I’ve Invented A New Word; Moonerlogical

 

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.

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2 Responses to “I’ve Invented A New Word; Moonerlogical”

  1. Squato says:

    Yep, you’re certifiable. Only a crazy mother fucker would post this story, and I love twisted and weird more than most people do! Well done!
    Over the years every man perfects a method for arranging a sniff-test before actually committing to a snack at the Y. Personally, I like the wayfaring finger routine, wherein a digit is passed across the nether regions in a semi-serious yet casually nonchalant way, and then an excuse is found to bring said finger up under the nose for a quick “Hey, how’s it look, amigo?” conversation… if nothing noxious or overly offensive wafts toward the medula oblongotta from that initial scratch’n’sniff, it’s pretty much clear sailing.
    And here’s how you handle the rankish “Oh my fucking gawd are you goddam serious? oh shit no! Not if I hadn’t been laid since puberty would I go down there!” moment when you realize it’s worse than you could possibly imagine down there, judging by your curdling finger’s reaction. First of all, you don’t say a WORD of what’s between the quotation marks in the previous sentence. In fact, it’s been my experience that the less said in that situation, the better. What you do is gently glide that same finger back toward the Golly Spot on your next pass, then slowly dangle it under HER snout for a few seconds while you find some excuse to busy yourself with something else. That’s her clue that she’s ripe beyond her expiration date.
    Not that I’ve ever turned any down, though, regardless of the olfactory awfulness of the first impression. After all, the worst I ever had was wonderful.
    BTFW, the CAPCHA letters I have to type in read “heater singers”… thought you’d wanna know.
    Working on my last Carta blanca, Mooner. This is good beer, man…

  2. admin says:

    Squat. Thanks, I think (maybe). I have no idea how I got there [the subject matter], but I was required to work through it. Full disclosure can be a bitch.

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