Archive for April, 2011

Cat Adopts Squirt And Mooner; No Kate Middleton Story

Saturday, April 30th, 2011


So. When I left you yesterday we were talking about the trip Squirt and I made to the crazy cat lady’s house. My soon-to-be-my puppy and I were looking for a cat to adopt us to complete the transaction to make her my actual puppy. When the woman opened her door to let us in, there was an explosion of cats– a hundred or more. Cats of all sizes and colors and shapes.

Squirt and I escaped to my GTO parked at the curb with our lives, and most of our dignity. Facing a crazy woman inside a stinky home that housed a hundred cats was enough to make us run for cover. We had driven a couple blocks after hasty departure when I pulled to the side of the road to get Squirt fastened into her protective harness.

That’s when we heard cat noises from behind our seats and I asked Squirt to tell it to come out, it’s OK to come out.

“Je ne parle pas no fucking gato!” was Squirt’s immediate response. That and her serious bark, the one reserved for ominous occasions.

Turns out it was a fucking cat, a little Siamese number we found huddled and shivering under my bucket seat. When I asked my soon-to-be-my puppy to speak to the cat and translate for me, she told me Dixie hasn’t taught her to speak any of the feline languages.

“And why, pray tell, haven’t you learned to speak cat? We’ve been trolling for a fucking cat for several months now. How am I supposed to properly vet a cat for Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson if you can’t speak cat? How do we obtain sound information if we can’t communicate?”

Squirt looked at me like I was the crazy person. “No ne parlous pas de chat!”

OK,” I said, “But why won’t you speak cat?”

She answered, “Porque son perro– il serait sacrilege!”

“Oh for shitsake, Squirt. I know you’re a dog, but it isn’t sacrilegious to talk to a cat. Maybe if you tried to marry one, but I can’t see the problem with that either so long as you’re in love.”

Why is the world so stove-up with prejudice? Me, I have never had a cat, have never had any kind of relationship with a cat and I find many cat habits disgusting. But I don’t hate cats, I just remain wary of the ungrateful, snotty little fuckers. Fucking cats have no loyalty, but I live with that shit every day of my life. I don’t have time to harbor prejudice in my life, I’m too busy wading through the quagmire that is my life.

Anyway, I grabbed my cell phone and called my actual, ungrateful (ungrateful like a fucking cat) dog, Dixie. “Dixie, talk to this cat. Ask her what she wants?”

“I’m not talking to a fucking cat for you. I’m retired, I don’t work for you anymore. Put Squirt on the line.”

I did and they had an animated conversation. When I closed the cell for her, Squirt told me, “Dixie says domestic cat is like talking to an African Lion except whiny. Whiny like a fucking cat.”

“Well get back there and say something to her,” I instructed. “And be nice.”

The little dog carefully crept between the GTO’s bucket seats, perched on the console and leaned to look under my seat. In a calming voice, she had a lengthy, hushed talk with the cat. When she finally moved back to her seat she said to me, she said, “Houston, we have a problem.”

“What now?” Like I don’t already have enough problems.

“She says she’ll kill herself if you take her back to that lady’s house. She says it stinks so bad she feels like hanging herself.” Squirt looked away for a half-minute and then said, “I think Gram has a rope that would work. It’s hanging in the tack room in the barn.”

“We are not facilitating a suicide, little lady. Now ask her what her name is.”

The diminutive dog and cat conversed for a minute and Squirt came back into the front seat and sat. She stared straight ahead, silent as a brick. I’m good with silence to a point, but when I’m expecting a reply I can get testy.

“All right, what did she say?”

“She says her name is Eighty-three, she’s nine months old, she’s a seal point Siamese– that’s the most desirable of all the Siamese because all of her brains aren’t squished together by a tiny skull, and she has the recessive gene that makes her tail-less.”

Squirt took a deep breath and looked sideways out her window.

I realized that I just had an entire conversation with the Squirt and all in one language. “What’s wrong sweetie? You just spoke English for something like two full paragraphs. Are you OK?”

“I feel sorry for Eighty-three, Mooner. She’s been forced to share a cat box with thirty other cats and some of them don’t cover their shit.” Then she put her front paws on the console and said, “That old nutbag she lived with didn’t even give her a proper name. What the fuck kind of name is Eighty-three?”

My almost-my dog had a point. “Oh man, Squirt, how do I answer that one. I guess that some people try to do the right thing but they screw things all to hell. I’ll bet that woman thinks she’s doing all of those cats a favor when what she’s really doing is traumatizing the entire batch.”

“Well,” Squirt said. “We’re not taking her back. She’s going home with us.”

“What did you say?” I was flummoxed.

“I said she’s going home with us. Looks like you and me have got ourselves a fucking cat.”

Now there’s more crying from the back seat and suddenly the little cat jumps into the front and into my lap. She’s purring and blubbering and yakking like a school girl. “What the hell is she saying, I can’t understand a word of it.”

Squirt listened to the cat with no tail a bit, and said, “She says we won’t be sorry that she’s smart and loyal and a very good girl. And that last bit was her asking if she smelled sardines. She loves sardines.”

For some reason this all made sense to me. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a fucking cat, little lady. Let’s go home and toast to our new buddy with some icy cold Carta Blanca beers. Maybe we can take her fishing to top things off.”

And that’s when I heard the siren and looked in my rear-view mirror to spot the Sheriff Deputy’s lights asking me to pull over. I did so and patiently waited as the bozo deputy sauntered up to my window. “What’s the problem, officer?” I asked as he reached my window.

“You got a cat in there sir? We got a report that a man matching your description just stole a cat from over on East 51st Street.”

See what I mean when I say how much trouble I get in and it isn’t my fault?

Manana, y’all.

Holy Cat Crap Batman

Thursday, April 28th, 2011


So. Now that my life has settled back into the lunacy that is my routine, I have time to tend to my regularities. State Farm did right by me on the claim from the wreck, I bought a new car to replace my beloved Tahoe, and my webber and bloggie problems were cleared up when Dustin finally convinced me to leave GoDaddy and find a new hoster site.

I was first attracted to GoDaddy because of Danica Patrick, and I stayed dedicated to them in the hopes that my loyalty would be returned with stellar service. But I had so many problems with the operational aspects here to Mooner Land on the I-net that Danica Patrick couldn’t keep my account at GoDaddy if she promised to be my sex slave for a week.

Anyway, things are back to normal and maybe I lied about the sex slave dealie.

Squirt has been spending too much time with her soon-to-be-ex-owner, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson. Ex-wife number one, and my longtime psycho therapist, Sammy said that I’ve been dragging my feet in locating a cat to trade for the Squirt. “I want you to leave Squirt with me until you are ready to put some serious time into the cat search, Mooner. You are taking advantage of my good humor,” is what she said in my therapy session the other day.

“Well, I might not have cat adoption at the top of my list right now, but the only good humor you have has a wooden stick and is sold from an ice cream truck.” I am a seriously funny sumbitch.

“Oh, you think you are soooooo funny. Just to let you know I’m serious, you have until the first of May to get the cat, or the deal is off.”

See that you guys. Have I been telling you she’s a major bitch?

“Bitch,” I tell her.

“Well, Mooner, my crazier than a loon ex-husband, I might be a bitch, but your time is up. Pay your bill on your way out.”

She really is a bitch, and that’s why the Squirt and I spent all of yesterday trolling for a cat. Squirt and I have thought carefully through this entire cat thingie and we have determined that the best solution is to have a cat adopt us rather than for us to just look at enough cats to find one we like. See, I don’t care for cats one way or the other, and well, the best way to say what the rest of it is, is to say that Squirt is a dog.

We had already spent the better part of a week’s time looking for a fucking cat before yesterday. I bought a case of canned sardines and a pound of catnip to use as cat bait, and we visited the animal shelters and answered ads in the paper until we were ready to get drunk. We did everything we could to get cats to like us.

We fed them sardines and gave them one of the little cachet dealies that Gram made for us to stuff with catnip. Furry little fuckers would act like our best buddies to get us to give them the goodies, and then they would ignore the shit out of us when they finished the sardines. They’d lick their paws and clean themselves in that sexy feline languid tongue bath thing they do. Then they would do this love/hate thing with the catnip toy.

They would rub their face on the cachet and then roll around on it, all dreamy-eyed and purring. Then, with a sudden burst of anger, the toy would be kicked and scratched and bitten as if it were a mortal enemy.

Stupid fucking cats.

We answered an ad at this one place where we encountered a classic cat lady. Since my Tahoe was wrecked and my new car was getting prepped for me, Squirt and I were in my classic GTO, driving with the windows down. We found the address and I parked at the curb, which was about fifty feet from the house that sat back from the street.

Squirt sniffed the formerly clear, clean air and said to me, she said, “Eiuw. ?Que diablos es ese olor, Monsieur Mooner?” Then she sniffed some more and said, “Es riecht nach le merde de gato.”

My nose lacks the olfactory sensitivity contained in the snout of the little soon-to-be-my dog, but I smelled it too. “You’re right, little lady. That’s a hell of a cat shit stink.”

We got out of the car and started to the front door of the little house. Each step brought stronger cat odors. “I think we mis-diagnosed this one. Smells like cat piss to me.”

Squirt answered, “Comme Gram dit-elle you jours, Mooner. Wer gibt einen shit?”

“Yea, Gram nailed this one, Squirt. It doesn’t make a shit what it is, this shit stinks to high heaven.”

I had decided to go back to the car when we were twenty feet from the house. But the door sneaked open a crack and this woman, maybe forty and skinny as a rail, peered at us from between the door and its frame. She was hiding all but her eyes, which were themselves hidden behind dark cat-eye framed sunglasses.

“Are you Mr. Johnson?” she asked. Her voice sounded like cats claws scratching on concrete.

“Yes, and this little lady with me is Squirt.”

She gave the two of us a nervous appraisal. “All right, you look harmless to me.” And with that she shut the door to unlatch it. When she opened the door just the first foot, at least a hundred cats came screeching and caterwauling out the door past our feet.

There were fucking cats everywhere and each was acting like its tail was on fire. “Oh, they’ll come back around for their feeding,” the woman said. “Why don’t you and the Mrs. come inside while we wait on the kitties to come back?”

“Ah, no, that’s OK,” I told her. “We don’t have time to wait.”

Squirt and I almost raced to the GTO and got in. “Hurry Mooner. Get me the hell out of here.” The Squirt was hunkered down on the floor board, a grimace latched on her face.

I almost laid a patch of tire rubber but there were cats in the road. I decided it might be a mistake to run over one. After we got a few block from the stinky house I patted the seat and said, “Come on sweetie, the cats are all gone and you need to buckle up.”

I pulled to the curb and got the miniature dog harnessed in. I was fumbling with the latch on her seat belt and I cussed. That started Squirt to laughing which started me to laughing. We had tears in our eyes, the both of us in a giggle fest. I said, “That was the smelliest place I’ve ever been. Now I know why nobody composts cat litter,” and then we started laughing again.

After a while we settled down, and as I was putting the car in gear to pull out, I heard crying from somewhere in the back seat. It was a weird noise and it was making the hair stand up on Squirt’s back. She growled and said, “He oido de un gato, Senor Mooner. It sounds like a cat crying.”

I put the GTO in neutral, pushed the emergency brake and turned the car off. Squirt growled again– a resonating that comes from deep in her bones, and she started vibrating. I looked over the back of the seat and saw nothing, but suddenly the crying turned into mewling.

“That’s a fucking cat!” Squirt shrieked, and she started barking maniacally, wrenching at her harness to get out.

“Well if it’s a cat silly, you need to settle down or I’ll never get it out of here.”

I found the cat, a young Siamese female, hiding under my seat. “Tell her to come out Squirt, tell her it’s OK to come out.”

The Squirt growled once more and said, “Je ne parle pas no fucking gato.”

“What do you mean you aren’t talking any cat. Didn’t Dixie teach you how to speak cat?”

OK, look everybody. It’s late and I have some chores to finish before bedtime. How about I crack my last Carta Blanca for the day and get back with you manana. OK?

George Takei Still My Hero; Camel Toe For Dummies

Wednesday, April 27th, 2011


So. I have been too busy to pay much attention here to I-net and bloggy world to have many original thoughts. Having original thoughts never stops me from blabbering, but I think you catch my drifts.

I have been getting many emails regarding camel toes and things camel toe. The same thing happened last year about this time, so I posted the following. Maybe this will explain some stuff. Reprinted from March 2010, I give you the reprint of:

Chelsea Handler Has A Great One; George Takei Said “Oh My” First On Howard Stern”

So. The weekend was great weather here and we started the hot season garden out to the ranch. We garden in a fifty-acre patch that I won in a poker game back to 1983. With all of the mouths we feed from it Gram is wanting to expand its boundaries next year. So while the rest of the crew were planting, Streaker Jones and I were spreading the compost and granite sands on the adjacent land and tilling them in.

We’ll grow alfalfa this year and then plow it under. That’s the best way to prepare your soil around here. I let Gram and Gnat decide what we plant so long as I get at least ten acres of tomatoes. I love homegrown tomatoes. Especially the old fashioned ones. You know, the purple ones and the striped ones, and those that get really big and gnarly looking.

Back to 1990, or maybe it was 1991, we grew a Merced that looked like Washington crossing the Delaware. To me, it looked more like a bunch of goat pellets stuck to the bottom of a tire-tread sandal, but Gram got her picture in the Garden Page of the Austin American Statesman anyway. That’s our Austin newspaper.

Once June hits, I carry pre-mixed salt and pepper in a shaker in a hemp cloth tote bag full of ripe tomatoes. Take them everywhere I go. Lured one of my ex-wives into my sticky web with a perfectly-seasoned beefsteak. Supplying her with tomatoes from the ranch garden is one of the conditions to our Alimony Agreement. Woman loves her tomatoes.

OK, enough about me, let’s talk about you. I had no idea that so many people did not know what a “camel toe” is. I need to thank Mrs. Che-Che La B, from up to North Dallas, for her thoughtful email and inquiry about the subject.

But, “Yes,” I do know that the camel is a pachyderm, and, “Yes,” I do know that the camel provides essential transportation, nutrition and night-time comfort to the nomadic peoples of the world. But “No”, I disagree with your thoughts that I am a brain dead Troglodyte.

I even understand how important the camel is from a cultural perspective. But I don’t get the part about sleeping with camels. Have you ever smelled a camel? Maybe all of that dry desert air kills a person’s sense of smell. Or your nose gets all dust encrusted from the sand storms and you can’t smell anything.

But back to topic. While I have always known that it has many names, I thought that camel toe was the universal nom de plume for when a woman has her pocket meat on display. Whether on purpose or by accident, I always thought the name was “camel toe” for when a lady places said meat into the display case. And I figured that every woman knew this.

Other names I have heard are “moose knuckles” and “my honey’s hams” and “girl package”. If I was naming it I think something along the lines of, “Oh my!” would be my choice. Like George Takei says on the Howard Stern Radio Show. George was Mr. Zulu on Star Trek too.

A nice lady with a well-tended and proudly displayed camel toe walks by me, I’m thinking to myself, I’m thinking, “Oh my!” Maybe I can start a new trend and create a new saying and get famous.

Oh my!

Maybe I’d need to credit George.

My Gram calls hers her “pocket poochies”. While I guess that “pocket poochies” is perfectly and properly descriptive of Gram’s camel toes, I can only hope that particular descriptive name would have limited applications. My Gram looks like she was constructed from dried goat bladders to start with. To imagine her camel toe would be traumatic. But again, “Oh my!”

But to be technical, Mrs. La B, I will quote to you the definition for Camel toe that I am sending to the people to Websters. You know Websters, the dictionary folks.

“Camel toe. Noun. From the early Egyptian meaning “Oh my!”. The result of a mature woman wearing outer garments which are pulled tight into a frontal vaginal wedgie, placing the pubic mound and crevice at maximum visual display.”

From the historical perspective, Cleopatra invented the camel toe. It seems that one of the few positive genetic flaws of all the inbreeding, which is so common among the ruling classes, was that the women offspring’s labia and surrounding mounds majoris, were truly major mounds. And these were not mounds like what glandular malfunctions cause. These mounds were meat-swollen and not swollen meat or water-retentive in nature.

I wonder what Queen Elizabeth looks like down there.

Old Cleo would have her hand maidens pluck her crotchie areas clean of hairs using tweezers made from dried shark cartilage. Cleo discovered that if the hairs were plucked one at a time, she could avoid razor rash. Of course, she didn’t call it razor rash since razors were a future invention, and the plucking took hours, of course.

When I did the research on this shark cartilage dealie, I called Ingrid over to Ingrid’s Hot Wax Emporium to ask her if we could try plucking me that way for my next ass show. Ingrid told me to get some rest and make an appointment with Dr. Sam I. Am for some therapy.

Actually, she said, “Have you lost your mind Mooner?”

Anyway, Cleopatra used her toe jobber to mesmerize Mark Anthony and Julius Caesar and a bunch of other Roman men back to the B.C. times. I think that’s maybe why Italian women lack the basic sense of humor to enjoy a free-thought discussion of the subject of camel toes to this day.

OK, maybe it should be “camel’s toe” or even “camel’s toes”. I can’t figure if that is one of those spoon fulls vs spoons full dealies.

Cleopatra would get herself all skinned-off and buffed utilizing hand-maiden-and-shark-cartilage tweezing, and then have her hand maidens anoint her polished loins with oils. The oils would be fragrant with frankincense and myrrh. Do you think she had special oil-anointing hand maidens or were they maybe multi-tasking maidens who both tweezed and anointed?

I think I could use a hand maiden or two. And why is myrrh spelled that way?

After proper exfoliation and anointing, the royal camel toe would be bound for presentation. When I heard that she had it “bound” I was kind of admiring Cleopatra for taking one for the team. You know, it sounded like when the oriental women would bind their feet up to make them attractive. Sounded painful as all get out.

But when I read the records of this on the I-net the other day, I got the sense that this binding was quite different from foot binding and that old Cleo actually enjoyed it.

And then this morning, Streaker Jones came to my office with some timely news. “Mooner, ya need ta know that Chelsea Handler is kechin a buncha crap bout her camel toe. People’s callin her a man cuase shes got her a man-sized load.”

Then he added, “I don’t lik em talkin bad bout Chelsea, Mooner. Wud ya say sumthin in yur bloggy?”

Streaker Jones is a huge Oprah Winfrey fan. But with her ending her talk show soon, I think he is changing the channel of his TV attentions. Actually, what I think is that Chelsea Handler is me with a pretty face and different plumbing. I really don’t think she is a man. If she is all I can say is, “Holy shit, I have fantasized about a man.”

I got on the E Entertainment website and sure enough, there’s like 10,000 blog comments posted about Chelsea’s camel toe, and some are quite cruel. Chelsea is funny, irreverent and inappropriate- attributes which I much admire. When I got the letter telling me I’d been voted the Most Inappropriate Man In the World, I just assumed she’s garnered the woman’s trophy.

Well, actually I didn’t get a trophy, just the letter that I framed and hung next to my other awards.

Anyway, one of my objectives in starting this blog was to perform public service. Dr. Sam I. Am said that helping others would help me get a sense of satisfaction that I don’t find other ways. So, I am offering here to provide a public service to any woman with camel toe concerns. If you are worried that you have an issue with yours, just contact me. I’ll be glad to advise.

My Gram’s best buddy, P-cubed, says that maybe I could sponsor a club to support the issue. I think maybe I can. I could have a contest for the best name for the club and everything. You know, generate some buzz.

Speaking of buzz, Roshandra called me to talk about her camel toe. She wanted me to tell you guys that a woman needs to be proud of her stuff. I don’t remember if I ever saw it displayed in classic camel toe fashion, but I can say that Roshandra has world-class stuff.

Wait. P-cubed is Penelope Paxton-Parades, who is also known here to Austin as the “Guacamole mama”.

Let me know if I can help with the club.

Drink Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

King Solomon Rules; New Car Blues

Tuesday, April 26th, 2011


So. I’ve been mostly out of touch with the blog world for a few days. I have been busy navigating my way through the stormy sea of car buying. I buy many vehicles for my business, but they are are big dump trucks and large one-ton pick up and work trucks. I have longterm relationships with dealers, and a keen understanding of what constitutes a good deal when I buy a vehicle for my business.

I’m also pretty good with used cars. I can research values and then take advantage of my negotiation skills. I’m so fucking crazy with the ADHD that most individual sellers will give me my ridiculous offering price just to get rid of me. This one time I was buying a used van for Gram to use for hauling her products around town and I ended up actually feeling sorry for the guy I bought it from.

“Look, Mr. Johnson. If I just give it to you will you shut up and go away?” he said.

“Well, I answered, can you tell me when was the last time you rotated the tires?” I asked.

Mother says I talk more than a woman. She tells me that I’m a chatter box and that I don’t hold conversations like a man does, I’m like a woman. Maybe that’s why women like me so much and I end up often married. Maybe I end up often married because I propose so much.

Actually I have been the proposer only four of the ten times. The other six were either marriage upon proposal by the woman, or accidents. Have you ever accidentally gotten married?

Anyway, my responsibilities with my job out to Mooners Compost Plant are mostly of the titular variety. Like I’m the King of compost, but I have a parliament and local government who do all of the actual work for me. I get to play King Solomon when there are employee disputes, and I get to enjoy all of the accolades when we win an award or are recognized for being good guys.

I hate employee disputes. Passionately. But I developed a method of solving them quickly, which has proven quite effective. Here’s what I do. When they come to Gnat to make an appointment to bitch at each other in front of me, Gnat tells them, “OK, you have an appointment at 10 am Wednesday of next week.” Then she hands them a one-page leaflet. “Read this before you come to the meeting.”

The leaflet is a modernized account of King Salomon and the baby with two mothers story. Then when they meet with me I start the meeting by saying, “Just so that you know, these meetings always end the same way. Neither of you will be happy with my solution, and I’ll think less of both of you for it. Now, who wants to be the first to get cut in half?”

I try to hire adult persons to work for me. Then I treat them fairly and with gratitude. I started this King Solomon dealie maybe thirty years ago and it still works like a charm. Most of my employee problems end when a third employee overhears the squabble and says, “Look, you two. Have you heard about the “King Solomon” method of employee relations conflict resolution?”

OK, that was a major fucking digression. All of this dealing with car salesmen has put my ADHD at full DEFCON Alert. What I mean to say about cars is that I don’t haul shit for work or visit many job sites for the erosion control business, so I can pretty much drive whatever car I want.

What I want to drive is one of the new Porsche Panamera models. Holy shit is that a nice car. Big roominess, big power and a really big price tag. Gigantic fucking price tag.

We already have one high-priced luxury car in the house, and Gram’s Ferrari is it. That’s enough as well. When I need driving thrills I can borrow her car or drive my old GTO. Squirt loves the GTO and is constantly begging me to burn rubber. “Smoke le tyres, Senor Mooner,” she’ll say.

She loves to sit with her back feet on the bucket seat and her front paws on the dash, her cute little nose pressed tight to the windsheild. I move the seat all the way forward to allow her little body access. And she’s strapped in with the custom driving harness I had made for her.

Anyway, I’m going to get dressed and go try to buy a new Chevy Traverse. It’s the cheapest thing that fits my big frame in comfort and has a safety rating I find acceptable. I’m going to tell the salesman he better act right or I’ll post about him here to the bloggie.

If he fucks up I’ll sick the Reckmonster on his ass!

Manana, y’all. Drink Carta Blanca beer responsibly.

State Farm Did The Right Thing; At Last

Saturday, April 23rd, 2011


So. I did all of that bitching about my insurance company in the aftermath of my car wreck. My level of dissatisfaction and frustration were well chronicled on these pages.

My claim on the auto insurance coverage purchased by me from State Farm Insurance began as a stereotypical story of a longterm customer, with no prior claims in thirty years history. Since the accident happened on a Sunday, I was unable to get any real information from the 1-800 operator who answered my initial call to report the wreck.

“I can only take the information from you and set-up the claim file in the computer, sir, and your claims adjuster will be available Monday morning,” the youngish-sounding man told me.

“OK, but I have rental car insurance and my car was towed to the wrecking yard. How do I go about obtaining a rental car?” I thought this was a reasonable question.

“You’ll need to speak with your claims adjuster, sir.”

“OK, young man, but you just said the adjuster isn’t available until Monday morning. It is now Sunday fucking morning and I need a rental car, and…”

“Sir,” again with the Sir shit, “I have not cursed at you and I would appreciate you not cursing at me, thank you.”

OK, this was going well. “Well, Mr. Sensitive, I would appreciate it if you would drop your snotty-nosed attitude and tell me how to obtain a rental car under the insurance policy I have paid for for more than thirty years without a single claim.” I can be reasonable in the face of reason.

“Sir, I thought we just went over that. Call … your … adjuster … Monday … morning.”

Oh, this was going VERY well. “Well I, you little shitwad, thought that I had explained to you that I … need …. a … fucking … rental … car TODAY!”

Anyway, my experience went downhill from there and I managed to chew ass on at least a daily basis for the almost two weeks since the accident. Then yesterday afternoon I got a call from a guy at State Farm. I got mad as soon as he said the words “State Farm” so I missed the next dozen words he spoke to me. My brain latched back on the conversation as the man was saying, “… and the body shop placed your car on jacks because they couldn’t get it on a lift. That is why our company adjuster missed the rest of the damage– they couldn’t get under the car. Your car is a mess, a real mess. It’s totaled, sir, and I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. I have notes here that you have strong opinions about things and I just want to tell you that it is State Farm’s policy to pay the customer the full retail value of their wrecked vehicle when the damage estimate exceeds that retail value.”

“Well let me tell you something, buster. If you think…”

You know, sometimes I have these slow-motion moments of clarity. Just like the slow-motion experience I had when the air bag exploded in my face during the wreck. I’m all wound up over some injustice, real or perceived, and I’m ready to bite my way through someone’s chest to eat their heart when I think, “Ooopsie.”

I stopped my rant wind-up and instead pitched a softball. “What department did you say you are with, sir?”

The man answered, “State Farm Total Loss Adjusters.” He emphasized “Total Loss” heavily.

Now I have a new set of problems. What car will I buy to replace my beloved 2007 Tahoe? I can’t get another Tahoe because it was a gas guzzler, I can’t get a Prius Because I’m 6’4” and 240 pounds of aging manhood, and what I really want is a new Porsche Panamera. But my work is hard on a car and I’m not messing up a Porsche that way.

I was thinking I’d get a Chevy Traverse and then I realized I can get a Mercedes for the same money. For some reason I don’t mind letting a Mercedes get all banged up at my work but a Porsche or BMW– no way. And I won’t buy Japanese because I promised my father I wouldn’t. Daddy fought the Japanese in the Pacific and he carried a prejudice until his death. Some prejudices are reality based.

I like the Japanese and I think they likely build the best cars dollar-for-dollar. But Daddy’s deathbed wish was a promise from me.


I take back most of what I said about my insurance company. In the end they did right by me. So I guess I’ll drink a toast of icy cold Carta Blanca beer to State Farm Insurance. “Good enough, State Farm. Good enough.”

Manana, y’all.

PS– Fuck Rick Perry

Environment To Suffer For Rick Perry

Wednesday, April 20th, 2011


So. Here we go again. The Texas state legislature is gearing up to fuck us once more. A Sunset Bill is being readied at the bidding of Governor Rick “Fuck the environment, I want more businesses” Perry that will gut and castrate our state’s environmental protection agency.

The Texas Commission on Environmental Quality (TCEQ) is what we call our environmental protection group. You might wonder why we would take the protection out of our environmental quality, but you would be forgetting that our state’s legislature has been big business controlled since George W. Bush was elected governor.

Legislators from around the country keep asking why Texas has seen so much business growth since Bush was elected. Of course Prick Perry takes all the credit and explains his tactics as smart thinking and free market supportive. The reality is quite a different commodity.

The main method employed to lure new business to Texas has been to reduce or eliminate the new companies’ property tax burdens. In Texas we have no state income tax, so our main method to raise taxes to support our state and city governments, oh yea– and our fucking public schools, is with property taxes. Some of these incentives equate to many millions of dollars in lost revenues to local governments and school systems.

The “You don’t have to pay property taxes” method is the in-your-face and obvious way Texas has enticed new business enterprise. We have also had the governor work behind the scenes with various state agencies to “adapt” regulations to better “accommodate” a company’s needs. Special dispensations for new businesses are more common in Texas than dollar bills in a titty bar.

The legislation I mentioned is a clear demonstration of just how greedy the conservative Christian right has become. Historically, at the federal level and in every state in the union, when it comes to any business plan that has objectionable environmental issues, the business planning whatever is objectionable is responsible to provide the proof that its plan is safe for the environment. In other words, if you want to open a 25,000-acre strip coal mine next to the river and the neighbors are unhappy and the Sierra Club thinks it is a bad idea– the mining company has to prove that it is protecting the environment and the project will have no negative environmental impact.

When I upgraded my license to produce compost almost ten years ago, I spent about $400,000 in costs directly contributed to demonstrating the environmental safety of my operations. Landfill operators, mining companies, cement plants and the like can spend millions of dollars on each of their projects to do the same.

Folks, it takes millions of dollars of investigation to be certain some of these business plans are safe. The cost of these investigations has always been born by the businesses that will profit from the operations when opened. But if this bill passes, the burden of proof will shift to the public.

That’s right, folks, Alcoa won’t be required to spend $10 million to provide the research that its strip coal mine expansion is safe, the family farmers and homeowners whose property will be ruined must foot that bill. Texas families who won’t have a combined net worth of $10 million will be held responsible to prove Alcoa’s plans are unsafe.

To again quote The Reckmonster, “WHAT IN THE HOLY FUCK???”

Am I the only one that sees this as screwy? To me, we just declared the environment of Texas to be “Guilty until proven innocent”. The same as if you were arrested for murder and was required to prove you didn’t do it. Sort of how things were with that fuckball Adolf Hitler. I wonder if Rick Perry is the same hight as that little German shitwad?

A bigger problem with this is that many other state legislatures have come to Texas to, “Learn how to do it too.” That means that our cancer will spread to a state near you.

I need to start looking for a compatible donor. I’m drinking Carta Blanca so early and so often, I’ll need a liver transplant by the end of the year.

Manana, y’all.

Twitter Me This; Trump For Prez??????????

Tuesday, April 19th, 2011


So. My Twitter “keep count of my Followers” dealie is a source of wonderment for me. I’ve mentioned this previously but I feel compelled to talk about it some more. After six months on Twitter I have– as of three minutes ago, twenty-five Followers. Hoo-yaaaa!

According to my records, the most Followers I have ever had showing in the above mentioned Followers counter dealie there to Twitter is twenty eight. With six months of Tweeting, I bet most of you think I should be disappointed with my success. Right? Are you not thinking, “Mooner, dude. You are one giant miserable tweeting failure.”

But in thinking that you’d be falling into the trap of rushing to decision/opinion with too little information. That would be like if all you heard was that Nicolas Cage had a rough night the other day and you thought, Poor Nicky, go home and get a little rest. You’ll feel better in the morning.

And that reminds me of Donald Trump. If you Christians have ever looked for a sign that the world is near its end-of-days, take a gander at Donald “If I bankrupt it, it will prosper” Trump. I just saw that silly fucker explain his 180-degree flip on abortion by saying, “… I had/have a friend who didn’t want a child and was planning an abortion. He had the child who is now the apple of his eye…”

Now maybe I missed some specific verbiage and misquoted that funky-haired gasbag, but I got the gist for you. Donald. Hey Donald. Listen to me, Donald. Who are you fucking kidding? Your opinion regarding womens’ rights to self-determination is based upon the old “Try it, you might like it” logic string? You mean what you are saying is, “The only reason you don’t want your unwanted pregnancy is because you have never gone all the way with an unwanted pregnancy.”

Seems Donald Trump has been taking smart lessons from Mrs. Palin and her little sister, Michelle, up in Mean-as-soda-water laced with Ex-Lax. It absolutely drives me to distraction when politicians use that kind of logic to sell a political point. It drives me to the cooler for Carta Blanca beer to know that it works.

How stupid are we Americans?

Anyway, like I was saying, I have twenty-five Twitter Followers and I am actually proud. “Why?” you might ask, “are you happy with that paltry sum. That’s like four per month of operations.”

“Easy,” my quick and quite succinct answer. “According to my records, it requires 136.55871 temporary Followers to equal one actual Follower.”

See, for some reason people see something that entices them to push the “Follow” button on Twitter that shows as a plus one on my Follower counter dealie. Then soon after they push the “Un Follow” button and remove themselves from my Following counter. Maybe that should be “De Follow” button.

I have had over 3,400 individual push-the-Follow-button actions on my behalf, and nearly 3,400 of those individuals, again soon after, pushed the Un-Follow-button actions on my un-behalf. Dis-behalf? OK, might that be de-behalf?

Said another way, 3,400 people have found something about all things Mooner Johnson interesting enough to go to all the trouble to find me on Twitter and click “Follow”, and then re-go to the trouble of stopping that following. As the Reckmonster would say, “What the fuck, I mean WHAT-THE-FUCKING-SHIT?

But me, I’m an optimist. Always and always will look to things and hope there’s a bright side. Not that I’ve ever worried about this particular problem, but SAC Ellen told me the other day she said, “Mooner, you are such a blind optimist you could find a bright side to a case of vaginal warts.”

She was right because I immediately started wondering if the the little bumpy wart dealies would increase sexual pleasures.

But I think this entire Twitter issue is a simple matter. I think people jump to conclusions. Of course I can also see how I might hook somebody with the subject in one paragraph of my writings and lose them in the next.

But like my Gram says, she said, “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner? Twitter yer ass over to tha friggie an git me another beer.”

Manana, y’all.

Am I The Only One Who Hates Insurance Companies?

Monday, April 18th, 2011


So. I fucking HATE insurance companies. I have waited a full week for mine to assess the damages on my Tahoe. The visible damages included smashed front end, loosened dash, rear-wheel drive shaft on the ground and a cracked transmission spilling its guts.

Totaled, right? Wrongo.

After a week of farting around, they call to say they want to fix it. “No frame damage,” they say.

“Fuck you, asshole,” was my immediate, unfiltered response. I always manage to maintain my decorum with customer service people. “Who the fuck do you think you are dealing with, buddy?”

I heard a rustling of papers, and, “Uh, uh… you would be policy holder number SF1972HBLAP106627TXZ8,” he replied. “I see that you have never before had an auto claim, Mr. Johnson. We’re quite proud to have you as our customer.”

I felt my brains start to ooze from my ears and nostrils from the pressure inside my head. “Where are you, Bryan?” His name was Bryan.

“Why, I’m sitting in my cubicle over at the main claims office located right here in Austin, Sir.”

“OK, Bryan. Why don’t you call your momma and tell her to make plans to visit you at the emergency room over to Breckenridge Hospital. Tell her you will be there in an hour and a half.”

“Oh, Mr. Johnson. I thought you said you had no significant injuries from your little boo-boo time. Do I need to file a medical claim for you?”

Bryan failed to capture the significance of my biting sarcasm. “No, Bryan, I’m still OK, and thanks for your concern. What I mean is that I’ll be in your office in maybe twenty minutes. It will take three, might take four minutes to thoroughly whip your ass, then another twenty minutes to the ER. It’ll take at least a half hour for the docs to stop your bleeding and get you presentable to see family. So, yea, tell your mother to meet you in 90 minutes.”

I fucking hate insurance companies. After screwing around for a week as I waited by, and waited patiently, I now must get independent estimates and and wait a month for repairs. Then I’ll have a car with a fucked-up Car Fax report that won’t be worth the price to make the repairs.

Then, they’ll raise MY fucking insurance rates.

Am I the only one who hates insurance companies? If you look at my policy holder number, you can decipher several things. I’ve been with them since 1972; I have (H)omeowners, (B)usiness, (L)iability Umbrella, (A)uto, and (P)rofessional insurance coverage policies with them.

Am I unreasonable? Does this shit sound right to you?

I’m getting a cold Carta Blanca. Manana, y’all.

Not A Happy Post; Where Is My America?

Sunday, April 17th, 2011


So. Now I’m really pissed. Some fucking asshole Federal Prosecutor from up to New York has arrested the bigwigs at several of the largest I-net poker sites. In its continuing effort to rob American citizens of their rights, our government has targeted poker.

Poker. Our legislators and their puppet law enforcement agencies are trying to kill our right to play poker. What in the fuck is wrong with my country?

The Christian right is a dangerous commodity and dangerous in many ways. They brag about wanting to protect our rights and then kill our rights and steal them away at every turn.

What they mean when they say that they stand for protecting Americans’ rights is that they want to protect the rights that they want to keep, and fuck what rights anybody else wants protected.

Protect the right to bear arms? You betcha. Right to cheat the American people of their Social Security and Medicare/Medicade benefits? You betcha. Right to force my kids to study the Christian religion in public schools? Well, you atheistic commie bastard, you double-down betcha!

What about the right for you to make decisions about what my wife or daughter does with her reproductive organs? Are you kidding me Mooner? God’s giving me the right to protect the Public from baby murdering women. Who do those fucking women think they are, anyway?

Look, I have a childhood friend, well had a childhood friend, named Billy Marty. Billy was one of those people who didn’t know when to stop. The boy had no brakes. No amount of anything was ever enough for Billy Marty.

The term “Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile” was invented as descriptive narrative in anticipation of that boy’s birth. Maybe it was some Christian prophet who conjured up that saying in his infinite fucking wisdom.

Anyway, Billy was a hog of serious proportions. And like most hogs, he found that many nicer folks would bow down to his piggishness. Some from fear, some from desires to avoid conflict and some because they felt sorry for the guy with no visible means of self control.

Billy Marty barged his way through life and developed into quite a bully. He badgered his way through school and even managed to get a degree from SMU up to Dallas. I didn’t bear witness to his schooling up there, but he got through high school by stealing homework and with parents who bought him out of problems. My guess is that his parents, big Methodists here in town, greased the skids for Billy to escape Southern Methodist with a sheepskin.

Daddy gave Billy a job in his construction company, and started him as a building superintendent building houses. Paid Billy a great wage and gave him heavy authority for a newbie. Neither was good enough for Billy Marty, no siree Bob. Nothing was ever good enough for Billy Marty.

His first efforts to hog from his daddy’s trough (I hope that is the right spelling) came when he started demanding kickbacks from the subcontractors doing the work on daddy’s houses. I guess Billy figured it was really Billy’s company so why the fuck not. Actually that’s not me guessing. Billy told me and Streaker Jones just that when we saw him at Cisco’s for breakfast this one time.

“Yep,” Billy said, “I started taking a little rake off the subs first. Then I figured what the H E Double-L. I’ll start taking a touch of the real estate commissions as well. It’s my F U C K and I N G company.”

Billy loved to spell cuss words when he spoke.

His crimes of piggishness grew, and before long Billy was gobbling up all the profit from his dad’s business. I won’t go into all the gory details, but Billy’s end came when he was turning his stolen dollars into a big land deal down to Mexico. This was back when Americans first started moving to Mexico as a retirement haven, and Billy wanted to do a big development down there.

He teamed up with a Mexican bunch reputed to have funding from some nefarious Mexican types. Now, allow me to herein inform you that you might think you know a nefarious type. But until you have met a nefarious Mexican, you can’t type nefariousness at its maximum.

I hope to H E Double-L that made sense.

Anyway, hog that he was, Billy couldn’t help himself so he made plans to skim a little taste from the Mexican surveyor and pass the cost on to his partners. Naturally, the surveyor was cousins with one of his partners and the last thing anybody saw of Billy was his head as it stood parked atop the hood ornament of his Rolls Royce. The car was sitting in the driveway of the mansion he had built from money stolen from his daddy.

OK, my point. I have an uneasy feeling about what is going on in America right now. The Christian backed right is growing power hungry and greedy. Each time they win a point and steal a right, they come back to the trough to gobble more from the rest of us. They are hogging all of the rights for themselves. They keep pushing the limits like the bullies they have become. They grow fat and stupid from gorging themselves.

I fear that we are as close to having an oppressive government as we have ever seen under our Democracy. Actually, I already feel oppressed.

I’m worried.

I love my country and I fear for it. We are polarizing at the same time we are arming ourselves with stupid gun laws.

Ugh. Where is my America?

@Reckmonster And Squatlo Inspire; Back In Business

Saturday, April 16th, 2011


So. After a frustrating few months it appears that and its attendant bloggie are once again fully operational. I know you have heard this before, but I think I mean it this time.

As a computer dumbass I am always at the mercy of the strange digi-geeks and web lords who populate the world of my computer’s guts.

Holy shit was that a metaphoric nightmare of a sentence. What I tried to say is that I know nothing and the guys who work on my computer and Inet problems are like alien gods when they can fix my shit.

Dustin came through again. He has been trying to get me to switch from GoDaddy as the hoster company that serves-up my stuff for quite some time. As a loyal person, I make changes in my relationships with great resistance, so I resisted the change to Host Gator until yesterday.

OK, I hear the unasked question spinning through your brains. It goes something like this: “How in the fuck can a man with ten ex-wives maintain the position that he is loyal?”

Answer: “Easy, I’m a victim of circumstance. Both my marriages and divorces have been, for the most part, accidental.”

I’m in too good a mood to worry about explaining myself any further than that. My ADHD will not gain control of my thoughts, I’m too happy to get distracted. Which reminds me. Squatlo and The Reckmonster have said some things about gardens and I was planning to do a spring veggie garden planting tutorial when my site started crashing and I never got to it. So, let me summarize some of what I was going to say. I’ll do it in outline format as follows:

  1. Plot. Decide what you want to grow first. Then lay the plot out on a piece of paper. Organize your rows and mounds using the plant size and spacing dimensions for their growth. A crowded garden is a sad garden. Everybody needs room to grow.
  2. Prepare your soil. Use compost– the real thing, and only use organic fertilizers. And follow the fucking planting instructions for the liquid seaweed and stuff. Be careful of big box store bagged compost. It is often NOT actual compost. Not always, but often.
  3. Make water-gathering wells around your plants to collect water and deliver it to the roots of your plants. Once your garden has been properly plotted and planted, water is the most critical part of your efforts. “Too much, too little?” That, my friend, is the critical question. Read up on your choices, then water each variety separately. Those water wells around each plant will help you apply water where you want it to go.

OK, enough for now except to say that mushroom bedding compost and poultry compost are the best types for tomatoes in the many areas of the US wherein I have personal experience. If you have a choice and can choose mushroom or poultry, choose them. If not, pick whatever is your favorite barnyard animal from your options and you will get fine tomato crops. Love pigs– get pig manure compost.

Now, should you choose to not grow tomatoes in your home garden, go fuck yourself you right-wing conservative shitball. Get the hell out of here and logon to Leave me alone.

You can’t trust a man won’t eat homegrown tomatoes.

I’m cracking a cold Carta Blanca beer and slicing some Early Girls for breakfast. It’s a glorious day.

Manana, y’all.

De-Civilization; Nobody Stopped

Wednesday, April 13th, 2011


So. I’ve been missing in action for a few days because my hand hurts too much to type. I had a terrible car wreck Sunday morning and smashed the Chevy Tahoe I drive for work into recycled, mangled parts. Luckily, I am basically OK, except for bruises, contusions and maybe some bone fractures in my right hand and foot.

I won’t discuss the specifics here because the man who ran a red light and pulled in front of me said it was my fault. I will say that ABS brakes, air bags and crumple zones in today’s modern cars likely saved three lives, and prevented any serious injuries.

I did have one of those slow-motion experiences and will tell you about it after the insurance companies figure what to do about the “He says, and the other he says the opposite” dealie. What I will now say is this.

When you witness an accident you should stop and render aid. It’s the law, for one thing, and the most basic of human kindness for enough more. This wreck was witnessed by people in at least a dozen other cars and not a single person stopped.

Not one single fucking person bothered to even see if the three humans involved in a major accident were OK. This wreck happened at a time when people were headed to church. I saw how some were dressed in church lady finery as they slowed to look for carnage but refused to stop.

My guess is that many said a prayer to their God that we were all alright, and I bet each said a, “Thank God that wasn’t me,” prayer during the reflection time in their church service.

I am terribly offended by my fellow man right now. I’m hurt and disappointed that I might have literally been ignored to death. If one of us in the accident had needed some immediate life saving help…. well that was just too fucking bad. These fine folks had an appointment with God at church.

My family raised me to put the safety of my fellow man at the top of my to-do list when I see one of those situations. I stop when I see a wreck, I stop when I see a car beside the road. I stop when I see someone in any kind of distress. I get involved when I see someone endangered by the actions of another person.

Don’t strike a woman, don’t bully a kid, don’t seriously abuse a waiter in my presence. I’m that guy, the big one, who takes sides for the little ones.

Gram says I’m too sensitive about this. “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Yer OK. Now shut yer yap an pass me tha tomaters.”

I see Gram’s point and I am grateful that I have but aches and pains, and a completely ruined large SUV. I just see this as one more bit of evidence that the human race is de-civilizing. Somehow all of the religious factioning is fracturing the fabric of humanity. Maybe that should be religious factionizing.

Ugh. Carta Blanca beer won’t soothe this one.

Manana, y’all.

Don Pierre The Pirateer Pays A Visit; Tomato Dreams

Sunday, April 10th, 2011


So. I was deep in slumber last night and dreaming one of my recurring-theme dreams. This is one of my super-Technicolor jobbies with a cast and crew of thousands. These dreams are pirate fantasies and I am always playing the lead role as Don Pierre the Pirateer.

Swear to God.

I’m always dressed in fashion that would make Johnny Depp’s pirate character look butch. The ruffled, blouse-shirt I wear is white cotton and loaded with lace and lacy frills. I wear the tail out and over the top of my black leather pantaloons, and on my feet I’ve got heeled leather boots that further elevate my 6’4” frame.

All of my thick hair is black in this dream and it’s foppishly long on my head, and tied back in a lush ponytail with a gold beaded thong. I’m adorned with gold head-to-toe: rings, bracelets, earrings in rows hanging from multiple piercings, my giant felt pirate captain hat has a thick braided gold band, and chains of gold fashion my belt and adorn my boots.

My dense, curly black chest hair, showing from neck to mid stomach in the open front of my blouse, helps complete a mighty studly picture in black contrasted on white.

Each time I have this dream, the beginning is random– acts of pirating always, but sometimes attacking an English galleon to steal it’s booty, or ransacking some castle of its treasures. Or ransacking fair maidens of their treasures.

But every one of these dreams ends the same. Don Pierre stands on the balcony of his mansion that sits at the top of the main street in a harbor town. He has an unobstructed view down the crowded street and between the two-story buildings that line the cobblestones on both sides. Maidens in period dress are stuffed on the second floor balconies of the buildings, leaning over the rail and spilling ample bosoms in bright sunlight.

There is a Don Pierre the Pirateer song and it plays in my dream like a movie sound track. I have been having this dream for at least thirty years and the music is always the same. It is great music filled with brass and violins, and even though I’ve dreamed it hundreds of times, I can’t sing a note of it when awake. I can tell you that it is an ode to the man and uses his name multiple times.

At the end of this dream, Don Pierre, me, swishes out onto his balcony, removes his hat with a flourish, and makes an exaggerated bow to the frenzied crowd. He then spreads his arms wide in a sharing gesture, shuts his eyes tight and lifts his face to the sun, and is promptly awakened with a start by some silly fucking thing, every fucking time.

Last night the dream ruining awakening occurred at 3 am when Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry had a lover’s spat. My gay pig and ostrich were fighting because Rushie had hogged all of the homegrown tomatoes I served them for dinner and little Ricky’s feelings were hurt. The ostrich was boo-hooing like a little girl who had her pigtails yanked, and the silly hog started laughing at him.

Ever heard a 500-pound pig laugh?

I jumped from bed and threw the door open. “Shut the fuck up, you two. You just ruined another Don Pierre the Pirateer dream for me. And stop whining, Rick, I’ve got plenty of tomatoes and will have them for months to come.”

That seemed to salve the giant bird’s bruised feelings so I shut the door on my closeted gay pets, and lay back down. I started thinking, an always dangerous endeavor, and behind my shut eyes I saw vine-ripened homegrown tomatoes in a big Indian basket, and Rush Limbaugh the pig, both sitting around my kitchen counter. I got up out of bed, dressed in shorts and tee shirt, and padded out to the kitchen.

It’s 6 am now, and I just finished my third BLT sandwich and fourth Carta Blanca beer of this new Sunday. Streaker Jones makes this smoked bacon and ham, and sausage, and I fried a few pounds when I got up. I ate a pound on my sammies, and the rest awaits the women of the house. For tomatoes, I had purple heirloom, early girl and yellow grapes– one sammie each.

I’ll got coffee brewing so I could switch from beer before it’s too late, walked out and got the paper from its box at the road, and prepared for my first bitching-out of the day. Life is pretty fucking grand.

Manana, y’all.

A Hank Of Hair; Mooner Stocks Up

Friday, April 8th, 2011


So. Yesterday I told you that I have something to tell you about Texas Governor Rick “The-first-thing-we-do-is-kill-all-the-teachers” Perry. I had lunch with a conservative Christian buddy and customer, an honest and in my opinion, actual Christian man.

This man embodies most of what qualities I consider a true Christian man should have. Compassion, tolerance, ideals, morals and the guts to say that his ideals might not represent the only way through heaven’s gates. He firmly believes that Christianity is the best method, and also the only way that he will make it. But he admits that he has no hard evidence that supports his Baptist ways as better than those ways of say, a Jew. Or a Muslim for that matter.

He’s a smart man as well and thinks through things in a very logical way. He obviously has no ADHD, so as a conservative, he is basically my polar opposite.

For years we have disagreed about Rick Perry. Ever since he was lieutenant governor, I’ve been calling little Ricky the devil and my buddy has been touting him as the man to return America to sanity. Hours have we spent, me with my bottle of Carta Blanca and him with his glass of sweet tea, arguing about that prick.

But yesterday that all changed. Yesterday my buddy finally admitted that he understands what I meant. And you won’t believe what turned the tide.

OK, little Ricky went to Texas A&M, step child of the University of Texas. Most attendees of A&M are fine people, full of pride and honor. Some however, are ignorant, jealous conservative Christian fuckballs. Like the little prick, Rick Perry.

On a side note, the little shitwad has somebody monitoring my site. I have a buddy on staff at the State Capitol and he filled me in. They think I’m, “Funny, a real jokester, and silly. Harmless and dumb.”

I want to say this about that, “Fuck (P)Rick Perry, fuck his supporters and fuck you.”

Anyway, the governor has the worst kind of UT jealousy and he spends an inordinate amount of time attempting to undermine my university. He has done everything within his power to bring down UT to A&M’s academic, sports and research levels. Nothing he has done has been effective. UT has endowments that will insure its financial stability forever, and the little asshole can’t touch that money.

He has tried everything and to no avail, until he finally came up with a plan. See, UT is one of the world’s great scientific, business and academic research and development facilities. Sciences and arts are the linchpins of our success and prestige. What Governor Perry plans to do is pass legislation to, basically, require UT to become just a business school. Drop all of the scientific research that generates honors and hundreds of millions of dollars per year to support school programs.

That is what pushed my buddy off the Perry bandwagon. I told you he was an honorable man. My buddy realized that he was supporting an intrinsically evil man.

I said I wouldn’t write about this until I had done more research, but I lied. I’ve been too busy to do anything other than read an article in the local paper that I had missed when I must have skipped over it. While that article lacked details, it made the Governor’s intent clear.

The US government is facing a total shutdown because the religious Christian right insists that any budget extension include a ban on funding for Planned Parenthood. Are you fucking kidding me? And some of the idiots on the right side of the legislative aisle are women.

What the fuck?

How can a woman support the undoing of ten thousand years of fighting for womans’ rights? Don’t these silly fools realize that the Christian men behind all of this want to take women backward, steal women’s rights away giant chunks at a time.

Me, I’m making my plans for if Rick Perry makes it to Washington, DC. I’m stocking up on Carta Blanca beer, canned goods, animal furs and old-fashioned wooden clubs.

Then I’ll find the archives for the B.C. Comic strip and start studying up in preparation for my future lifestyle.

One thing bothers me though. I’ve been married to several women who enjoyed me pulling on their hair during sex as a method to increase their pleasure. But I don’t know a single woman who would allow me to yank her hair as a control mechanism.

Manana, y’all.

Prick Perry Alert; Wake Up And Smell The Coffee

Thursday, April 7th, 2011


So. I want to be light hearted and happy, and I have every reason to be so. It’s spring for one thing, and I love spring. But I love summer and fall too, and I at least like winter, so loving the season isn’t enough to break my bad mood.

I’m harvesting tomatoes from my garden and that is one of my greatest joys in life. But even plucking and eating and sharing the acid-filled lovelies of the soil can’t break the feeling of dread that seems to have invaded me.

For the last few years, I have been telling you guys about Texas Governor (P)Rick “Pass-the-Stupid-Bill” Perry. I have attempted to illustrate the basic, pure evil he represents. I tried to tell you how he is ruining my state and I have warned you that he wants to take his act to a bigger stage.

I have a friend and long-time business associate, a very Christian, very conservative landscape contractor who owns one of my compost business’ largest customers. He is an honest, upstanding, intelligent and thoughtful man. Whenever I want or need to hear sound thinking from the other side of my liberal coin, I call him to meet. Any time he feels the need to gain info from the lunatic fringe, he calls me.

We have dinner or lunch on what might be a semi-monthly basis. He went to Baylor University, the Baptist center of higher education up to Waco. Since I went to the University of Texas, many of our meetings are set to settle the small bets we make on sports games between our alma maters. Other times we meet to talk business, but usually we meet to just talk.

I had been feeling good about things. Like I said, my tomatoes are coming in, my sex life is solid, my Gram has been occupied with development of some new potions based on Streaker Jones new psychedelic mushroom strain, which gets her off of my ass, and the Texas state legislature has managed to mire itself in a cauldron of its own shit. I have even managed to fix most of the problems with my webber and bloggie.

Things have been so mellow for me that the Squirt and I have been spending time trolling for a cat who will adopt us. That’s the endeavor undertaken as the end game to get ownership of the Squirt transferred to me, and move her from “almost-my-puppy” status to where she becomes Squirt Am-Johnson”. We have to find a cat before Dr. Sam I. Am will allow the deal to become official.

So Squirt and I have been making the rounds of animal shelters, abandoned barns and crazy cat lady houses in the effort to be adopted. I thought this would be an easy task, but who knew. Cats are seriously fucked up. They think everything involving a batshit nuts old man and a talking dog is dangerous.

But we enjoy the cat hunt and have met some very interesting people. Like the woman with a hundred cats. Ever smelled the air in a house shared by a hundred cats? Which reminds me to tell you something.

I have a keen sense of smell. It seems that many ADD and ADHD sufferers have a keen sense of smell. I have been told that it’s my smell senses that make me a good cook since smell is the largest base component of taste. All my life I’ve been the taster of my family. Ever since I can remember, someone has been sticking a spoon in my face and saying, “Here, Mooner, tell me if this needs more salt,” or, “Taste this, Mooner, and go sit inna corner. I need ta see iffn I got too much mushroom juice in this batch.”

I’ve had this theory that many of the same odors that make one thing a pleasing smell make others nasty. Our trip to the hundred-cat lady’s house must have been stuck in my mind because this morning when I fixed my coffee I had a revelation. I fix my coffee with espresso-ground, French roasted Costa Rican coffee beans. I have a one cup filter dealie that sits atop your mug and you make filtered coffee by pouring the almost-boiling water into the top of the filter unit.

I put three tablespoons of ground bean powder into the filter for one cup because I like my coffee strong. I love the bitter taste and rich aroma of strong coffee.

Anyway, as I’m standing there with my coffee brewing– waiting for the first batch of water to make room in the filter for the second batch, I had an epiphany.

Wait. You need to know that I make my coffee with three distinctly separate batches of water. I fill the filter each time and allow the first two to fully steep and drain before applying the next. This allows me to soak the best from the coffee into my cup. I always smell the drained filtered coffee after a water application, a deep breath to both enjoy and determine timing for the next application of water.

Holy shit am I digressing. Look, when I was making coffee this morning, I noticed that one of the basic odors in truly great coffee aroma is the same odor that makes skunk venom so pervasive. Check it out.

So, my Christian buddy called me yesterday morning when I was feeling so good about things and said, “Mooner, we have got to meet. I need to tell you something.”

We met at the Eastside Cafe, this nifty place that grows much of its own food in a garden on the cafe grounds. We exchanged pleasantries and he got straight to the point. “Look, Mooner. I never thought I’d say this, but you are right about Governor Perry.”

Huh? After years of trying to talk sense to my Christian right buddy and him telling me I’m crazy, I get confirmation.

“Huh?” I said aloud. “After all these years you telling me you finally agree?”

“Yes, Mooner, I’m saying you have been right all along and it is scaring the poop out of me.”

He said, “poop,” guys. That’s worse that me saying, “Rat-butt fucker.”

I’m not saying what put him over the edge because I need to investigate the story. But I will say that if he’s right, I’m getting ready for Jesus to return.

So, drink Carta Blanca beer responsibly, and savor every drop because we might not have much more time.

Manana, y’all.

Another Test; Websites Suck

Tuesday, April 5th, 2011

So. This is a fucking test of the Mooner Johnson Broadcasting Syatem. This system is so fucked up that if it was a puppy, its mother would lay on it and smother the breath from its little lungs.

Then, she might eat its lifeless little carcuss. I don’t know what dogs do during infantcize dealies. I’d ask Dixie but she’s not talking to me. I’d tell you all about that silly shit, but this is just a fucking test.

But while I’m here, let me say, “FUCK RICK PERRY!”

Carta Blanca isn’t helping.

Please let me know if you can read this.

Homegrown Tomato Countdown: Ten, Nine, Ocho…

Sunday, April 3rd, 2011


So. Squirt and I decided to take a walk through our big garden after dinner last night. I grabbed a fresh Carta Blanca and we headed out. The garden covers a total of ten acres and Mother tends to it with the collection of what now totals five wards. The wards are but the current crop of unfortunates whom we give a place to live, and work, while they recover from whatever it is they are recovering from.

I won’t get too deep into it, again book fodder and off-limits here. But what I will do is tell you that our garden tenders this spring include a musician, a former assistant district attorney, a waitress and a second musician. Each of the four are here because they need help and this was all they could find. The Johnson family ranch is a large property with many buildings and most of the buildings are houses– the homes of the former landowners.

Over the years, I have accumulated a few thousand acres and grown the original forty into a prosperous enterprise. I’ve made quite a bit of money in my life, starting at a young age, and land is the best investment to me.

Anyway, as I strolled through the rows of corn and tomatoes and peppers, and such, it was obvious that different plant varieties were tended by different resident farmers. While most rows looked as though an amateur gardener was in charge, my treasured tomato plants are each planted with the precision of a Swiss watch. Every plant has been installed at the perfect depth, was trimmed cleanly and accurately, and the spacing and row management is concise.

“Mierda, Senor Mooner! ?Que nos jijamos en que?” Squirt exclaimed.

“Holy shit is right, Squirt. Looks like somebody’s OCD is running on high alert,” I answered.

My guess is that my mother has assigned the keyboard player the duties of tending my tomatoes. Mother knows their importance to me and always tries to mother them the most. The young man watching over my tomatoes came to us when Streaker Jones and Dixie dropped him off a few weeks ago. Seems he had arrived early for the South-by-Southwest Music Festival, jobless and looking for a gig.

This young man isn’t autistic, but Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson says he is a possible sufferer of Asperger Syndrome. He’s got a load of natural musical talent– he’s almost a savant. And he’s got a double dose of social disorders in the balance. He twitches and stares at you without blinking and he has mechanical speech mannerisms. Everything about him is guarded and he shows no emotions outwardly.

And he’s fucking adorable. When I ask him about my tomato plants, he can rattle-off the characteristics of each variety like he was reading the book. He memorized the book.

He has a notebook where he keeps his diary of each plant. Every plant is carefully numbered by row, row placement and variety. The plant’s history– whether the seed came from Johnson family stocks or the vendor if it were purchased. What date it was first sown in the greenhouse, water and compost schedules and growth results, all of that shit.

He showed me the notebook at dinner, which is why we were taking this walk. “Look, Mooner, see this number?” he asked me. The notebook jammed in my face was opened to the section titled “Tomatoes; Row Six; Area Two; Subsection Early Girl/First Planting.”

“Pull it back, son, so I can see it,” I gently said. “OK, that’s the neatest handwriting I ever saw.”

“Well of course. Now look at the notation by plant number Early Girl 16.”

I’m looking at the half-page of notes for little Missy number 16, trying, politely, to determine which of the notes he meant. When I didn’t respond appropriately to his expectations, he said, “The one in green pen, Mooner. I write all of my expected harvest notes in green. Green is the correct color for harvest notes, where red is for problems, see? Like when tomato worms make their debut, that will be notated in red. Now, look at the green note and tell me what it says.”

Like I say, the kid is adorable. “Well, lemme read it. OK, it says, ‘Anticipate ripe fruit/lower south-west quadrant/Friday 4/1/11 approx. 7:36 pm.’”

The unblinking eyes almost registered a smile. “Exactly,” he said, and he sat down to finish his meal.

So that little interchange is why the almost-my puppy known as Squirt is walking with me through the garden. “Where the fuck is Subsection Early Girl, Bwana Mooner?”

“How the shit do I know, little lady. And don’t cuss so much. You aren’t my puppy yet.”

Then I noticed the popscicle stick markers carefully placed in the soil at the base of each plant. The careful penmanship was obviously the tomato tender’s work, and each stick obviously marked the plant and correlated to the notebook references. Since Squirt can’t read well yet, I had to stoop to read the numbers on the sticks. So I’m on hands-and-knees like a baby, crawling from plant-to-plant.

“Over here. Pronto, arriba!” an excited Squirt calls me.

I jumped up and ran down the row maybe fifty feet to where she stood. The little hound was on point and she was doing her vibrating thing. Her little body was buzzing so hard that her feet were becoming buried in the soft garden soil.

“If I don’t call you off point little girl, you’re gonna be neck deep.” I chuckled and took her off point.

“Mira, Sir, look at that!” as she nudged a tomato on the lower part of the plant.

“Well I’ll be damned,” I said. “It’s ready to harvest.”

It was, and it is a beauty. It’s got one of those deep creases across the bottom that makes it resemble Kim Kardashian’s ass, and it has a little poochie gathering in the front that looks like a camel toe. My mouth started watering just thinking about salting it up.

I checked my watch and saw it read 7:35 pm. “Let’s wait one more minute before plucking it, Squirt. We don’t want to disappoint our grower.”

We finished our Carta Blanca while the sixty seconds ticked away, and counted down the last of them. “Ten, nine, ocho, siete, six, cinco, quarto, tois, deu, one!” was Squirt’s countdown.

I placed my hand under the ripened fruit and told Squirt to do the honors. She nudged it with her nose and it dropped into my hand. When held to the fading spring sunlight it brought tears to my eyes. It was the most incredible first harvest I had ever seen.

I am always amazed when my conservative, usually deeply religious, friends complain about funding for social services. As our small part, we Johnsons provide food, shelter and medical services, and opportunity for a small number of people not providing for themselves. We’re careful who we take in because we take them into our homes.

Next time I’m asked why I would do such a thing, I’ll think about that tomato.

Manana, y’all.

@Monkeeboy Saves Day; @Reckmonster And @Thundercat832 Must Approve Fixes

Friday, April 1st, 2011


So. I’m so happy I could shit myself. After months of fighting operational difficulties here to my bloggie and webber, I think they are fixed. My confidence in the fixes remains at the “cross your fingers” stage, but like Gram said at dinner last night when I said I was tentative about the fixes, she said, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. That Monkee-Ass feller done picked tha boogers outta yer spiderweb. Now quit yer bitchin an fetch me an Hilda a fresh beer.”

Fresh beer would be icy cold Carta Blanca long necks, Monkee-ass would be and the boogers in my spiderweb would be the bloggie and webber pains in my ass I’ve had for the last half-year.

I just thought that an ass fistula was painful.

Let me say this about that, and then I’ll shut up about it. For starters, I’m less than a rank amateur at a computer keyboard. I have had an assistant for most of my adult life and my current assistant, that would be Gnat, has been with me for most of twenty years. Gnat keeps as much of my life as can be organized, organized, she keeps my appointment schedules and reminds me to do shit and she makes my excuses when I forget shit.

Gnat doesn’t like me to write about her and she’s going to be mightily pissed when she reads my forthcoming book, Full Rising Mooner.

I’m a hunt-n-pecker typist, I’m scatter-brained, I have no internal filters so I’m quite inappropriate, and, by the way, I’ve got a killer case of the ADHD. When I sit to the computer keyboard to type stuff I’m always thinking about something else and going off on tangents. Then, next thing you know– I’ve fucked something up.

Now. This computer problem started when I was invaded by Catholic hackers, allegedly, and was surely exacerbated by my lack of computer savvy. I love the word “savvy”, don’t you?

I am dead certain that I made things worse with my efforts to fix things. My Gram often accuses me of making things worse. She’ll say, “Oh fer shitsakes, Mooner. Stop picking tha scabs offa stuff.”

Anyway, hip-hip-hooray, my problems are over!

Unless they are not over. Please try to comment on this to tell me if you have any difficulties. Thanks, and manana, y’all.