. “Mooner, you mis-fortunate and delusional lunatic. Your confessions are not worth the paper they are printed on if you can’t clearly state them.”

“Don’t you mean ‘unfortunate’?” I asked her.

“Don’t pick nits with me, buster. You know exactly what I mean.”

An opening, two, three and four… “Well, I certainly know that you ARE mean.”

Well done, Mooner my man. It helps to stay on my toes during therapy sessions.

My psycho therapist and first of ten ex-wives gives me her best “you’re a crazy fuckball and I’m not” look, the she laughs and shakes her head. “Not this time, nutball, you will not get me off task. You had an assignment and you didn’t follow through.”

My mind somehow managed to get stuck in a multi-voiced argument about why she gave me the “fuckball” look, but called me a “nutball”. I don’t think she’s ever called me a nutball and it was disconcerting.

“What the hell do you mean by nutball? I know what a fuckball is and I freely admit to being one.” Maybe I should admit to having it.

“Or maybe I have it, you know maybe I suffer from fuckballism,” I added for emphasis. Oh for shitsakes, would it be fuckballella, like salmonella?

“Oh for god sakes, Mooner, would you please focus. You’re scatterbrained this afternoon.”

OK, so first, “Well fucking duh!” Then I added, “It’s you that’s distracting me. Is nutball a clinical term or was it a mistake you calling me that?”

“The only mistake I ever made in your therapy my dear ex-husband, was in agreeing to treat you in the first place. And don’t you dare try to tell me that you have made it worth my time.”

I was winding up a discourse on everything I have done for her when she interrupted the process with, “Mooner, look at me. Look into my eyes.”

I did. She’s got these dreamy brown eyes of dark and milk chocolate swirls. “I’ll get a boner and then go all distracted again,” I told her. “I’ll just stare at the Salvador Dali print you bought with my money and hung where I have to look at it every session.”

Dali is my favorite artist.

Anyway, yesterday I was going to admit that I am certifiably crazy, a nutcase of heroic proportions. I do that now and with free will. (of free will?) I simply cannot remember why with any precisions or specificities.

I will, however, say this. I would far rather be me than be Rick Perry. So I say to you, “Drink Carta Blanca beer, and FUCK RICK PERRY!!!”

Manana, y’all.

I’ve Invented A New Word; Moonerlogical

Tuesday, February 22nd, 2011

 

So. I think it might be official. I feel that all of the evidence has come in and it’s time to make the certifications. I can’t think of a single additional bit of information necessary to make the final determinations.

I am CrAZy!

That’s right, you heard it here first, and I am telling you that I am nuts. I figured it out maybe a half-hour ago and I’ve been sitting here cogitating over my conclusions. You know, trying to find flaws in the logicalizations that have lead-up to my Final Jeopardy question.

[Alex Trebeck] “The Final Jepordy question is, ‘Yes!!!’”

[da, da, da, daaaa, da, da, daaaa; da, da, da, da-dit, da,dadadadaaaa....; dit, dot, dunk-daa-dit!]

[Alex] “OK, Mister Johnson, your question is?”

[Me (Mooner Johnson)] “OK, Alex, this has been a tough one, but my question (answer) is, ‘Is Mooner Johnson a giant crazy redneck fuckball?’”

[Alex] “That’s right, Mooner. And show us, how much did you risk?”

[Me] “Oh, I risked it all. I always risk it all!”

That’s how the dream went last night when I finally got back to sleep after breaking up a lovers’ spat between my pet pig and ostrich. Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry have been fighting, and quite often since Saturday night. It started when Rush hogged all of the green beans at dinner and left little Ricky none. The ostrich started whining about it and the pig says, “You crybaby worse than your namesake. Why don’t you shut your yap and pass me the fried chicken.”

Rick Perry’s response to this was to scoop a huge pile of riced potatoes from the bowl sitting beside his place mat, and smeared them on Rushie’s head, from his snout to his ears. “Who’s crying now, you inflated porcine windbag.”

Then my 350-pound bird says to his lover, the pig, “And you are way uglier than your namesake. I don’t know one single reason why I put up with you.”

That’s when Gram had gotten a belly full of dinner and the spatting lovers all three. “I don’t giva shit fer neither of ya. Now shut yer yaps er else you’ll be Sunday dinner. I been dyin ta eat me some Big Bird stew an pulled pork BBQ.”

Now bear with me because all of this is second-hand information relayed to me by Squirt. I spent that night with SAC Ellen reaquaintinizing myself with the savory goodness that is poontang. It had been awhile since I’d had any, and my memories need dusting off and refreshing.

I love poontang. I love everything about it [them?]. In my whole life I’ve only met one, on the up-close and personal level that is, that I wouldn’t get myself into the middle of. That encounter happened back in the days when I married every woman I had sex with. I’d like to say that I didn’t get involved with that particular poontang because I wizened-up and realized the marital implications.

The truth is, it was all about the actual poontang and had nothing to do with the owner of said vaginal regions. The reason for my rejecting this one is evident in the words I can remember saying to the owner. I remember the words verbatim to this day.

When I was in the prep mode for committing some oral sex, she was lying on the bed with her feet on the floor. I was on my knees between her legs and I had her pretty lace panties by the elastic waistband on both sides. I was doing my best to be sexy as I pulled her dainty lace panties off, and I managed to get the waistband to her knees but the crotchie part seemed stuck.

I pulled ever tighter on the waistband and when the poontang owner wiggled her hips to give me an assist, the panties snapped free with the sound of unharnessing a 40-inch Velcro hernia belt, and the crotch of the panties slapped into my face.

And stuck there.

I’m proud to tell all of you that I didn’t gag or puke. I wanted to and maybe should have. The taste and smell of my own vomit might have masked to odor of that tanger.

As soon as I swallowed my bile and caught a full breath, I said through the panties, I said to her, “Uh, Karen [not real poontang owner's name] I think maybe someone left an egg salad sandwich and a beer in there sometime over the last few months. You might wanna check it out.”

I know women put up with a lot of shit just being a woman. Must be hard as hell. If I had the choice of having to get all of my sexing from a man, I think I would rather be a lesbian. I know many lesbians who will second that.

But shouldn’t all skunk poontang come with some kind of warning label on it? Something like, “This fine feminine product requires all operators to wear protective head gear.” Or maybe, “Please place your hammer and chisel on nightstand before entering the poontang.”

Just a few words to warn a man. And something I have always wondered (but am afraid to ask Sister and Anna). Do lesbians even have stanky tangers, and if so, do lesbians find stanky poontangs offensive, like a man does? Why I ask that question is that Karen, above, told me the reason she had a, “Slight vaginal fragrance,” was due to having had sperm deposited thereabouts, at some time. Like having sex with a man causes poontangs to smell bad.

And what happens if the lady is a squirter, and it’s her squirt fluids that are the skunk venom carriers.

I was squirted by a healthy male skunk one Sunday as Streaker Jones and I walked from Sunday School over to his house. Little bastard hit me on my side from just above my left ear, where the projectiled venom first landed, and in an arc down my shoulder to behind my right knee. [another whole story]

I have also been squirted by a woman possessing a voluminous reservoir connecting to whatever it is she’s got down there that squirts it out. That’s Roshandra Washington-Johnson, now ex-wife number five. Diddle her G-spot just right and Roshandra could put out a lit candle sitting on her dresser.

OK, now I have seriously digressed. I guess knowing with absolute certainty that I’m nuts is distracting me.

Anyway, what happened is this. The gay lovers woke me up with their petty bickering and I had the silly Jeopardy dream, they woke me up again, and then I couldn’t go back to sleep. As I lay awake, I started listing all of the evidence in support of the theory that I am crazy.

Now I forget what it was that pushed me over the brink. How could I have forgotten such an important point?

It likely wasn’t such a big fucking deal if I’ve already forgotten.

I feel like a Carta Blanca beer to celebrate my re-found sanity!

Manana, y’all.

For The Reckmonster; Help Our Vets (Reprint From 10/2010)

Monday, February 21st, 2011

 

So. We had a good meal at La Fogata down to San Antonio. Squirt was a scream as she sat like a “good girl”, not begging at the table for food scraps. She so wanted to beg that she was vibrating.

She’d look up at me with this face that says, “I’ve just been released by kidnappers who didn’t feed me for two weeks.” She sat mumbling and whining, but not begging through most of the meal. But when our waitress delivered the fresh guava empanadas with vanilla ice cream- she lost it.

She hopped around in circles for a minute and then sat up like a bunny rabbit, this giant expectant grin on her face. But she didn’t say anything, so I said to her, I say, “Good girl, Squirt.”

She thought my comment meant she was getting a bite of my dessert. When it didn’t come, Squirt threw herself to the ground and grumbled. “Good girl my rosy red ass. Ach um himmels willen. Qu’est-ce qu’une fille doit faire to get a fucking morsel ya chakula around here.”

Just as I wound up to scold her, Gram pinched a small piece of her empanada and pitched it to the Squirt. “Stop yer bitchin, ya little German monster. I never saw a mutt didn’t think about nothing but her stomach.”

I jumped to grab Squirt before she could slaughter five languages to give it back to Gram. Otherwise, the meal was great.

We got home just in time to catch 60-Minutes on the tube. The piece about homeless vets was on. I can’t stop thinking about it.

I am stoutly anti-war, a position I carried from birth, then lost in the late 1980′s, and found again when Bush Two invaded Iraq. I have come to the conclusion that America knows neither why to go to war, nor how to win one.

I now believe that WWII taught us that war can be big business, so we practiced in Korea to wet our beak in conflict for profits. The Korean Conflict, not the Korean War because we were just practicing, gave us that first shot of societal Novocaine. The drug to numb our intellect and help us adjust to losing wars, but gaining profits.

Since Hitler had taught us so much about propaganda in the recent past, we also practiced and perfected the spin doctoring that I think has ruined the art of history forever. How can history ever be accurate again? When special interest groups control news, there is no accuracy in truth.

Now I’m ranting and digressing my point, which is this.

Shame on us, shame on America for not protecting and caring for our soldiers as they return home. Shame on all of us. We recruited men and women to go fight in Iraq and Afghanistan starting in 2001 during the greatest economic growth period in history.

While they are off fighting a stupid ego and business-driven war, the same bunch who sent them to war were busy destroying our robust economy for even more profits. By the time it’s decided to wind things down in the war zones, those brave people come back to a broken economy, broken marriages, and broken dreams.

Many come back to a broken America, broken themselves. They endured unimaginable hardships fighting these wars we don’t fight to win. We didn’t even provide them with adequate armor for their bodies or vehicles. SWAT police go to work with better protection than our soldiers have to go to war.

Their Rules of Engagement, which we learned to crisply write in Viet Nam, basically require of troops to take casualties before they can defend themselves. If you want to know if a war is just, I say read the Rules of Engagement. If you want to know if a war is instead business-driven, therein lies your answer.

So we bust them out of their jobs, take them from their families, put them in harm’s way, then give harm additional advantages. They fight bravely, sometimes heroically. Then, they come home missing limbs, missing life and many missing sanity as well. They return to a hero’s welcome, right?

They return home to a cold shoulder, a hideously under-funded veteran support structure and a corporate business structure with no more need for them. A retired soldier is no more profitable than a dead one, right? It’s all about the bottom line.

Where are you George W. Bush? Why the fuck are you not standing out in front to show support for the men and women you sent to fight your stupid fucking wars? Show some gratitude and raise money and awareness of the plight of returning soldiers. Help them get medical treatment and housing and jobs.

Do one right thing in your pampered life. Pay these people back for trusting you to care for them. Repay the trust they honored you with.

Get your spoiled ass on the road and raise money. Be a man, George, and do something for someone with actual needs. For one time in your silly fucking life.

You want a legacy other than “History’s dumbest national leader”?

Be a man. Help our vets.

The rest of us need to do something also. I going to grab a sixer of cold Carta Blanca beer and figure out what I’m going to do.

Manana, y’all.

Mooner’s Logical Thought On Abortion; FRP

Sunday, February 20th, 2011

 

So. Here in the great state of Texas, the first Emergency Legislation of this year’s session has passed the Senate. My regular readers know that in Texas, an Emergency Bill is defined as a bill wherein, “The issues resolved by the measure are grave matters in need of immediate actions to be taken with great alacrity.” [that would be my interpretation]

With a state budget shortfall projected to be as much as $27 billion for the next two years, thinking people (persons?) [except those few thinking people (persons?) living in Texas] would guess that the first Emergency Bill would be budget-related in some fashion or another. That would make a huge amount of sense and be quite logical, right?

Wrongo, balanced thinkers, wrong-fucking-O!

See, here in Texas the most important issue for the next two years is to require any woman who wants to have an abortion to develop an intimate relationship with her unwanted sperm-pierced egg. That’s right, a woman must pay for a sonogram, which she must then watch while listening to her stomach noises during the procedure. That’s right.

Justification? In the last several years, Texas has averaged 80,000 abortions per year, and that’s by-God too many.

Now, I ask to to put aside the reality that 80,000 is not a big statistical number from a population of approximately 25 million. And forget that many of those abortions were had by teenage girls with no effective how-not-to-get-knocked-up education. And ignore the fact that our federal legislators want to cut all funding for the most effective sex education services in America, Planned Parenthood.

Forget all that silly factual shit because your buddy Mooner has figured a simple logic tree to (maybe) make sense to our [apparently] brain dead right-wing Christian legislators. Are you ready?

Here’s my logic tree. It’s like a giant Sequoia, you know not many branches except near the top, but impressive as all hell.

  1. Abortions are performed when a woman has an unwanted pregnancy.
  2. If the pregnancy is unwanted, guess what? This means that:
  3. NOBODY WANTS THE BABY THAT WILL DEVELOP

 

Maybe I stuttered, maybe the point is unclear so I’ll say it a different way:

Over the last several years, the smart women of Texas have reduced the number of unwanted children by 80,000 per year. Basically, that’s a million every twelve years.

Wow! Way to fucking go, smart Texas women!!!

Thank God we won’t have all of those babies born unwanted, and especially now. Because guess what else? The first Texas budget cuts are to the social services agencies that will be responsible for providing health care and education to many of those unwanted kids and their baby-mommas.

But little Mister Rick Perry wants us to birth more unwanted babies and care for them with fewer resources. I guess that would be the same logic he uses when he decides to improve public education but fictionalizing our textbooks.

See why I need so much Carta Blanca beer?

As Squirt likes to say, “Baiser Rick Perry!”

Manana, y’all.

The New Dark Age For Texas; Fuck Rick Perry!

Saturday, February 19th, 2011

 

So. I’m almost to the point where I’m so embarrassed to be a Texan that I want to claim a new home. It has gotten so bad around here that I don’t want to claim my home state as home. We have been enduring the budget cuts of our business-first legislature and their ham-fisted slashing of education budgets for months. The legislature, fueled by the rhetoric of Governor Rick “We Don’t Need No Education” Perry, have been implementing their from-the-top-downward program to squeeze the smarts out of our kids brains.

“What are they bitchin’ bout, Martha. We buy ‘em their fucking books, fer shitsakes,” seems to be the battle cry of our right-wing Christian lawmakers.

And now our school children are getting ass-fucked by the Texas Board of Education with their revisionist views of history printed in those “fucking” books we give them.

Hey everybody, did you ever hear the one about that nifty junior Senator from Wisconsin, the right reverend Joseph McCarthy? Did you realize that he was, and here I’ll quote a Texas school book, “… a man ahead of his time…”

Sonofabitch! And here I am thinking that old Red-baiting Joe was an asshole. My version of history is that Joe was a man who; hid from military service in WWII; bashed gays and liberals and branded them as commies [all the while wishing he knew old J. Edgar liked to play dress-up too]; and lied and lied and lied to get his ugly fucking mug on the evening news.

There’s more, like, “Thomas Jefferson? Thomas Jefferson……? Don’t think I ever met him.”

But here’s the killer. In order for students to move ahead in school and in order for schools to get funding and accreditation, kids must pass the TEKS test. That folks, is the infamous Texas Essential Knowledge and Skills test.

OK, I’m too pissed to become my usual verbose self here, so I’ll be quick. During the original Dark Ages, if you were suspected of any sort of heretical thoughts or behaviors, you were punished and/or killed. Say a guy were to tell his Inquisitor, “I don’t think God had sex with a Virgin and then she bore a son and was still a Virgin afterwards.”

“Off with his head, the heretic,” was the verdict.

In today’s Dark Age of Texas we say this:

“Study and learn my twisted version of history, boy, and learn it good. You are going to be tested, and if you fail………….”

Mother fuckers. Mother fucking asswipe right-wing Christian shithead truth killers.

Fuck Rick Perry.

I’m close to renouncing my state citizenship. Then I’d likely be stateless, since nobody else would take me. Hell, the powers that be around here are waiting to celebrate my just saying, “NO more!” to Texas.

I need a Carta Blanca beer. Did I say, “Fuck Rick Perry?”

Ugh, ugh and ugh. Manana, y’all.

Squatlo Incites Rant; I Miss Marie

Friday, February 18th, 2011

 

So. Here we are in the middle of February 2011, and Austin’s weather continues to define the words “fickle bitch”. Last week we had a hard freeze to maybe 18 or 19 degrees overnight, and where the daytimes didn’t crack freezing. Yesterday, it’s 84 fucking sweat-box degrees.

Why does 84 seem so hot in February when it’s a cold front in August? Texas politicians are great weather humorists. We’ve got Mother Nature bitching at us, showing humans the manifestations of her pain and sufferings. Earthquakes by the dozens in Arkansas [for shitsakes], super-record rainfalls, extreme temperature turnarounds and an endangered species list of plants and animals– fuck that, the endangered lists for ALL living things are growing exponentially.

But Texas politicians? “What global warming?”

Scary to me is that we haven’t been keeping a list on endangered microscopic lifeforms. Personally, I think that’s where man’s demise will occur. See, man’s endangerment from microscopic life forms won’t come from the loss of existing microscopic buggies. Nope. What is going to wipe us off the face of the earth will be bacteria and fungi strains that morph into super bugs because we are so fucking stupid.

Take, for example, some of the super bacteria living the high life in hospitals today. Years of over/wrong-prescribing antibiotics, combined with lazy health care workers who DON’T WASH THEIR FUCKING HANDS , has stimulated the mutation of bugs formerly known as “nasty, infectious microscopics” into what we cleverly call “super bugs”.

When Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s mom was in the hospital, in the first event of a chain that ended in her death, she was in Intensive Care after getting a blocked artery fixed. She had a stroke during the operation and was in for a long recovery.

I was in the room with her only after I scrubbed my silly ass raw to insure I could safely approach her. I’m sitting there talking to her, telling her how she and I were going to cook Christmas Eve dinner together. She was Italian and always prepared this huge Italian feast. And I hepped!

I was asking her how spicy we could make the sausage this year, what with all the new medications she would be taking. She couldn’t talk back to me, so I was messing with her, you know, I would say we’d prepare things that she would never permit to come from her kitchen. I said shit like, “OK, Marie, for a first course let’s do Vienna sausage on toothpicks. I’ll make a spicy mustard dipping sauce,” and she’d narrow her eyes at me then give me that adorable half-smile stroke victims can give you.

I loved that woman with all of my heart. When she was alive, I had two best friends.

Anyway, I was asking her about how much crushed red pepper flakes we’d be putting in the sausage when a nurse walked into the room. She was new to me and the first of the new 3 pm shift to enter the room as well. From the doorway, she brightly said, “OK, let’s take your vitals and change your diaper.”

Then she walked straight to the bedside and grabbed my ex-mother-in-law and best buddy’s wrist. Bitch didn’t wash in the sink [located right at the entrance] and did not put on gloves. It took my ADHD-addled brain maybe four seconds to register events. “Take your dirty fucking hands off her!”

I wasn’t quite screaming, but I have a big voice, and it carries. When the bitch nurse ignored me, looking now impatiently at her watch as she counted Marie’s pulse, I leaned across the bed and thumped the woman’s nose and said, “I said step away, and now!”

That last part was yelled.

“You didn’t wash your fucking hands you dirty country whore,” I said. At least that is how it’s remembered in family lore.

Dirty country whore nurse bitch pushed the “Code” button by the bed, or course, and the room quickly filled with medical staff. None of whom WASHED THEIR FUCKING HANDS .

Anyway, Marie, my sweet, wonderful Marie, died a couple months later when a doctor botched a feeding tube insertion and Sammie’s mother died from one of the aforementioned super bugs.

The bacteria that killed her was a vicious little bastard that makes his way through hospitals, going room-to-room on the hands of careless workers.

OK, I digressed my point. That would be Squatlo’s fault because he keeps talking about his, and my, favorite movie, Slaughterhouse Five. His quoting from the movie made me think about Marie. I’ll be talking with my therapist to see if she can help me find the connection(s) and why those quotes brought Marie to mind.

So, what I’m attempting to say is this. It won’t be Muslim terrorists or atomic bombs that will finally rid the human race from Earth’s crust. We will starve and suffer with high-pitched fevers as super bugs kill-off all larger lifeforms. Then the super bugs will eat each other and there will be no life.

At that time, Mother Earth will start anew. My guess is that when she designs species for her new world order, she’ll make everything hermaphroditic women/females capable of self-procreating. Regrettably, I think it’s the male of the species that fuck things up.

Hell, I bet it was a woman what invented Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

Aloha Hawaii, And Aloha!

Thursday, February 17th, 2011

 

So. I’ve been busy with personal stuff and not keeping up with the rest of the world. I’ve been vaguely aware of all the unrest that has spread across the Middle East. It seems that the desire to fight oppressive governments is spreading faster than cold sores at Mardi Gras.

I find these political uprisings interesting. Scary and confusing, both as-all-hell, but interesting. As a baby boomer, I am too young to have ever heard the truth about any international situation. After Adolf Hitler taught the world how to spin the truth, there has been no reported truth. Heir Hitler called it “propaganda”. We call it Fox News.

But I find it difficult to calibrate my measurements of Fox’s reporting on my soon-to-be patented Mooner Johnson’s Lie-O-Meter. My new truth detection device requires a baseline measurement of absolute truth.

Not only can’t I find the truth, I don’t know that I would recognize it if it bit me on my gorgeous butt. Knowing that truth makes me crazy.

However, there is one bit of news from today’s Austin American Statesman that makes me proud to be an American. A mixed-race, multi-cultural backgrounded American. I discovered this morning that at least one state in our fine union has a legislature whose majority are actual caring humans.

Hawaii, America’s Polynesian land grab southern-most state, just made it legal to marry into any family you choose without any genetic conditions. Sexual organs will neither qualify, nor disqualify, a person from legal matrimony.

HIP-HIP HOORAY HAWAII!!!!!!

Leave it to our country’s most culturally-diverse state to give us the smartest legislation in two years. I guess it takes all of that diversity to overcome prejudice. It must be hard to hate anyone when you get hated at so often.

But let me say this. I do not understand how people who eat poi can do anything smart. Ingesting wall paper paste kills brain cells. This one time I got drunk on my honeymoon over to Hawaii with now ex-wife number seven, and managed to gag down an entire bowl of poi. A week later, I had a garden hose jammed up my ass to loosen the impaction.

Maybe Fox will use poi as the tool to provide negative spin to this wonderful news. I can see the headline:

“Poi-Pounders Ponder Political Pothole. Glue-brained Hawaiians allow gays to cement relationships.”

Fucking Fox News.

I have always loved the Hawaiian people, except for the weirdos on that bounty hunter TV show. I had great times and met good people everywhere and on every island. Hawaiians are even friendly when they disagree. I guess any culture that uses the same word to say both, “Hello and Goodbye,” has to be friendly.

I know that when I am unsure if I’m going or coming I try to remain friendly. Why don’t we have a word like aloha in English?

Anyway, “Aloha Hawaii, and aloha, job well done.” Now let’s all raise our frosty-cold Carta Blanca beers in a salute to our brightest state.

Manana, y’all. [Aloha!!!]

ADHD/ADD Causes Obsessive/Compulsive-Nessess; I R Nuts

Tuesday, February 15th, 2011

 

So. It’s official. I am a certified, total and COMPLETE nincompoop. I need to buy a branding iron the says, “This Man is a Nincompoop!” Brand my forehead, my back, both arms and my ass.

That way, I walk up to you at the store you tell your kids, “Don’t talk to that man, Sally.” Then Sally says, “Why not mommy. He looks nice.” (I make a good first impression on ladies of all ages)

Mommy answers back, “Well, Sally, Mr. Johnson here, is a total FUCKING nincompoop. Now stand behind me while I dial 911.”

I R CrAZy.

OK, here’s the deal. And don’t worry Squatlo, I didn’t screw it up with SAC Ellen. Yet. [again] This one has to do with my ADHD stuff and my self imposed [yet clinically diagnosed] obsessive/compulsive disorder.

See, I use compulsives and obsessions to control my distractions.

If you have the ADHD and/or its little brother, ADD, one of the many problems you encounter with life is forgetfulness. I forget shit. I forget shit that I: promised to do; want to do; plan to do; am required to do; and that I am expected to do.

I forget to remember that I have ADHD and read a contract only the one time before I sign it. Then I read it again when I get home and discover that I bought a ten-year extended warranty on a chicken baster. I’m supposed to read anything I sign thirty times before signing it. Reading contracts is a perfect example of why I need compulsives.

As a younger man, I discovered that if I would routinize my routines I could better control what I didn’t do.

OK, I said that exactly as I meant to, but it sounds awkward. Try this. When I make schedules and checklists and organize and number shit, I can sometimes follow those organizational efforts, and perform the stuff I do often with minimal fuck-ups. As examples.

I have a specific plan to start my day. I:

  1. Open my eyes.
  2. Look at the clock.
  3. Say the time and what day it is.
  4. Get up and go sit on the pot. [pee if I need to but don't shit][shitting is scheduled for thirty minutes after I get up][this first pee of the day cannot be taken at the sink (see “Sometimes I pee in multiple streams if I've been holding it”)]
  5. Wash hands, brush teeth and night guard, rinse eyes.
  6. Wipe face on towel.
  7. Go to closet to check on pet pig and ostrich. Gag because number 7 should be, “Take a deep breath and hold it since pig and ostrich farts are off-putting first thing in the am”.
  8. Dress to start day. [weather-conditioned lounge wear appropriate for a kitchen full of bitchy old women]
  9. Go to kitchen full of bitchy old women.
  10. And so forth, through step number 77. [step number 77 is, “Take a shit thirty minutes after awakening.”]

My hopes are that my Word Press webber organizer dealie for publishing postings doesn’t screw up the outline formation of that list. It does that sometimes. Makes me crazy.

Anyway, should I forget to do any of my 77 start-the-day steps, I’m screwed. Seriously screwed. The penalty for missing/skipping steps is brain fritz– ADHD brain fritz. It’s like that old anti-drug commercial, “This is your brain on drugs.” You guys know the one, where there’s this smoking hot pan with a little oil in it and they crack and egg and drop it into the pan to sizzle and bubble around in the pan, edges fritzing and blackening.

ADHD brain fritz would be that commercial except when they drop the egg into the smoky-hot pan, six people with wire whisks madly beat the egg.

Anyway, I compulsively organize stuff into obsessive regimens. Alright, maybe I obsessively organize compulsive regimes. But like Gram says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit, Mooner? You’re a fuckin nut-job.”

A second method to control ADHD brain fritzing is to perform mindless tasks. I think the guys who invented the computer games, Free Cell and Spider Solitaire, designed those two games for ADHD sufferers.

When I feel especially crazy, I can sit and play those games and ease the mental tensions by clicking away as I move cards around. It’s been helping me reduce symptoms for several years to play those games. Until this morning.

I have been proud to say that all of my known obsessive/compulsive actions have been controlled by me, and with forethought(s). Each unusual organizational action was purposeful by nature.

Until this morning.

Here’s the deal. After performing step number 77 in my morning rituals, I was already feeling a touch fritzed. I forgot to say the time and what day it is until I was sitting on the pot to pee, or not pee. That fritzed me a touch and made each step more difficult to perform. Instead of moving through the numbers with automatonic smoothness, I was forced to remember each step, and think.

Thinking is where most of my troubles start.

So, I decided to play some computer games to work the kinks out. I started with Free Cell and played a few dozen games. On the 43rd game I played, I caught myself forcing a specific alignment of the cards into the center four places, leaving two blank spots on each end. Odd, I thought to myself, but not crazy.

Then I noticed that I was insuring that the Kings, used as the foundation of each descending-valued stack, were placed spades, hearts, diamonds and clubs– and left-to-right.

Then, I saw that I wanted to make the lynch-pin move, that’s the last move you make that sends the cards cascading into the tray and make winner’s noises, was required to be made from the stack of cards that had the lowest numbered bottom card from when the hand was originally dealt.

Then, I noticed that I have a prejudice against fives and nines. I bitch at the fives and nines as I play. The thought of my prejudice unsettled me, so I switched to Spider.

Already alerted to my card playing silliness with Free Cell, I was on high alert. On my twenty-second move of my first Spider game, I caught the initial symptom. I wanted to gravitate the Kings to the left and the rest in descending order moving to the right.

When I started cussing at the nine of clubs, I closed the game and placed my head in my hands. I didn’t cry, but I wanted to.

I’m obsessive-fucking-compulsive! Not the pretend kind that I purposefully inflict upon myself. I’ve got the other kind– the real one.

“Holy shit, but I am seriously fucked up,” I said to myself as I sat at my computer, near tears.

I leaned down and grabbed a Carta Blanca from the mini fridge next to my desk and popped the top. Step number one in my “I feel sorry for myself” list is, “Pop top of icy cold Carta Blanca beer.” Step two is to take a swig. [I did] Step three is, “Repeat numbers 1 and 2 as needed.”

[I did]

Manana, y’all.

Mooner Gets It Right; Gets Some

Sunday, February 13th, 2011

 

So. I had my big date last night and I can only say, “Hoo-yah!!!” Really, that’s all I can say because if I say anything else, it’ll be the last hoo-yah in my relationship with SAC Ellen, a hoo-yah rich environment. I’ll get my hoo-yahs chopped off.  What I had was a Howard Stern moment. Let me explain.

“Mooner, listen to me carefully.” SAC Ellen held my chin in her palm. I was in a chair at her dining room table with my first Carta Blanca of the night sitting unopened, making a nifty water ring on her glass table top. My eyes kept cutting to the condensation ring as it grew.

She squeezed my chin, not playfully, and repeated, “Mooner! Listen.. to… me… carefully.”

“I’m worried that water ring will work its way off the table and drip onto my slacks. It’ll look like I peed myself,” I told her.

“Oh, for shit sakes,” and she released my chin, grabbed my beer and swiped the water away with an angry motion of her cupped hand.

When she wiped her hand on her pants leg, I, of course, had my eyes drawn to the nifty fading-hand imprinted pattern on her khaki cotton pants. I love her in those pants. You guys know what I mean when I say that. Since I know exactly what the body underneath looks like, the pants are sexy as all hell. Men will definitely understand my drift.

“I really like you in those pants,” I complimented.

[Deep breath drawn slowly by a federal agent. Attentive lover adds a smile to his compliment. Agent grimaces, smiles, then grimaces again]

“Look, Mooner. Just this one time, I want to have a date with you that doesn’t end up on your blog. Just one fucking time. I have something special planned for you, something I know will knock your socks off. But it won’t be special for me if you tell the entire fucking world.”

OK, now I could see how this was going. “Well, actually, I still don’t have any readers from the South Pole, and I’m blocked from much of Sri Lanka, so maybe you’re a little too sensitive on this issue.”

I’ll never understand women.

[Three deep federal agent breaths, boyfriend's beer opened by federal agent who then swills half in one swallow. Bottle replaced on water ring as it regrows on the tabletop. Boyfriend reaches for now open bottle for his own glug. Hand slaps hand.]

“Damn it, Mooner. Focus on my face.” Here she cups my chin in her palm once more.

“If you blog one word about this date, it will be our last date,” two, three and four, “ever!”

[Boyfriend gets confused look on face, cuts eyes to beer. Federal agent nods approval. Boyfriend drinks once, twice and bottle empties.]

“Want another beer, sweetie?”

“Not until I’m sure you understand just how serious I am,” she said.

This request/demand of hers is problematic for me. How can I maintain my authoratical integrity and non-disclose my relationship at the same time? I promised you guys full disclosure. An enigmatic conundrum if ever there was.

“Well, I’ve got to say something. Everybody already knows that you’re giving me one last chance tonight and they are dying to hear how it turns out. I’m not the only one who missed you.”

[Federal agent smiles, room lights up as last rays of sun sparkle off pearly-white teeth]

“OK,” she says. SAC Ellen pauses to ponder, then says, “You can talk about tonight up to this point.”

“You mean this point right now?” I ask.

“Yes, this point,” from her.

“OK, but are we talking about your point, you know the first point you made, or are we talking about the point at which (when which?) you made the point previously pointed-out, by you, and said point confirmed by me? When I pointed.”

[Incredibly deep federal agent breath.]

She looked at her watch. “Mooner, it is now 5:46 PM, Central Standard Time. You may not discuss anything that happens after 5:47 PM, CST, and before Sunday at noon.”

When I didn’t answer right away she said, “Capish?”

“What time is it now?” I asked.

She looked at her watch again. “Why look here. It’s 5:47.”

Manana, y’all.

Rethinker Program Flawed; Squirt Writes A Song

Saturday, February 12th, 2011

 

So. The weather is scheduled to warm today and re-thaw central Texas. Hopefully there will be a re-thawing of my sweetie’s frozen heart to accompany the warmer weather. Somehow, I have managed to mangle my relationship eight ways from Sunday.

That wasn’t a rhetorical statement, I mean that since Sunday, I’ve fucked up eight times.

I don’t get it. I work very hard to do the right things, say the correct things and think correctly. But somehow, I just seem to blunder into trouble. Like yesterday morning.

OK, hold on, what happened yesterday morning isn’t on my Postie Notes outline for today’s posting to my bloggie. One of the things I’ve decided to do to help myself stay out of trouble is to stick to my sticky notes while bloggifying a posting. In an effort to be more precise, I’m spending extra time organizing, in advance, to be more accurate with my reporting, reduce just a touch of the verbosity from my writings and also I want to digress fewer times per hundred words in print. Call that (those?) my bloggie goal(s) for February.

To accomplish my goal(s), and also to assist in my work to regain sexual fidelity in the scratched record that is my relationship with SAC Ellen, I had a really good idea. I decided to hire a rethinker.

Wait. Now I feel the need to elucidate the scratchy record analogy for my younger readers, many of whom have never seen, much less heard, the sounds to which I allude. Maybe that was said unwell. Do you elucidate the analogy or would you provide elucidation as to the analogy?

I had this original Beatles record, the 45 RPM jobbie with I Wanna Hold Your Hand on it. I was near-dating Gloria Muckleroy– junior high school cheerleader and apple of Walley Smalley’s eye. They later married and I later killed Walley, accidentally, out to Mooners Compost Plant. The tools of Walley’s demise were a new hammer and a used chainsaw. (must stop here due to inclusion of the forewarned story in my soon-to-be published book)

So, I had the idea to hire a rethinker. You know, a guy who I could talk to and tell my thoughts before I spoke (or acted) on my own thoughts. This would be a smart and appropriate person who would act as my filter(s) for the random, crazy and inappropriate shit that swills inside my skull.

Brilliant idea, right?

OK, brilliant on paper. Smart as all hell on a pad of purple extra-sticky Postie Notes.

So, I had Streaker Jones and Dixie write ads and place them in appropriate media to solicit interviewees for Squirt and me to vet. Actually, Dixie pre-vetted them. My dog is a great vet. Squirt and I were scheduled to re-vet the applicants already pre-vetted by the Dixter.

Applicant number one, let’s call her “Mrs. Margaret”, is a retired school teacher, a moderate Presbyterian who hasn’t been to church in forty years, anti-war and pro-gay marriage person. She looks like a retired school teacher. Everything about her said, “I’m a retired school teacher. I am a calm, mature woman. Stupid shit doesn’t phase me, I win all staring contests, and I can raise a welt on your forearm with one flick of a number two pencil.”

She loved the Squirt and felt she could tolerate me. She said in our initial interview, “Mr. Johnson, I averaged thirty students per each of my thirty-five years of teaching. I know what it is to deal with an unruly Attention Deficit student.”

“OK,” I told her. “Wanna take a test drive?”

“Only if you start my pay clock,” she answered.

I liked her answer. Smart and a keen business sense as well. So we all bundled up and headed to the garage and loaded into my 1967 Pontiac GTO. I didn’t know it at that instant, but my choice of transportation would the undoing of Margaret.

When I opened her door for her, she stood stock still just looking at the interior of my car. She sniffled once and then seated herself. I shut her door and walked around to seat myself. I started the car and let it run a minute to warm up. I looked across to say something to my maybe-new rethinker, and I saw that she hard a tear streaking down her cheek. She might have had tears streaking down her cheeks, but I had only her profile to view.

“Are you OK? Do you want to do this another time?” I asked her.

“No, no I’m alright. It’s just that my Harry had a GTO when I first met him. First date, first kiss and first… well you know how it was back in the 1960′s. Many firsts happened in that car.” She was blushing. “This GTO brings back happy memories for me.”

Now me, I think one of my therapy lessons is getting a grip on my actions (thoughts). As Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson puts it, “Mooner, some people cry when they’re happy too.” My reaction to these tears was to take Mrs. Margaret at her word. I assumed my hot rod GTO was nothing more than a memory tweaker.

Anyway, I back us out of the big barn/garage that houses all of our vehicles, and off we go. “Anyplace you’d like to go?” I asked Mrs. Margaret.

“Well,” she answered with that old-fashioned teacher’s “thinking” look, “I need to go by the Half-Priced Books on Anderson Mill Road. They’re holding a first edition copy of Catch-22 that they located for me.”

We drove out RR 620 to US 183 and hung a right towards Anderson Mill. We discussed Catch-22, one of my favorites, on the twenty-minute drive. I ran the GTO through it’s paces over the last mile and Mrs. Margaret seemed thrilled. “I’d love to drive your car, Mr. Johnson.” This was a sweet sentiment, sweetly made.

“OK,” from me. “I’ll give you the cockpit after you get your book.”

Squirt and I took a walk for a pee while Mrs. Margaret shopped. When she came back to the car, I tossed her the keys and said, “What motor did your Harry’s GTO have?”

“The same 389 cubic inches with Tri-power as this one.” She was pleased to think she knew the answer.

“OK, that’s almost right. I won’t bore you with all the modifications I’ve made under the hood, but this car has almost 250 more horsies than what Harry’s had. Take it easy.”

Have I ever told you guys about my GTO? This one, I mean because I have two. The other is an original car and exactly like Harry’s. But this car lacks a single power train element from its original build sheet. This car has a tricked-up big block Chevy motor cranking out 600 horse power and something like 560 foot pounds of torque. I had to put a big, beefy automatic trannie in it so I could get more than 300 miles on a set of tires.

To put it plainer, this little GTO is fast.

The first couple miles with Mrs. Margaret at the wheel was OK enough. As we drove the access road on US 183, she tinkered with the brakes and steering, and she goosed the motor a few times to get a good feel of things. “You were right, Mr. Johnson, Harry’s GTO was a pussycat. This baby is a tiger.”

Whenever I drive with Squirt in the car, she sits in a puppy carrier that I strap in the back seat. When the car stops at the light at Oak Knoll, the almost-my puppy says to me, “Tengo un muy mal feeling, Mooner.”

The speedometer on a 1967 GTO pegs out at 140 MPH. The radar guns in Travis County Sheriff Woozie Wozniac’s patrol cars lack that limiting feature. As Deputy Wendell “Call Me When Dale” Martz strutted up to the driver’s window, he was talking before he got there.

“I’ll be goddamn if I didn’t catch me a Mooner Fucking Johnson… what’s this?” Deputy Wendell did a double-take when he saw the school teacher, and not me, at the wheel. “Lady, do you know how fast you were goin’?”

“”I would guess something a little over 140.” Now this was said so sweetly that I thought someone had put syrup in my shorts.

Wendell got this funny look on his face and peered across at me. He started to stick his head into my GTO to say something, but his hat popped off into Mrs. Margaret’s lap. The nice lady turned her head to me and mouthed the words, “Hang on, Mr. Johnson.”

She handed Wendell his hat, and when he straightened himself to put it on, Mrs. Margaret burned a thousand miles off my tires as we raced off in a cloud of smoke.

After the Sheriff heard Mrs. Margaret’s confession, he released Squirt and me from our cell. We were there for three hours and all we had to entertain ourselves with was the grafitti on the walls and peeing in the sink. Squirt wrote a peeing in the sink song that we sang to the tune of that stupid song Pants On The Ground from last year. “Pee in tha sink, pee in tha sink. Everybody watch while I pee in the sink.”

They impounded my GTO so Gram came and got us. After taking a 157 MPH joy ride with a retired teacher, the trip home with my Gram at the wheel of her red Ferrari was almost calming.

Squirt and I drank Carta Blanca beers as soon as we got home. Then we started getting ready for our big date with SAC Ellen.

Manana, y’all.

PS– Fuck Rick Perry!

The De-civilization Of Texas; Fuck Rick Perry

Wednesday, February 9th, 2011

 

So. Yesterday was a big day for the state of Texas. Yes-siree-Bob, it was a mighty big day indeed! I found out that all of my hand-wringing and concerns over the state of my state was unwarranted.

I needn’t have worried about a $27 billion budget shortfall having any negative effects on things here ’bouts. Un unh, nope, I was worrying my little self crazy for no reason a’tall. Here I am all concerned and shit that my school systems, mental health care system, food stamp and child protection and elderly care systems would be re-gutted by an uncaring, right-wing religious governor and state legislature.

I’ve spent the last month bitching about how Little Ricky Perry plans to gut the civilization right out of Texas, and it was all for naught. Senseless, unnecessary concerns.

See, yesterday was the big day for our governor– it was State of the State Address day. Yesterday was the Rickster’s big day. I thought the boy’s speech would be full of his ideas of how to deal with our budget shortfall and other trivial issues and such. But boy was I wrong. I feel like such an idiot.

Nope. In his State of the State yesterday, Texas governor Rick “Are You Gonna Believe Me Or Are You Gonna Believe Your Eyes?” Perry delivered an incredible, upbeat speech. That’s right, and to quote the boy to be sure I get it right, “The mainstream media and big government interest groups are doing their best to convince us that we’re facing a budget Armageddon. Texans don’t believe it, and they shouldn’t, because it’s not true. Are we facing some tough choices? Of course, but we can overcome them by setting priorities, cutting bureaucracy, reducing spending and focusing on what really matters to Texas families.”

What budget problems? All we really need to do is put Texas families first.

I am such a total fucking idiot. I yesterday discovered that I don’t have the first clue about economics. See, as a businessman, I have this tendency to want to pay for my stuff as I go. As an employer, I feel compelled to provide continuous coverage on every program and promise I make my employees. As a Son, ex-husband, father, brother and family patriarch, I have an unerring drive to take care of all my dependents. As a man, I feel that my budget must include line items to provide assistance to those less fortunate than I (me?).

To my way of thinking, I am a civilized man. A crazy, ADHD-addled and totally inappropriate civilized man. Living to the full measures of my responsibilities and promises is what makes me a civilized man.

It’s what makes me a man.

When we Americans threw down the gauntlet and revolted against our Mother Countries’ tyrannies in the 1700′s, we were fighting against political systems that lorded-over their populaces. Good health and prosperity were reserved for the gentry’d few, religious dogma was used to control thoughts and laws, power was focused in the hands of men who believed that God had chosen them.

Rick Perry and his ilk are de-civilizing Texas. His brethren across the country are likewise cutting the soul from their states and on the national level in DC. It seems as though America’s going to complete the circle from incivility to civility, and back again, in record time. Soon, our governor will be installing Taliban-like education systems.

“Oh, Mooner,” you say. “Mooner, my man, you are going too far!”

OK, let me offer up this bit of evidence. The highlight of the little man’s higher education plan is: “Develop bachelor’s degrees that cost no more than $10,000 including textbooks.”

I can budget that one for you. Textbooks: one each King James Bible (fully annotated with all of Jesus’ and God’s words in pretty colors, leather-bound, engraved with the student’s name, has that nifty family tree dealie in the front, sized at 81/2” X 14” and made with that super-high quality paper) $250. Classroom: Bible study room rental (three hours per week for ten weeks) $300. Instructors: $1,000. Tithing: $8,450.

WTF? Seriously, what the fuck? Only in Texas can we view a college degree for $10,000 as a good thing. I guess what we want to do is devalue the worth of real educations the same way we devalue intelligent thought.

But hold on Mooner. Didn’t Ricky’s quote, above, tell you that he’s focusing on what matters to Texas families? In that perspective, a college degree for $10K is a good thing. If we’re going to cut 25% of school funding to schools whose in-house budget are 25% in the red already, how will we educate students who can qualify for entrance into market-rate universities?

I have so much more to say about the state address, but I must stop now. I’m beating a horse that seems to have died during the George W. Bush governorship. But I offer one last bit of thought fodder.

Why is Egypt in turmoil? Why is Mexico a massive crime scene of violence and death? Why do populations all over the world sleep in fear every night?

Is it because some atheist political party is oppressing them?

Need Carta Blanca beer. Now!

Manana, y’all.

Another Attempt At Clarity; ADHD Blurs Thoguths

Tuesday, February 8th, 2011

 

So. My life has somehow gotten messy. What I mean to say is my life has become messier than than its normal pig sty-ishness. Maybe that would be pig sty-lishness. If my life were a teenager’s bedroom, you’d be willing to burn the entire house down to clean it.

I know that most of the mess is mine, created and originated by me. When you carry the burden of the ADHD, you can complicate your own life worse than a 64-color Rubik’s Cube. Add to that the nasty weather, my hunt for Cat October, finishing my book to get it printed, my Gram, Texas Governor Rick “Can’t We Just Put All The Crazy And Cripple Folks In Jail?” Perry, my psycho therapy sessions (and assignments), and keeping up with all of my bloggie buddies… when you add all of that together, the sum total is a totally fucked Moonerworld.

I’ve got dozens of topics I want to discuss here but I never seem to get to them. Why, you ask? Because something happens that requires my immediate attentions, and I forget whatever it was that I meant to say. Take, for example, that I have received two blogggie awards in the last week and I haven’t had minute one to brag and gloat. No time to say, “Nanny-nanny-neer-neer!” to my many detractors.

What happens is a dealie just like today. I’m feeling like I’m catching up just a little bit, so in my regular therapy session early this am, I’m telling Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson how maybe I might be feeling a little better about myself.

After I tell Sammie how good things seem to be going, she says to me, “It’s easy for you to feel better in your pretend world Mooner. It amazes me how you can go on your merry way when Rick Perry is gutting the public health system in Texas.”

Huh?

“Huh? Why are you shitting on my parade this morning?” I asked her.

“Oh, Mooner, honey I’m sorry. They just leaked that the next round of budget cuts will come from our services for the blind and the deaf. I’m just distraught that the little bastard is cutting the heart out of our already sick health care system. I don’t mean to take it out on you. I just wish I could do something.”

Like I said yesterday, my therapy has been buzz kill central.

Squirt was waiting in reception while I had my morning session. I brought my most recent Card Player magazine for her to read. I checked-out and we walked to the car. We’re in Gram’s Ferrari today because I picked it up from the body shop and wanted to take it for a test drive. I decided to drive it to the animal shelter so Squirt and I can look some more for a cat to pick us. Maybe we could influence a cat buddy with a fancy car.

I told Squirt about how Sam was down about the method that asshole Rick Perry is using to balance the state budget. She got quiet and had a thoughtful look on her face. I drove most of the way to the shelter with the only sounds in the car coming from it’s 550-horse power V-12 engine. Normally I’m happy with just the shrieks and growls of the magnificent Italian machine, but with my ADHD on total fritz mode, I desired more companionship.

Squirt must have sensed my mood. When I stopped at the light at Lamar and Sixth Street, She moved over to sit in my lap and looked up into my eyes. “J’ ai une idee, Bwana Mooner. Scrivere un blog oor die probleem.”

“Good idea, miss Squirt, I’ll write something on my blog for Dr. Sam I. Am’s benefit.” I told her. “Was that last bit in Afrikaners?”

She smiled at me in answer to my question.

Anyway, I can’t figure what it is that I can say that will do any good, change any minds about supporting public health care programs. Smart people, like Squatlo, have made enough clearly-organized arguments to convince any caring American to do more, be more, for those less fortunate. What can I say that might make a difference?

Likely nothing.

But something did strike me as interesting when I debated with myself over what I might say. Here’s what I thought. Squatlo is an affirmed atheist. Me, I sometimes look at my personal experiences with religion and wish I was an atheist. I can’t abide what some people do in God’s name.

I just don’t find the logic. Same as Squatlo can’t find the logic to define a God, I can’t find the logic to not at least feel a hint of the existence of a God. When I boil down all of the bullshit relating to the origins of life, I always get to this point of, “What existed before anything existed?”

For my lesser-fueled brain cells, I can only satisfy that question with, “Well, it must be God.”

That answer is a cop-out, and I gladly admit it. I’m just not smart enough to think the matter any deeper than that.

But here is where all that contemplation got me. Do you realize that my buddy Squatlo, a dyed-in-the-wool atheist, has more compassion in his heart for for the less-well-off among us than do most of the right-wing religious zealots who are making our laws?

What’s wrong with that? Why don’t our “love-thy-brother-because-GOD-told-me-so” Christian legislators and governors love our less fortunates at least equally with my “it’s-all-happenstance” buddy, Squatlo?

Why, indeed. I think it’s because the moral Christian right are hypocrites of the first degree. I think all of this new-found religiousness is nothing more than a greed-and-power-fed ravaging of America. I don’t think many of those fuckballs really believe half of what they preach. They do believe it gets votes. I don’t want to think that Rick Perry is the evil, heartless ignorant little bastard that he portrays.

OK, wait a minute Mooner. That is exactly what Rick Perry is. Rick Perry is a prick. My bad.

Said another way, maybe we need more atheist legislators in our governing bodies.

VOTE SQUATLO FOR GOVERNOR!

DRINK CARTA BLANCA BEER!!

FUCK RICK PERRY!!!

Manana, y’all.

Dealies And Thingies, Volume 2 (Vol. II)

Monday, February 7th, 2011

 

So. The Squirt and I just returned from four hours of kitty cat vetting. I realize that I have more observations to share with you. I’ll start my numbering anew because I’ve been getting complaints for my numerical methods, used on prior occasions, the smartness of said methodologies aside. I hereafter give you today’s observations, Volume Two (maybe that should be Vol. II):

  1. Texas governor and head Republican fuckwad, Rick “Little Ricky” Perry, has recently spent state taxpayer money to calculate just how many legal abortions have been performed in the US of A in the time since Roe Vs Wade. Answer, +/- 50 million. I’m sure Little Ricky will have another emergency bill sponsored to remedy that situation, and whatever it is the bill will do will be accomplished with “NO NEW TAXES”. But this requires me to wonder something. T-cat had a nifty posting over to her bloggie this morning about women’s periods– that time each month when billions of women from all over the globe abort their near-fetus/almost baby eggs. Women abort these almost grown children (disguised as unfertilized eggs) without any remorse, zero religious counseling and never the first visit from Catholic Anti-Abortion Protest lady. I demand we have a bill placed before our state legislature for emergency passage. My emergency bill will make it illegal and unlawful for any woman to abort her unborn eggs without first undergoing an ultrasound, religious counseling, Bible study, and scolding by someone’s father. I, for one, am sick and tired of women killing all of these potential near-humans and instead of feeling/showing remorse for the rampant death-squad murders, what do women do? THEY BITCH ABOUT IT!!! Women must be stopped. When will we end the carnage?
  2. When we left to go kitty cat vetting, I was wondering how I would tell if a particular cat was choosing me/us. Actually, I was wondering how to get the cat to choose Dr. Sam I. Am. So, we went downtown to the very popular Town Lake Greenbelt, which is actually the Lady Bird Lake Greenbelt, and we spread three blankets on the grass. Squirt picked a good spot– between a wooded area near the trail, but away from the street. We set out our photos and opened the cans of kitty foodstuffs, and I took some of the catnip and sprinkled it on the panties, footwear and the sheets…………………. Holy fucking shit! How many stray cats live down to Lady Bird Lake Greenbelt anyway? They swamped us. It was like one of those National Geographic dealies where this one cheetah catches a wildebeest and then a pride of lions decides to take it away. I wish I hadn’t brought Sam’s undies. My blankets are ruined– full of mangy cat hair and slashes from when the cats gained purchase to tug at the foodstuffs. Squirt tried to talk to them, but they just ignored her. Dixie told us it might be that way. Cats can be aloof. Need a new game plan.
  3. I was playing poker on the I-net last night and I got knocked out just before the money in this tournament when I finally got pocket aces. Asshole calls me with Queen-4 off-suit, and rivered the straight 3-to-7. Ugh. Three hours of grinding away and, poof.
  4. I keep forgetting to thank everyone for reading my silly shit. Thanks.
  5. If my Gram doesn’t get herself laid soon, I will slit my own throat. Anybody know of any college-age boys with a strong constitution and a love for fast cars? I don’t care where they live. I’ll ship them here from Kalamazoo to get her some nookie. Her Ferrari is in the shop to repair all of the damage she did driving on the icy roads last week, and I won’t get insurance for her to drive any of our other cars. Last night she says to me, she says, “Aw come on Mooner, ya little shit. Alls I’m askin is fer you ta take tha P-cubed an me down to Aggieland fer a few hours. We’ll catch us a ride back.” I could only answer her with, “Gram, no way will I do it. Every time I take you to drop you off for some sexing I end up in jail. No thank you.”
  6. Still no call from Carta Blanca beer headquarters. Manana, y’all. (this time for certain”

7 Dealies And 1 Thingie

Monday, February 7th, 2011

 

So. It’s Monday morning and I have the following observations:

  1. The Packers won the Super Bowl. Who gives a shit. Plus, it pisses me off that they do that stupid fucking, “I’m going to Disney World,” dealie. I hate Disney World. Everything about it.
  2. I’m getting a little thin-nerved when I encounter people who seem to think that homosexuality and ADHD are diseases of choice. So far I have been able to resist choking them until they blow snot bubbles from their ears, but I’m unsure how much longer I can contain my restraints. Maybe I’m wondering about maintaining my controlled restraints on containments. I have an absolute certainty that I’ll get locked up to the loony bin should I create a disturbance so soon after my last, most recent disturbances.
  3. In my last bloggie posting, I foreshadowed my own fuck-up by saying, and here I’ll quote myself, playing the part of myself playing a writer, when I (we) said, “I’ll post the http jobbers for their bloggies at the end of this if I remember.” I don’t know why I keep trying to use reverse psychology on my ownself. I did, of course, forget to post their https, so now I have to take the time to do it. The other award winners, as awarded by the Reckmonster over to her place are: http://www.squatlo-rant.blogspot.comhttp://wwwthepeachy1.blogspot.comhttp://www.thundercat832.blogspot.comhttp://www.musingsofaconfusedwoman.blogspot.com .
  4. This item Number 4. is pissing me off. This is the one where I decided to hire myself a rethinker, you know– a smart and focused person to use as a filter for my thoughts before I speak. I thought (still think) it’s a brilliant fucking idea. But, of course, I go to my regular therapy session early this am, which I’m now calling “buzz-kill central”, and you-know-who shits all over my proposal. [Dr. Sam I. Am Johnson] “Oh for godsakes, Mooner, where do I even start with this one?” [Me] “How about you start with how this is a brilliant fucking idea, then follow with the part that I won’t get into so many toe jams by stuffing my feet in my mouth. I love the taste of a woman’s freshly buffed feet,but mine always leave a nasty-assed taste in my mouth.” [Dr. Shitball] “But Mooner, my dear ex-husband and father to our children (and chief monetary supporter of her fucking psycho therapy dynasty… this is meant to be an aside comment of an aside comment thought by me, Mooner, at the time Sam is saying this shit), that, simply put, is a terrible idea. Anybody stupid enough to stand between your brain and the rest of the world, is well………..”
  5. Squirt and I are starting our journey to find an appropriate cat to give to my ungrateful psycho therapist/ex-wife as the replacement for the Squirt. After considerable research, it seems that the only best way to pick a cat is to allow the fucking cat to pick you. This is problematic, and in many ways. Think about it. How can Squirt and I pick a cat that is best picked by picking us, when the cat’s destiny is to live with Dr. Sam I. Am? I thought this would be easy. Anyway, after considerable considerations, the Squirt had a good idea. We gathered: some photos of Sam and her house and therapy offices; photos of her pantry and friggie and upholstered furniture; pairs of her worn undies, socks and shoes, and sheets from the hamper; cans of tuna and “mixed grill” cat food and a bag of catnip. It’s a pretty day so we’re headed to the Town Lake greenbelt to set up for our cat shopping. (How the fuck can you tell when a cat picks you?)
  6. All of my non-typical visitors have gone back to their own abodes. The weather turned nice and power has been restored everywhere. The only lasting problem is the dent in my food and beer pantries, but I’ll fix those today.
  7. Speaking of beer, Carta Blanca still leaves me uncalled to duty as a paid spokesman for their storied brand. What must a man do to draw their attentions?
  8. Manana, y’all.

Yin And Yang; I Love/Hate My Life

Sunday, February 6th, 2011

 

So. This snowstorm has been quite the shit storm. I’ve been living with members of a ten casts from Three’s Company reruns for four days, and I’m ready to hang myself. Thankfully the weather is going to thaw today and I can jettison the lot of them.

Of course, half will have forgotten to leave water running to protect their pipes from freezing, and they’ll end up right back in my lap of luxury until the plumbers can fix that dealie. But my problems are small when I compare them to what Squatlo has endured.

My buddy Squatlo returned to Facebook yesterday, out of winter storm boredom, and awakened eight hours after logging on to realize that he had wasted the entire eight hours.

“You just can’t talk sense to some of these religious zealots,” he told me.

“Well fucking duh,” I told him back.

“I know, I know,” Squat lamented. “It’s why I stopped going to Facebook in the first place.”

Which reminds me. I spend so much time ranting at the Catholics for pretending that priests don’t rape children, I want to praise one of their dioceses (diocesi? diocessises?) for doing the right thing. In Wilmington, Delaware, the Catholic high muck-a-mucks have done the right thing. Fully and completely, they have stood tall among a bunch of shitballs who tend to slouch and cower.

Why the fuck don’t we say “standed tall”?

I tip my hat and toast you, Wilmington of Delaware Catholics, with a frosty-cold bottle of Carta Blanca beer! Call that bitch over there to the Vatican. Tell the Pope, Queen of all Catholics, to get off his ass and fix it right everywhere. Wait, I’m sorry. I don’t want to dilute the value of my praise for one with my displeasure for all.

So, I say again, Catholics of Delaware, thank you for doing the right thing. (Why don’t we say something like “Catholicers”?)

Anyway, I received notice that I have been awarded an award for my bloggie postings here to my webber. I think the category is “Blogger Whose CAPTCHA Dealie is Most Likely to Instigate Mass Suicide”. The Reckmonster announced the names of the five winners of the awards. The others are: Squatlo Rant, The Pits of Being Peachy, Colorful Rants of a Fed Up Sista, and Musings of a Confused Woman. I’ll do the http jobbies at the end of this business, should I remember.

I want to be excited about getting this award because the only awards I typically get come with jail time or large settlement checks attached. I’m also a little bummed out.

I’ve spent so much time with the Squirt that it feels like she’s my very own puppy. We work together and play together and support each other in more ways that I can say. My own dog, Dixie, is ready to retire on my ass and spend her remaining days with Streaker Jones. I’m OK with that. I truly am. Dixie is getting cranky in her golden years, and I don’t need any more cranky women in my life.

Squirt and I discussed how maybe we should talk to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson (she’s my first-of-ten ex-wives, my psycho therapist, and Squirt’s actual momster), and see if she’s OK with me readopting the little bundle of mixed-breed wonderment.

That conversation actually went well.

When I brought the subject up in my “special” psycho therapy session early this morning, Dr. Sam I. Am says to me, she says, “Look, Mooner, Squirt is my dog. I let her play with you because I think her intellect and good nature are a calming influence on you. If you can’t be happy with that, Squirt can just stay with me all the time.”

Bitch, I thought to myself.

“Well I might be a bitch, Mooner, but you are a crazy lunatic fuckball and Squirt is my dog.”

“Jesus, Sammy, will you cure me of this thinking out loud business.” I have got to stop doing that.

“Make an appointment for another special session. We’ll work on it M/W/F between your regular therapy sessions and your current special sessions,” my bitch therapist said.

I did a quick calculation. “That’s a thousand dollars a day for MWF on top of $600 a day for TT. That’s $4,200 a week for shitsakes.”

“It is,” she smiled. “I want to remodel my kitchen.

“Bitch,” this time aloud and with purpose. “OK, look, how about I buy the dog from you. You seem to value my money more than you do my mental health.”

“My, oh my, but I think you’ve had a breakthrough.”

Why do I ever try to argue with a woman?

“OK, look, what do I need to do to work this out?” I asked.

“Stop you whimpering, Mooner, it’s embarrassing. What will I do for companionship if I let you take my adorable little puppy?”

OK, now we’re making progress. I’ve been reading on Reckmonster and T-cat and all of the other ladies’ bloggies about how great they think their fucking cats are. I’m thinking a pussy cat is the fix to my problem.

Me, I think a cat is Mother Nature’s was to say, “Fuck you, “ to humankind. Nasty little razor-clawed heathens. But look, I think that every heterosexual male child should be required to carry one as his constant companion the entire summer between sixth and seventh grades.

I don’t think you can better prepare a man to live with women than to practice living with a fucking cat. Reduce the divorce rate and bring an abundance of new appreciation for the gay lifestyle. Not that I don’t like cats. I do, and cats like me.

But think about it. What does a dog do when he finds something danglie and hangy-down and funky smelling? He licks it, right.

How about a cat– what does he do when he encounters a set of balls, the owner of which has had to get on his hands-and-knees to reach under the bed to retrieve his underwear (post coitally after banging the cat’s mother (who, strangely, makes noises like a cat that’s got his nose stuck in a vice-grips, when she orgasms)) from where the fucking cat put them?

The cat plays “Let’s rake my spikey-sharp razor-edged claws across the nice man’s scrotum”. That’s what the fucking cat does.

Have you ever seen a scrotum bleed?

Ever needed thirteen stitches to repair your scrotum? OK, actually it was nine stitches on the scrotum, and four in the crease between scrotum and taint.

Ever tried to itch scrotum and taint stitches, a week after the stitching, while you’re addressing the Austin City Council and with the Channel Six All City Of Austin News All The Time cameras looking right at you?

Fucking cat.

Anyway, I said to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, “How about I get you a cat? I’ll take the Squirt with me to do the cat vetting. I’ll have Dixie teach Squirt how to speak feline and we’ll tag team it. Come on, whadda you say?”

“I’d say, and this is my clinical diagnosis, that you are a crazy redneck lunatic.” But she said it while laughing.

“OK, that settles it. Squirt and I are going to work. You won’t regret this Sammy.” I gave her a big kiss on the mouth and hurried out the door.

As I passed Sam’s receptionist/gatekeeper, Peggy hands me a manila folder with my name on it and says to me, “Mooner, I just wanted to warn you that your January bill is going to be a little high. You’ve had all those special sessions and you seem to be making the rest of your dependents a little… well I hate to use the word “crazy”, but you know what I mean? Everybody was in extra times last month.”

Peggy is a real sweetie. “Don’t worry Peggy, I don’t care what it costs. I’m in a great mood.”

I drove home to the ranch, grabbed the Squirt, which action required real effort, and headed back to my room. Gram, Aunt Hilda and the P-cubed were playing dress-up with antique doll clothes and using my soon-to-be-my puppy as the doll. I must say she looked adorable in her little gingham dress, faded lace sun bonnet and four mismatched lace-up boots. But she had the same look of long-suffering that I have whenever receiving the ministrations of those three old miscreants.

“Come on Squirt baby. We’ve got some scheming to do.”

The soon-to-be-my- puppy sounded like six toddlers wearing boots with hardened leather heals as she followed me to my room. When we got there, she sat like a bunny at my feet and said, “Please get this shit off me.”

I did. “OK, snoogies, we need a plan. Our job is to find an appropriate pet cat for your mom so that I can be your dad.”

“Yippeee,” she replied. Then she spotted the thick manila envelope that I had folded to put in my heavy coat’s pocket. “Was ist in cette enveloppe?”

“Oh, this? This is my January psycho therapy bill, sweetie pie.” I unrolled the package and set it on the little work table between us as we sat down to work.

“?Que mucho?” The soon-to-be-my puppy is inquisitive.

“Well let’s open ‘er up and see.”

I sliced the envelope with my Navy Seal killing knife, and removed a sheaf of printed pages. “I hope your mother isn’t charging by the pound of paper it takes to print my bill.” I said.

Squirt giggled at that, and I giggled back and next thing I know Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are giggling with us from theirhiding place in my closet. We were a giggle fest.

I had tears in my eyes and I couldn’t read the final tally, so I held it out to the Squirt. “Here, tell me what it says.”

Squirt studied it for a second– numbers are the toughest thing she does, something about how a dog’s brain functions, and says, “Trente et un mille, five hundred e dos dolares e cinco cintavos.”

Huh?

“Huh? Let me see that. “$31,502.15!”

Ugh.

“Ugh, Squirt. I need to invent something and make more money,” I lamented.

“Would you please fetch us a Carta Blanca beer?”

Manana, y’all.

Mooner To Hire Rethinker; Problems Solved

Friday, February 4th, 2011

 

So. Every time I start feeling sorry for myself, something happens that brightens my day. I don’t mean to say that the day brightening something happens right away. Rather I’m telling you that no matter how terrible things seem to be, they can always get worse.

Hold em up kids, I’m mixing both my sentiments and my metaphors. My ADHD has gone into DEFCON 5, what with all the cold weather-based calamities in Mooner World. I’ve got a ranch house full of people, most of whom think of me as a mixed bag of savior/perpetrator, and all of whom I have both saved from a miserable cold existence without electricity, and managed to drive nuts.

Maybe what I’m trying to say is this. You want to come stay to my house, come when I’m away on vacation if you’ve got the delicate sensibilities. If frank talk, adult subjects and inappropriate anythings bother you, check your snippy ass into a room down to the La Quinta Inn. I’ve got enough ungrateful women living in my life on a full-time basis. I don’t need to import additional crotchety bitches.

Look, I get it that some folks have a problem when my buddy Squirt and I take a leak in your sink. When it’s my Gram’s sink (in my house), and I know in advance that said man-and-puppy sink-peeing incident will be frowned upon, the clocking of my head by the cuffed, bony hand to my ear is warranted.

Warranted, expected… fully deserved.

I seem to either lack filters for my thoughts altogether, or the ADHD has plugged them so completely as to render them unconscious. I’ve been working hard in my regular psycho therapy sessions to unlink my tongue’s direct connection with my ADHD-addled brain. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson tells me in session, she says, “Look, Mooner, you have got to break the direct-connect between your tongue and your crazy assed brain.”

And by the way. For any of you fuckballs who think I’m lying about my ex-wife/therapist’s name, go to the “Cast of Characters” section of my homepage and look her up. After reading Sammie’s given name, if you have any problem as to why she’s known as Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, you can kiss my buffed and polished ass and go fuck yourself. Log-on to the Glen Beck Show and fill your head with that shit. Leave me alone.

So, I’m sitting around this morning after another breakfast table filled with non-residential aliens, and I was feeling sorry for myself. Sorry I have no privacy, sorry it’s so very fucking cold, and sorry that I keep thinking out loud and making trouble for myself. It’s the thinking-out-loud part that bothers me the most.

My lacking those thought filters is problematic. I am convinced it’s the ADHD that causes this effect. When you have as many thoughts in your head as I have, it’s often difficult to distinguish which ones are in residence in which parts of my brain. When you are busy trying to push thoughts of your sexual fascination with a fake video into the deeper recesses of your mind (that’s the video over to Squatlo’s bloggie), you can easily misplace the thought about, “Maybe I should have told the Squirt to mox nix any conversation about how much fun we just had when we peed in Gram’s sink.”

What happens is that the sink peeing thought makes its way to the “thinks out loud” brain control center, and the fake video squirms its way back into the “sexual” brain control center, and I end up with a boner and Gram’s slap up side my head. I guess you might say that I often loose control of my control centers.

Squirt and I were discussing this problem while we read the paper in my room after breakfast. I had an ice pack held to my swollen ear and Squirt was curious as to why I keep doing stupid shit. “It’s because I can’t always control which thoughts go to which brain control center, little lady.”

“?Que?” she asked.

“Huh, indeed,” I answered.

Our discussion started to lag when Squirt asked me, “Wie viele cerebro el centre de controle in your ymennydd, Bwana Mooner?”

“Well, my curious little mini-dachshund and chihuahua mixed breed marvel, if I understand your question– I haven’t ever thought about how many brain control centers my brain has. And by the way, was that last little bit in Welsh, or did you have a brain fart?”

Squirt giggled and said, “It’s mien Welsh,” she said and giggled some more.

“Welsh, German, Spanish, French and English– all in a twelve-word sentence, and then three of those in a three-word sentence.” I took the ice pack off my head and squeezed her tight. “I love you, you little shitbird!”

Squirt giggled some more then gave me her quizzical look. “OK, let’s try to answer your question.”

We started writing a Postie Notes list and came up with the following partial number of brain control centers in my brain: Active-Thought Speech; Passive-Thought Speech; Speech Queuing (active and passive); Post-Speech Evaluations; Post-Speech Duck Reflex Actions; Apologies (both pre-speech and post-speech); Active Sexual (real, imaginary and cartoon sections); Passive Sexual; Food (active and passive); Carta Blanca beer (active, passive and in-the-act-tive); Non-sexual pleasure (active and passive); General Fight/Flight; Specific Fight/Fright; Obsessive/Compulsive Centers (a second set of control centers running on parallel circuits); ADHD Command Center……

When we got to the ADHD Command Center center, as I was writing the words on my Postie Notes, the something happened that brightened my day. I had another original thought.

“Squirt, think about this one. How about I hire a special assistant and their job will be to rethink for me.”

“?Que?” Squirt asked me.

“I don’t know who, silly. Someone with Squatlo’s smarts, and the Reckmonster’s sass, and T-cat’s brass. And Chunky Knubby Navels’ focus.”

The Squirt gave me that sideways cocked-head dog look that either says, “Huh?” or, “This bonehead is an idiot.”

“Don’t look at me like that. Let’s have a Carta Blanca and think it over,” I told her.

That got me a tail waggle. Manana, y’all.

Epiphany Smiphany; ADHD Sucks

Wednesday, February 2nd, 2011

 

So. I was sitting at breakfast with maybe two dozen family and friends this morning when I had what I’ll attempt to describe as an epiphany. I’m using the word epiphany to describe my awakening because I think epiphany is a very neat word.

Epiphany, epiphany epiphany!

Sounds neat, spells neat and feels good in your mouth and has a precise meaning. For some reason I like words, I don’t know why. Some of my favorites include dichotomies, conundrumusses, hypoglycemia, and ostrich.

Maybe that’s why I make up my own words occasionally. Sometimes Webster’s Unabridged simply lacks an approved entry that fully defines/describes precisely what it is I want to say. For example, we’re speaking of the work that Dixie and Squirt do for Streaker Jones and me. They are companions for sure, they interpret dozens of languages for us in support of our many business efforts, Dixie tries to be the boss of me, and the Squirt is my most recent partner in crime.

What with all of that, the word “interpreter” seems more than insufficient to describe what they are. Maybe interpreter is less than sufficient. I can always write that last paragraph anytime I want to describe what the girls do for us with precision. Or, I can just make adjustments to some word that makes a good run at it, and modify that word to suit my needs.

Like I could say, “Dixie translated Dutch to Central American bumpy toad and told me to eat my spinach. Dixie is my interpolater.”

Or I might say that, “The Squirt interpretated a Swahili love song into ostrich and did the tribal dance that accompanies the song so that Rick Perry could use it to get Rush Limbaugh in the mood.” I admire the creativity my giant bird has when he wants to entice my pet hog into a little gay sexing.

The Reckmonster has a new post to her bloggie and she talks about how her former brick house has now become a brick duplex as the years and childbirth have made additions to the basic structure. I don’t think she needs to worry at all because I hear she can really shake that thing. And Rick Perry likes the Rushster’s booty and I can only describe that ass as a brick Pentagon.

And that’s what I’m talking about with words. Reckmonster and Squatlo– take those names as perfect examples. You can’t find them in the dictionary, but all you need to do is read their works and you’ll understand that they are each perfectly named.

Now. If you’re a new reader, you are likely thinking to yourself, “This Mooner Johnson is a fucking scatterbrained numskull.” And you’d be right.

My ADHD has been on the fritz because I have been without I-net connections until this morning. OK, my ADHD has been on the fritz because I fucking HAVE the ADHD. The I-net dealie just adds additional layers of distractions to my digressions.

Which reminds me of my point. We had a crowd to breakfast this am because of power outages. I’ve got industrial strength generators to fall back on for just these instances. They’re leftovers from my Y2K preparations, a story I might tell you one day. I had power and the others had none.

Anyway, we were laughing and yukking it up over heuvos rancheros and frijoles refritos, which I of course was washing down with crisp, cold Carta Blanca beer. I had to get up to go pee and the Squirt wanted to go as well.

“Come on sweetie pie, I’ll hold you so you don’t pee on the floor,” I told her. “It’s just too cold for you to go outside.”

My Gram pipes up, “Iffn ya let tha dog piss on my floor, I’ll crown yer ass, Mooner.”

I kissed the old gas bag on top of her hard head and Squirt and I took off. When we got to the bathroom, I lifted the commode lid and bent to pick her up. The little dog shook her head and said to me, she said, “No way, Bwana Mooner. Mi gusta to urinieren ine el lavamanos mit you!” Then she looks up at me, wagging her tail expectantly.

I though about her request for only a second before saying, “OK you little shitbird. I guess if I pee in the sink to save water, what’s sauce for the pointer is gravy for the setter.”

I picked Squirt up and placed her on the vanity beside the sink. “Now watch carefully little lady. You want to dribble down the side of the bowl so you don’t splash on Gram’s toothbrush.” I had splashed on SAC Ellen’s toothbrush awhile back and it cost me a booty call.

I peed first to show Squirt how, and set a fine example. But I didn’t do my One-Cup-Wonder-Flush right away. “OK, now squatlo right here, and for shitsakes be careful”

Squirt giggled at my joke. Have I ever told you just how cute this little dog is? She wiggles around to position herself where she can see the reflection of her little cooter in the vanity mirror as she pees. As she starts to pee she starts to giggle again. “I wonderella’d what I look like when I pee,” she laughed at me. I laughed right back.

When she finished, I took a Kleenex and dabbed her adorable little hangie-down twatter and then flushed the sink clean with a double-handful of water. I set Squirt to the floor and wondered out loud, “I wonder if a double handful of water is actually a single handfuls of water?”

“Like su Grandmacita hablas, Mooner. Who gives a shit?” Squirt answered.

The tiny dog and I debated the water verbiage issue on our way back to the table, where I got whacked by my epiphany. I was thinking to myself, I think I should have told Squirt not to mention that we peed in Gram’s sink because Gram will kill me if she finds out, when it hit.

“I have been thinking out loud way too much,” I said, and this time out loud on purpose.

Manana, y’all.