Archive for May, 2011

The Best Laid Plans; Rush Limbaugh And Rick Perry Spoil The Broth

Sunday, May 29th, 2011


So. We finished a big breakfast this morning, and our holiday weekend plans went into full swing. I say “into full swing” rather than “into motion” because, quite simply, it is a far more descriptive describer to say that since our motions are more back-and-forth than linear. I always attempt to accurately scribe events here to the bloggie. And, again, I say “try” rather than simply say, “I always scribe accurately.”

Nothing in my life happens with any linear motion, everything swings back-and-forth with the ebbs and flows of the many women in my life. I have so many examples of how their mood swings send me twisting like a bed sheet in a tornado, I don’t even know which to tell you.

These distinctions are gathered to the forefront of my ADHD-addled brain due to events that occurred starting with said big breakfast. The breakfast was big in several ways– the assembled breakfasters, both quantity and quality, the food from the perspective of both variety and quantity, and the events taking place at the gathering.

Allow me to provide clarity to give you a foundation for understanding. First, the attendees included: Gram, P-cubed, Mother, Aunt Hilda and her shrunken-head-in-mahogany-box– Woodrow, Squirt and Dixie, Honor the newly-named cat (formerly known as Eighty-three), Streaker Jones, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, SAC Ellen, Gnat (my trusty assistant), Gnat’s beau (an associate of the SACster), Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry, and a one-pound live blue gill in a bucket of lake water.

The blue gill represents the strongest of his breed, the one-in-thirty we caught on yesterday’s fishing trip to survive the razor-sharp claws of my soon-to-not-be my cat. Aunt Hilda has taken it upon herself to blow air through a long straw into the bottom of the bucket to keep the water oxygenated, and she sucked instead of blew just the one time.

I think once would be enough for most anyone to get that lesson firmly fixed in their gray matter.

Streaker Jones brought us another gallon of the prized maple syrup he imports from this place that sits smack-dab on the US and Canadian border, so I made pecan waffles. Waffles are one of the near-perfect foods. You can cook almost anything into them, and the little grill pockets make perfect-sized cups to hold butter, syrup or whipped cream, and evenly distribute those condiments to each tasty bite.

I also cooked some bacon that I smoked with a glaze of the last maple syrup Streaker Jones brought, grilled flank steak ala Mexicana, eight dozen fried eggs, three loaves of seven grain toast (for the pig), one spelt muffin for Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, hash browns crisped in butter, sliced Merced tomatoes from the garden, coffee, Bloody Marys and, of course, Carta Blanca beer. And spicy homemade salsa.

We sat at the big bar top in my kitchen, the kitchen itself a separate wing we added maybe a dozen years ago. It’s 500 square feet features a commercial kitchen with walk-in friggie and freezer, huge pantry and attached cellar, big floor-to-ceiling window walls, with doors looking and leading out to the courtyard, and this bar that seats twenty comfortably.

What with the pig and ostrich seated, capacity is reduced to fourteen, so I had the cat sitting in my lap. I sat Gram at one end of the bar top and Rush and Ricky at the other, and I put Streaker Jones between them on one side and I sat across from him. That way we could intercede the most dangerous of the attacks mounted by Gram on my gay and closeted pets. Since I served grilled flank steaks, each diner had a sharp, serrated knife.

I’m a real stickler with knives. I think knives are to be respected, honored even. Knives should be kept honed to their sharpest and stored in cases or wooden blocks whenever not in use. And NEVER, EVER put a knife in the FUCKING DISHWASHER!

My opinions re: knives might be called an obsession. OK, my opinions on knives have been called an obsession, and also caused one of my divorces. Another story. Maybe my knife opinions are obsessions.

OK, fuck it. I’m obsessed with knives and I have very strong opinions thereto. Therefore, maybe. Shit, thereof?

Anyway, with a sharp knife within Gram’s reach, I felt it was prudent to keep sentries between her and my gay pig and ostrich. I’ve seen Gram butcher a hog.

Originally, my personal plans for the day included: a quick fishing trip with Squirt and Honor, a long and intimate relationship with icy-cold bottles of Carta Blanca beer, a relaxing afternoon at the BBQ pit cooking the cabrito that is our traditional Memorial Day weekend meal, and some serious sexing to cap off the day. Cabrito is goat, and I cook mine more like a roasted suckling pig than one of those Hawaiian steamed jobbies. I love crunchy food.

In order to get goat meat crunchy, I wrap it in caul fat. I love caul fat, you know, that fatty membrane that wraps animals’ stomaches. I learned to use it from a Sicilian woman years ago, and have seen it often on cooking shows. Like The Iron Chef. I love the Iron Chef. It reminds me of everyday cooking around here.

You can’t cook a goat in his own skin or else your finished product tastes like burned homeless mens’ sneakers, and I’m digressing the shit out of all of us. Not that the story about my having burned a box of sneakers I was taking to the homeless shelter isn’t interesting. It’s inappropriate for this posting.

What I’m attempting to say is that my day has already gone to shit. Gram made it clear that Rush and Rick were to stay at my side all day or else we’d have some specialty meats for our holiday feastings. So I gathered up the mini dog, kitty, 360-pound ostrich, 500-pound pig, a bucket and pitch fork, and off we went to dig worms for fishing.

Streaker Jones said, “I’mma go too. Be inner-estin’”

Dixie, SAC Ellen and Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson agreed, so they gathered some lawn chairs and followed us out to the garden for the worm gathering. When I chose the spot for digging, the group of observers set their chairs at the end of the two long rows of tomatoes. I started digging with my pitch fork, turning over the rich soil and exposing the worms to be gathered by Squirt and Honor.

Watching me expose the damp earth must have sparked some primal instinct from deep inside Rush Limbaugh’s hog brain. He snorted a half-dozen times and started rooting up everything in sight. I had a hundred tomato plants laying on their sides before I could stop him. I kept whacking his ass with the back of the fork, to no avail. Only when I confronted him with the business end did he stop.

Now I’m all sweaty and panting from chasing the hog and I can’t find the ostrich. I asked the observers, “Where’s Rick Perry?” and all I got was four fingers and a retriever’s nose pointing towards the cantaloupe patch.

The first near-100-degree days has brought the grasshoppers to the garden. Did you know that grasshoppers are an ostrich’s favorite food? Me either until this morning’s calamity recap and evaluation. Under intense questioning, Rick Perry admitted that when he sees a grasshopper, all fifty of his brain cells focus on nothing but the grasshopper.

Must be the same phenomena as suffered by his namesake, Texas governor Little Prick Perry, upon looking at a money man for a conservative political PAC.

So I’m goading my pet hog with the pitchfork, Squirt is chasing the ostrich as he slams through the garden snapping at grasshoppers, and the group of seated observers are laughing their asses off. I’m yelling and cussing my ass off when the reverie is interrupted by a, “BOOM!” Then a five-second pause and, “BOOM!” again.

Ever been pelted with rock salt that was hand-loaded into twelve-gage shotgun shells by a crazy old woman?

I’m just glad that I had a few rows of short corn plants between me and the trigger-happy old woman when she sparked-off the loads. The ostrich was caught terrorizing swimmers over on Lake Travis. The water is so low from the drought that Rick Perry has access to much of the lake, and the silly ostrich loves to primp and posture for any gathering.

Another shared trait with the governor.

Anyway, I’m just now getting the fishing trip restarted and Gnat has reset my schedule for me. The worst part of the new timings for today’s events is that dinner is moved back an hour, which delays the start of my planned sexing. I just hope that I can keep from fucking something up so bad the sexing gets canceled again.

Manana, y’all.

Honor Honor’s Our Vets; Cat Names Self

Thursday, May 26th, 2011


So. As this week winds down and races headlong into the holiday weekend, I have a few observations and a little news. For those of you who are sticklers for the details, also the grammar police out there whom I haven’t already chased away, I say this. “Yes, it is too possible for the week to wind down while racing headlong.”

Don’t go all English teacher on my ass when it’s your misunderstanding of my intentions at fault. Like a 100-meter footrace, it’s the last ten meters that’s run the fastest. Same way with cheap wind-up toys– that last second of operation is almost frenzied when compared to the rest.

Now, if we were talking watches, different story, because with watches, a cheap watch frenzies near the end of a wind while an expensive watch slows as a winding matures. At least that would be my personal observations. My first watch was a hand-me-down given to me by my late grandfather on my sixth birthday. It was a cheap pocket watch given to him when he “graduated” from the Hopehouse Home for Abandoned Boys at age seventeen.

“They give each of us a watch when they kicked us out. Kicked my rosy red ass out and into the Marines. Fucking Marines kicked my rosy red ass right over to France. Fucking Germans tried to kick my rosy red ass all to hell.” Grandad never did talk about his ass, always his rosy red ass.

Of course, the rest of the above-mentioned rant would always include, “I’d chose to spent the rest of my life in them fucking trenches if I’d knowed what that woman was gonna do to me.”

“That woman” would be Gram, and “them fucking trenches” would be the French battle lines in WWI. Grandad always called WWI “the big one”. After spending most of my life in the heat of Gram’s furnace, I can almost understand my grandfather’s sentiment.

The face of my first watch was already heavily worn when gifted to me. The hour hand was placed on top of the minute hand, upside down in my opinion, and the minute hand lightly dragged as it wound it’s way through each six-hours’ time. All but the tops or sides of each Roman numeral were worn off, and all but one letter of the watchmaker’s name had disappeared. There was a light etched circle in the cheap tin face where the hand had circled thousands of times. The remaining letter of the maker’s name, an A, gave no real clue to the watch smith’s identity.

I’d wind that watch carefully, just as Grandad instructed me. “Don’t twist it too fast, Mooner, and don’t wind it too tight.” When I had trouble with the “too tight” part, he said to me, he said, “Treat it like a loose tooth that you want wiggle but don’t want to pull.”

Anyway, whenever that old watch would wind down, it would spend but fifteen minutes moving the last hour. It would wind down four times in any twenty-four-hour period. “Ain’t for keeping good time, Mooner, it’s just for show.”

My current watch, an Omega Rail Master I’ve had for many years, is a self-winder that slowly winds down after I remove it from my wrist. It has an extra-large dial to match my thick wrist, and it is a simple timepiece that I love. Fucking watch is a part of me.

Now I’m tearing-up over my fucking watch. My soon-to-be- my dog and soon-to-not-be my cat brought me to tears earlier, and I’ve been tearing-up since. I think if you set a bowl of popcorn in front of me I’d well up like a baby. I love popcorn, but holy fuckballs, enough already.

As you all know, my buddy and hopefully future-future spousal material, The Reckmonster, has had a rough time. Several of the veterans she monitors for a federal agency have committed suicide recently and she’s taken it hard. I share the Reck’s unhappiness over the lack of concern shown by our government, and much of our general populace, over the care of our returning vets.

Reck has written several stories about the recent tragedies over to her place at Rantings of the Reckmonster. That’s on your bloggie dial. Pay her a visit to see what I mean. When you aren’t crying, you’ll laugh your asses off.

Her stories basically demonstrate that the brave men and women who have so honored our country with their service, are returning home to no honors. We are treating them like the expended shells of war rather than warriors. Pathetic.

I have been reading Reck’s stories to the little cat and dog, Squirt and Eighty-three, and they surprised me this morning with an announcement. I was sitting to the foot of my bed with Rush Limbaugh the pig and the ostrich Rick Perry at my feet, while the cat and dog were conferring in hushed tones at the head of the bed. I was trying to get the gay lovers to come out of my closet for maybe the hundredth time.

As usual, they were crying and snivel-snotting and telling me how sorry they are for inconveniencing me, but we made no real progress, again for the hundredth time. As usual, I had slimy pig snot and acrid ostrich tears staining my clothes. After that crying jag diminished, the diminutive puppy named Squirt brought the little cat to sit by my side.

“Bwana Mooner,” the Squirt started, “hat die Katze etwas a’ vous dire.”

“OK, Squirt. What does Eighty-three want to tell me?”

The little dog and cat spoke to each other in animated whispers. “Elle vent l’honneus Senorita Reckmonster and le veterans by naming herself Honor. Ehre, Honneur, Onior, Heshima, if you will.”

I sat in stunned, still silence and the tears started to slip down my face. I started boo-hooing and the two small animals jumped into my lap to comfort me. “It’s OK, Monsieur Mooner. It’s OK,” Squirt consoled.

“Oh, little lady, these are tears of joy and sadness too. I’m so proud of you guys I could … something. I don’t know what, I’m just so proud.”

So I’ve been a tad weepy since. I am, however, proud of my parenting skills. I might be crazy but I’m a decent father in spite of it.

Now I need to load the cooler with Carta Blanca beers so we can head out. I promised Honor and Squirt that I would take them to anti-anti-abortion protest over to the Planned Parenthood offices. Catholic Anti-Abortion Lady has been over there and I promised Honor a treat.

Manana, y’all.

Lost Sex- The Mooner Johnson Story

Wednesday, May 25th, 2011


So. I’m an idiot and a fuckball. My ADHD has been on the fritz so bad, I don’t know if I’m coming or just breaking a hard sweat.

Seriously, I didn’t slay that old saying, I’m talking about my aborted attempt at sex last night. SAC Ellen and I were deep into the moment– she was into the sex and I had started daydreaming. Actually, I was daydreamings in the plural, because I had maybe a dozen things swirling through the swill in my thick skull while in the conjugial position. Maybe that should be the conjugalist’s position.

While conjugally positioned?

Anyway, we had been at it for some time and the SACster was really into it. I won’t describe exactly what that means because I don’t kiss and tell. But she was really in it and nearing her logical conclusions, again plural if you know what I mean. She’s experiencing a rapid-heartbeat moment, and I said to her, I said, “I wonder how the product development team is coming with the One-Cup Wonder Flush project.”

I will say that I take my hat off to the SACster. She finished her business before kicking me out the door. On the way home, I was driving my GTO with all the windows down, and I was thinking about all of the sex I have lost in my lifetime. I don’t mean like the ones that got away in the classic sense, rather I mean the sex where you are either getting ready to have the sex and fuck something up, or you are already sexing away when you manage to screw the pooch.

I’m guessing that I’ve had an average amount of sex, maybe three times weekly since I was eighteen. Since I manage to lose the sex about one-out-of-every-three times, I could be having sex four times a week. I could realize a 33% increase in my sex life if I wasn’t such a bird-brained fuckball.


But I am excited about the One-Cup Wonder Flush project. That’s the device I invented to promote sanitary conditions for when you pee in someone else’s sink. You don’t need to be fussy when peeing in your own sink since you are certain of your aim. But using a certified system will assuage any fears a third-party sink owner might have.

A sink owner, or operator in the case where a rented building is in play, will be mightily impressed when you demonstrate the safe and sanitary operation using the One-Cup Wonder Flush. I’m thinking I might win a Nobel Prize for this one. I’m thinking this might be the big one for me– the one that puts me on the map.

Work was started on the male version and I was promised a prototype before the end of the summer. While they do that for me, I’ve been researching to find ideas for the female version. Have you ever noticed that women don’t like to let you watch them pee? Why is that? I’m not wanting to look out of any prurient interests, it’s for science for shitsakes.

I finally talked SAC Ellen into letting me watch and I must tell you that I was fascinated. Next time I’m wearing my wet suit and swim mask. When you get the bird’s-eye view of things, it’s pretty remarkable.

A woman’s body is an incredible thing. I love exploring them with a magnifying glass. If you haven’t explored your lady friend with a magnifying glass, you need to schedule an appointment and get her done. Men and women alike, if you have a woman as a lover you need to make this exploratory trip. You’ll thank me if you do.

Actually, I had a special pair of magnifying goggles made. They free-up both hands to assist in my explorations. Some woman parts take two hands to properly examine.

Have you ever watched a woman’s nipple harden under a ten-power magnifier? Hoo-yah!

What do you think the record is for lost sex? Who might hold it– and why? Me, I lose most of the sex I lose when I open my big, stupid mouth, but what might be the root causes for normal folks lose sex? Maybe if you pretend to be a woman and keep trying to have sex with straight men you’d suffer significant rejections at the actual sexing moment. But you’d likely expect to be mostly rejected in that case, so maybe that doesn’t count.

Or like if your pecker was the size of a fence post you’d be popular, most likely, but I doubt you’d get much sex from human females. Or maybe if you had halitosis. But if you had halitosis you’d likely get blown off before sex even became plausible.

I asked Gram when I got home, and you know what she said? “Oh, who gives a shit Mooner. It ain’t tha sex what gits away, dumass. It’s tha ones cain’t git away.”

I tried to explain to my randy old grandmother that I wasn’t talking about my lovers escaping me but, rather, I was meaning situations wherein I had fucked things up in the moment. Her answer, again predicable, was to say to me, “Still don’t make a shit. Same dealie.”

Oh well, today’s another day and I’ve got fish tacos to fry. I love fish tacos and the Squirt and Eighty-three the cat are especially excited about tonight’s preparations. I’m using the bluegills we three caught yesterday on our fishing expedition. Luckily, I managed to catch a few and get them into the cooler before Eighty-three could shred them to confetti. My hopes are that I can train the Siamese slasher to scale and fillet instead of rip to shreds.

Cold Carta Blanca beer, fish tacos with homemade guacamole and tomato salsa, refried beans ala Squirt, and artichoke soup.

I’m a touch uneasy about the beans, but who gives a shit? Manana’s another day, y’all.

Worms Turned; No “My Jesus” Today

Monday, May 23rd, 2011


So. I had plans to have an easy day of it today. I was going to print a commentary from my best compost customer out to Mooners Compost Plant. And don’t go getting all pissy with me because I don’t put an apostrophe in the Mooners part of my company name. I tried it both with and without, and without fits best with our logo.

Did you know that the word “logo” is the logo for the word “logotype”? The definition of logotype is, “… a single piece of type bearing two or more letters or symbols …”. This particular definition causes concern for me that the dictionary is seriously fucked up. If a logo must contain two or more letters, then “W” is not a logo for a big luxury hotel chain, and “S” can’t be a proper logoization for Superman. Logofication, maybe.

Who wrote the first dictionary? Where did they get the authority to tell the rest of us how to speak? My guess it was a woman, a queen or maybe a king’s concubine who first felt the need to write definitions for words. They would have enough confidence to talk back to the king when he said confusing things, and correct the King’s English. Except it likely wasn’t an English king. Maybe Egyptian or Assyrian or Persian. You know, somewhere there to the Cradle of Civilization.

Anyway, my friend and compost customer had asked me to print a commentary he wrote titled “My Jesus” and I agreed to print it here. He has grown concerned with the hard stands his church has taken in recent years and he wanted to speak out. He’s a Deacon in his Baptist church, and maybe the only Baptist Deacon I can tolerate long enough to sit and have a meal together. He is open and honest, thoughtful, and caring.

In my opinion, he’s not a real Baptist. Real Baptists are opinionated, close-minded thoughtless fascists. I was raised in the Baptist church and I have the hard-earned right to think that.

Have you noticed that my ADHD has been mostly under control lately? I don’t ramble and prattle on about silly shit very much, and my digressions are few and far between. I wonder why. Maybe I’m maturing, learning life’s lessons at last.

Maybe I’m delusional.

Whatever, I was going to have an easy day of it here to bloggieland and print his “My Jesus” thingie before taking the Squirt and Eighty-three the cat fishing. I have the cooler loaded with Carta Blanca beer, and the three of us were out early to dig some worms. Those two are a trip when we dig for earthworms to use as fish bait.

I seeded my gardens with many varieties of earthworms– red wrigglers, night crawlers and more. Having as many varieties of worms as will flourish makes for better, more productive soil. Having a broad spectrum of choices likewise produces enhanced silliness when harvesting them with adolescent cats and dogs.

I grab a pitchfork and a bait bucket and whenever we head out to the veggie garden to dig worms. I use the fork because it doesn’t chop the worms into worm parts as I dig. I’ll choose a shaded spot in a furrow between plants so as to do minimum disturbating of plant roots. Minimum disturbations?

When I flop a big forkful of soil over and expose the worms, all hell breaks loose. I’ve got Squirt trained already, so the little dog grabs worms by the tail and flips them into the bait bucket. In a frenzy. The cat is new to the worm harvesting business and she can’t quite decide what she thinks of worms. “Tool, or toy,” was Eighty-three’s question to me, as interpreted by the Squirt.

I had to think about that one before answering. As I’ve matured I have become more thoughtful when parenting. “Well, I guess either, or both would be my answer. It’s OK to play with them before we use them for bait,” I told the cat. “Just try not to hurt them with your sharp teeth or spiky claws. You will have to eat any you kill.”

I have recently learned why so many people de-claw their cats. I’d never do it, just saying I understand the logic. But I’m digressing.

My buddy called me last night and asked me to hold off on printing his thingie. He’s worried that people from his congregation will read it and be upset. I asked him wasn’t that the point, and he said to me, he said, “My point was to make my point, Mooner, not to upset my friends.”

So, no My Jesus today, but you’ll get it sometime. My buddy is a good man with sincere doubts about his church. He’ll give me the OK in time. I guess I can look at the bright side. It just took me 800-plus words to tell you I’m not printing My Jesus, and I’m going fishing with the funniest pair of fishing buddies a man can have.

Manana, y’all.

Honor America’s Vets

Saturday, May 21st, 2011


So. My tomato crop is in full production mode and we’re harvesting bushels every day. Even after providing for all of our family needs, we have fruit left for donations. We can and sun-dry tomatoes in copious quantities, but ten acres of high-yield tomato plants can overwhelm even us when at their most productive.

A new product for this year is my recently perfected tomato-basil soup recipe. It has a secret ingredient that helps it stand out from the crowd. Streaker Jones wants to market it over to Magical Mystery Foods, our clandestine prepared food company.

I say clandestine since each item in our product line is considered illegal in each of the fifty united states. We have been trying to get Gram to let us market her potions for her but she’s too independent. And I’m glad.

Anyway, I’m usually at my happiest at this time of year because tomatoes, and all things tomato, make me very happy. But I am not so happy and rather find myself pissed. I’m so disgusted with our government that I’m angry.

I’ve been feeling sorry for myself because I was having separation anxiety over finishing my book. Since I’ve been ruminating over the way the US Congress has found justification for placing the greed of big oil companies ahead of education and veteran support, my mind was on both my personal anxieties and the vets.

With those two thoughts in the forefront of my congested brain traffic patterns, I posted a whiny blurb and compared my miseries to what a returning veteran experiences when coming home from Iraq or Afghanistan. I wrote that post because I’m a total brain-dead fuckball.

How dare I compare my silly mood swing to the tragedies of war. I know that inappropriateness is my hallmark, but I have too much respect for soldiers and other service personnel to demean their travails stupidly. And the worst part of this is that I didn’t get it until the Reckmonster told me that my story hurt her because she lost one of her vets to suicide the same day I posted my stupid shit.

Ugh. I am an idiot. And maybe the Reckster will tell the story and I can help promote the cause of supporting veterans as penance for my stupidity. Stupidities.

Which brings me to another issue. A buddy of mine, my biggest compost customer and Baptist man extrodinaire, has requested that I print something he wrote. I have known this man for twenty years and I know him to be one of the few Baptist deacons that I can call friend. He is what I think of as a true Christian man, and I admire him.

He has asked me to print his dealie here so that he can see what happens with it. We wants to have it printed in his church’s Sunday bulletin but he fears the retaliation and strife it might cause. I guess he wants to test drive it out here in the desert before parking it under the shade of the apple tree in the Garden of Eden.

Holy shit was that a remote analogy, or what? Allegory?

The title of his piece is “My Jesus”. I’m going to print it, maybe soon.

We must do something to upgrade the levels of support we provide our veterans. We need to finds ways to show our appreciation. I fear that we Americans have lost our honor. I feel that we have become so entitled as a society that we don’t know how to behave. We must restore our honor.

And I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

Please Help Me Name This F’ing Cat

Thursday, May 19th, 2011


So. I’m feeling sort of bluesy. You know what I’m talking about, right? That feeling you get with separation anxiety, or mission’s end. My blues come from finishing my book, but soldiers suffer differently.

They say that many soldiers suffer from the loss of the fear-and-adrenaline-fueled battle action when they return from war. They get home and can’t take the boredom they suffer at the loss of the super-charged environments of war. Home life seems unimportant, insignificant even, to some returning soldiers.

I know of one such man, the son of one of my best compost customers. He might have been the model for the recently-filmed movie, The Hurt Locker. Thirty-year-old guy has already spent most of twelve years in the Army, working as one of those bomb disposal guys shown in the movie. Twelve years of dismantling roadside bombs, unexploded ordinance, land mines and suicide bombers. According to him, many of the suicide bombers are now women and children.

This young man keeps doing a tour, coming home and getting into trouble, and going back to war. He comes home and can’t find the same levels of adrenaline, testosterone and stark fear that the Middle East offers, and he acts out. Bar fights, drunk drag racing– any sort of dangerous behavior he can discover.

His daddy and mother are worried to death, but are helpless. Their son just signed up for another tour of duty. The parents worry that their only child is no longer capable of living without the action of war, and will re-up until war kills him.

With each passing tour, this young man has taken more-and-more dangerous assignments and performed each more dangerously than the last. He’s become such a danger junkie that he can’t seem to get enough life gamble to be satisfied.

The reason I’m mentioning this is because the mental health programs for enlisted and returning soldiers have had their budgets slashed by Congress already, and it appears that more cuts are planned. The same war mongering legislators who supported George W. Bush’s stupid wars now want to punish the brave men and women who volunteered to fight them. These people volunteered and this is how we choose to reward them.

Welcome home, soldier. Now shut up and find a job if you can.

Which reminds me. Reckmonster, a mental health treatment specialist for veterans, has made the suggestion that I rename Eighty-three the cat “Oprah” since Oprah is excepted by the spell checker dealie in my word processor. I want to do that because I am working hard to weasel my way into her heart. And her panties.

But I’m passing on Oprah at the risk of personal loss because Oprah isn’t this cat’s name. Can’t explain it, it’s simply so. See, names are a big deal to me and my family. Think about it.

Every important person in my life has a name that is characterlogical of their personality. And if characterlogical isn’t a word, I don’t give a shit. It states word-perfectly my intent, so Word Perfect can stick it up its ass.

Start with my name, Mooner. I earned that moniker because I will drop my pants and show you my ass at any time. Streaker Jones is a streaker– a buck-ass naked runner. The Squirt is just that, a little drop of dog with a big personality. Dixie is a southern belle of a dog– graceful and mannerly. Dixie’s grandmother was Trixie, and that fucking dog got me into more trouble as a kid than I ever found on my own.

Sister is my sister, her wife Anna the Amazon is a giant and beautiful woman, and Mother, my mother, is a martyr. Gram, my grandmother’s name, says it all, and her best friend is the P-cubed. That would be P-cubed, given name Penelope Paxton-Parades. And Woozie Wozniak, Sheriff, and my assistant, Gnat, and so on.

Names for people just pop into my head. Like for Texas governor Rick Perry. My name for him is Prick Perry. Also, That Giant Flaming Fuckball Prick Perry. Asshole right-wing Christian Republican shitwad.

Fuck Prick Perry.

But having said all of that, I’m perplexed with this fucking cat. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson has decided she won’t take the cat off my hands until I find her a new name. Sammy taking the cat is the final condition to be met in my obtaining the Squirt as my actual my puppy.

So everybody, please help me name the cat. I know some of you are cat people and I need your help. Pretty please.

Drink Carta Blanca beer in a responsible manner, and I’ll see you manana, y’all.

Separation Anxiety Sucks

Wednesday, May 18th, 2011


So. I think something is seriously wrong with me. I finished the final preparations on my book manuscript yesterday morning and I was elated. I danced around, woke up the entire household at 4 am to brag to them, and then I did a bloggie posting to brag to all of you guys. I was on top of the world.

I was on top of the world until maybe noon when I was sitting at lunch with Streaker Jones, Dixie, Squirt and Eighty-three the cat. We were at Guerros Taco Bar, which is down to South Congress, sitting at an outside table. In Austin we allow pets to sit at the tables in food establishments so long as it is outdoor seating.

The reason for this meeting was to have a board of directors session for our hemp clothing company, If You Can’t Smoke It– Wear It, LLC. We’ve done a line of casual wear for our winter collection in honor of this guy who was murdered and whose name I can’t tell you, because of the fucking book I just finished is all about that. That and a bunch of other stuff.

Should that be “who’s name,” or maybe “the name of whom?” Name of whom’s?

The murdered guy was a big animal rights activist, and a giant flaming asshole. He was a thorn in my side for twenty years– he targeted me as a villain. I earned his bulls-eye because I have Dixie and my other pets and livestock. He hated me in a huge way and he never even knew about the ostrich, Rick Perry.

He’d have gone apoplectic if he’d known I adopted an abandoned ostrich. He constantly filed silly, frivolous lawsuits naming me as the Defendant, and he protested every business I’m involved with. He was a huge pain in the ass.

But I miss him. Once more, that whole love/hate bullshit hits the fan. Ugh.

Anyway, the guys needed my approval for the winter collection and I’d not seen the line of animal rights stuff. Since Guerros has Carta Blanca beer and great food, we met there. I had tacos al carbon with beef, my standby order at Guerros. The cat had fish tacos and Streaker Jones and the dogs had chicken enchiladas.

We were sitting there eating, talking and watching the street traffic walking by. I was on my second beer, sharing cap-fulls with Eighty-three, who has shown the family proclivity to enjoy Carta Blanca beer.. I was deep into a discussion with Dixie about the length of the hem on the men’s shorts– I thought they were too short, and Dixie was telling me shorter shorts are all the rage in Europe this year.

“Who gives a shit what’s raging in Europe, furbag,” I said. “The shorts are too short for here.”

That would be when a young man with an unleashed Rottweiler passed by. OK, the young man passed by and the giant black-and-tan dog stopped at our table to intimidate Dixie and the Squirt. A few unpleasant words were exchanged and the big German dog snarled. The snarl elicited a trio of growls from our table– basso profundo from Dixie, tenor from Squirt and a shrieking coloratura soprano from Eighty-three the cat.

Dixie said something like, “Get the fuck out of here or you will be sorry,” to the Rottweiler. That dumb ass ignored the warning and lunged at Dixie.

Have you ever wondered how much fury is housed in a 12-pound half-Chihuahua/half Dachshund and an eight-pound Siamese cat? Boatloads.

Before I could stand from my seat to get between them, Squirt had the big dog by the throat and Eighty-three was scratching the flesh from his jowls while chewing his ears. Dixie never moved a muscle or flinched. In three seconds, the dog was in the submissive pose– quivering on his side under our table, a small cat and miniature dog clamped to his head.

The young man, who was thirty feet past when my ninja team struck, came running back and screamed, “Easy, Killer, don’t hurt them,” as he started to reach into the melee’.

“Who, fella,” Streaker Jones said, and grabbed the kid by his collar. “You wanna keep that hand you’ll keep it back.”

I grabbed the cat and said to Squirt, I said, “OK little lady, let the big guy loose.”

“Not until he says he’s sorry. This asshole called Dixie a bitch.” This was said by Squirt around a mouthful of bloody dog fur. Sounded like, “Nah unta he thaths heth thorre. He thall Dithee a beeth.”

And that was the moment it hit me. I’m suffering from separation anxiety with my book. I miss fucking with it. It’s been such a big part of my life for so long, it’s like getting a divorce. I’ve had ten of those and they are never easy.

I bought the young guy a Carta Blanca, his first, and I Streaker Jones stitched his dog up with first aid supplies I carry in all my cars. Turns out the kid was an OK guy, just dealing with the macho issues of an angst-filled youth. We had a long discussion about using a mean dog as a manhood substitute, and how appearances can be deceiving and all of that.

When the guy walked away with the dog I was feeling this mixed emotions thingie. I was proud of my animals for defending family honor without starting the fight, and I was saddened by the loss of book authorating efforts. I had these thoughts while I thought of having three-way sex with the Reckmonster and Chelsea Handler.

I think I am a seriously fucked up man. Manana, y’all.

Mooner’s Book Finished; Eighty-three Catches First Fish

Tuesday, May 17th, 2011


So. I just now put the finishing touches on my book’s manuscript and I’m so happy I could shit myself. Hell, getting finished with this fucking manuscript has been so traumatic to me I might shit myself anyway. Do it for shits and giggles.

When I first started this book, I began the endeavor under false impressions. I had already written a book of some 287,436 words that I had completed in less than sixty days. But I hadn’t worked with a professional editorator on that first book, so I had unrealistic expectations as to the level of difficulty authors experience when authorating.

See, because my brain is so full of shit, said shit swirling in volumes of thoughts, I am what the bloggie world calls a “content machine”. Like Squatlo, I can pump-out words with great alacrity.

However, after working with an editorator on my new book, I became educated on the difference between word-count and quality. Squatlo’s stuff is quality word-count while most of mine is mindless prattle. But like my Gram says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Ya put a pretty package on it and folks’l pay ya fer it.”

I mostly agree with Gram’s assessment, but after working so fucking hard to do a good job, I actually developed some pride of authorship. Let me assure you that pride is a two-edged sheet of paper. It can bolster your ego and give you nasty little cuts at a turn of the page.

Which reminds me. I finally fulfilled my promise to take the Squirt and Eighty-three fishing yesterday afternoon, and my sides still ache from laughing at the two of them. You guys already know that Squirt fills the role of bobber-watcher, vigilantly checking the corks for signs of a bite. Once she sees the first indication that a fish is nudging a bait, she goes on full point and starts vibrating like a six battery dildo.

Not that I would know anything about a six-battery dildo.

So, we get down to our dock and I get five lines in the water, each bait hanging from a red and white plastic bobber. And answer me this. Bobbers have been called bobbers since long before I was born. So why does my word processor go are red and squiggly with the word bobber? What the fuck is up with that?

The word/name Oprah is accepted with warmth and bobber gets spit out like a bite of bad sushi? I’d like to meet the silly fuckers who decide when to go all red and squiggly. Fucking computer geek word police asswipes.

Anyway, Eighty-three is new to fishing since she was held captive at Cat Lady Cat Prison for the first eight months of her life. The only time she ever got out was the two times she escaped, the second of which was when she hid in my GTO and we brought her home. Most experiences are new experiences for the cat.

We’d been at it for fewer than five minutes– I’d just managed to crack open the first Carta Blanca of the day and take my seat, when Squirt went into high alert. I looked out and saw a bobber start to do a little dance, and the tiny dog was almost vibrating her skin off. Scared the cat, so she starts hissing and spitting, dancing sideways like cats seem to do. The dog is buzzing around from her vibrating and the cat is bouncing back and forth like a crazed marionette.

I started laughing my ass off. After a few minutes of this, Squirt says to me, she says, “Le poisson a avale el gancho de mierda– etwas zu ton, for shitsakes!” Each word was forced between her teeth as she vibrated around the wooden planks of our fishing dock.

I looked out at the water and sure enough, the bobber was under water and moving away from the shore. “I don’t think he swallowed the hook, little lady, but we do need to pull him in.” And with that, I lifted the long cane pole and brought the fish to the dock.

It was a huge sun perch, one of the local blue gill varieties. He was almost a pound and still full of piss and vinegar when I unhooked and laid him on the dock. He’s flipping and flopping, attempting to work his way back to the water, when Eighty-three starts sneaking in on it like a lioness on the prowl.

She looks like a miniature Animal Channel program– ears back, body low, each paw making a quiet, stealthy approach to the fish. The fish stopped moving and in a split second Eighty-three pounced. She grabbed it on the back right behind the head and got this triumphant look on her face, all proud of her hunting skills and putting food on the table. And that is when the seven-pound cat got a fishing lesson from a one-pound perch.

The fish went nuts, flipping and flopping like crazy. I hadn’t taken any of the fight out when I landed the fish, so he had plenty left for the cat. The cat is new to all of this and she’s half full of the blood lust of a hunt, and half scared to death. Squirt and I are both laughing our asses off now.

What ensued was a fifteen-minute battle to the death, which the cat won. When the fish finally made it’s last wiggle, it was scaled, skinned and shredded into thin strips. I cooked its remains for dinner, and the cat shared it with the Squirt.

Wait. I just digressed the ever-loving shit out of us. I finished my book, everyone. It’s ready to go to the publisher!

Full Rising Mooner will soon be coming to a bookseller near you. I’m cracking a cold Carta Blanca. Manana, y’all.

@Reckmonster Screws Up Mooner’s Sex

Monday, May 16th, 2011


So. I just checked Twitter and I’m back down to 26 Followers. I don’t know why, but this Twitter phenomenon bewilders me. Fascinates me as well. Over the last three days, my Follower list is a plus nine and minus ten, which brings me from 27 back to 26.

Maybe I need to talk to Streaker Jones about it. He’s smart enough to figure anything out. I just need to find the logic to convince him it’s worth thinking about. Might need to find that logic for myself.

Anyway, my ADHD has been on the fritz and I’ve been fucking things up right and left. I served under-cooked grilled chicken at supper, left the door to Gram’s mushroom pantry unlocked, and I accidentally mentioned another woman’s name during sex with SAC Ellen.

Since I got food poisoning from chicken down to Florida last week, my own nose saved the family from making them all sick. My mental lapse with my grandmother’s hallucinogenic mushroom farming activities went unpunished as I caught Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry as they were about to sneak inside. My pig and ostrich are gluttons for Gram’s potions. My Gram is ready to roast my favorite barnyard animals on a spit.

Calling SAC Ellen “Reckmonster” was, however, an error with consequences. “That’s it, Mooner,” SAC Ellen told me. “Get off me so I can get dressed.”

“It was an honest mistake,” I tried. “I’ve so much on my mind, what with my book and catching up on my bloggie reading and all of that other shit.”

“Mooner, I put up with a great deal to have a relationship with you. But I won’t tolerate your lack of concentration during sex. I said get off me.”

I tried one last tactic to save the night. “Want me to suck on your toes?” She loves me to suck on her toes. Not my favorite thing to do, but I was willing to give one for the team. Her answer was to roll me off of her on the bed and flip me onto the floor.

“Ooomph,” was all I got out as my back hit the floor. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because you don’t listen. Now take me home.”

I listened to that, and when I got back to the ranch was when I caught Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry sneaking into Gram’s mushroom parlor. Which reminds me. Whenever I say, “FUCK RICK PERRY,” I am referring to the fuckball that is our governor and not my pet ostrich. That’s not to say that I don’t say it and mean the 350-pound gay bird, but rather I’ll specify when I’m speaking of the bird.

And that reminds me to tell you about Eighty-three the cat and the alligator. We were in Florida and watching the news, and the story about this one alligator biting the leg of an alligator rustler was on the TV. The little cat mewed something and when I asked Squirt what she said, Squirt told me, “She said she’s not afraid of a fucking alligator.”

“OK,” I started, “first off, tell that little shit to stop cussing so goddamn much. It makes me look like a bad parent. And second, tell her we can go down to the pond and let her see an alligator up close. Maybe give her a fucking reality check.”

I’m big on reality checks. When your brain is constantly processing a score of differing thoughts all at the same time, checking in with reality is a necessary endeavor. Like right now, for instance. I’m maybe three hours from finishing my book yet I’m sitting here blogging my ass off and thinking about fishing.

I promised the miniature dog and adolescent cat I’d take them fishing yesterday, and didn’t. Then, I told them we’d go today to make up for that.

Ugh. Reality can suck. Need Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

@Thank_Q Visits; 144 Characters My Ass

Saturday, May 14th, 2011


So. What the fuck is up with Twitter? Really, whatinthefuck is up with those guys? I got back from my trip to find that my Followers dealie has swelled to twenty-seven faithful while I was gone. As you know, having twenty-seven Followers for me is like other people having 4,000.

I seem to attract Followers like honey to bees because they sign-up to follow me like lemmings. They swarm in by the thousands, suck my nectar, and then swarm away. Just like undercooked spaghetti, most of what hits the wall comes unstuck quickly. I guess that the rest of that analogy would be that the Followers who do stick with me would have over-cooked brains. Their gray matter so mushy that it splats when it hits, and then simply dries in place.

I have a buddy, Delroy, lived next to Streaker Jones and me in college. Delroy taught me the pasta-on-the-wall trick way back then and he was quite the teacher. I’m a good pasta cooker now because of the starter course Delroy gave me back then. Learning the basics allowed me to build my pasta-cooking knowledge base.

He cooked spaghetti for entertainment as well as a teaching tool, pitching it all over his house. That boy had strings of pasta stuck on every surface in the place. When asked why, old Delroy would say, “Science. Think about it.”

Anyway, one of my new followers is @Thank_Q and that would be Quincy from over to Thank Q for Common Sense. He’s the guy with the funny pod cast dealie that the T-cat was on awhile back and he does interesting shit and stuff. I have been too busy to read his bloggie with everything going on here to Moonerland, but he has now shamed me into getting involved by Following me.

His name is Quincy, right?

I wanted to send him a “Thank-You” Twitter-mail thingie when I discovered that he had discovered me. I clicked onto the “Send Message” button, and started typing. I composed a quick message and hit “Send”.

All I got in response was a message that said, “You are allowed 144 characters… you have 1,983 characters too many.”

“What the fuck?” was my honest response.

Really, whatinthefuck is up with that shit? If I’m allowed only 144 characters, then why in the hell do I even get to waste my time typing even 145 FUCKING characters? Why let me type a novel if I’m allowed but a single fucking sentence?

Obviously, nobody at Twitter Home Office has the ADHD, or even its little brother, ADD. If they did, this particular glitch in their programs would not exist. If I only get 144 characters, then only give me 144.

Computer geek fuckbrains. I need a Carta Blanca beer. But maybe I should have some coffee and breakfast first. Then I’ll take a cooler with us to go fishing. I promised the Squirt and Eighty-three, the cat, that we’d go fishing.

Next time I post, remind me to tell you about Eighty-three and the alligator.

Manana, y’all.  And FUCK RICK PERRY!

We’re Back, I’ll Visit Friends This Weekend

Friday, May 13th, 2011


So. I worn out, but I’m home. Home, sweet home. The trip to Florida to visit family was a success– no arrests, no serious injuries and everybody made it back alive.

Making it back alive was a precarious perch for old Cecil, my Gram’s boyfriend of the week. Seems Cecil suffers from low blood pressure, the result I think from spending the entire week heavily dosed with Viagra and Gram’s hallucinogenic potions. Tuesday Gram asked me if I would go to the drug store and get her a case of Ace Bandages.

“Why do you need a case of bandages?” I asked.

“Nonna yer bees wax, Mooner. Jist git um fer me,” was her reply.

“Gram…” I asked. “Have you hurt Cecil?” I hesitate to take family vacations for just this sort of reason. This one time I took everybody down to Brazil to celebrate something or another, and Gram and the P-cubed got arrested and thrown in jail. It cost me the equivalent of $20,000 to pay their fines and another $15,000 to repair their hotel room.

The snotty-nosed hotel manager tells me, he says, “Mr. Johnson…” Wait, OK, and let me stop here and say this. I don’t like the Portuguese language– never have and likely never will. I love Portugal, hate their bastardized Spanish dialect. Speak fucking Spanish for shitsakes, and drop that guttural bullshit.

Anyway, the manager says in this snotty, upturned-nose affected Portuguese-accented English, “Mr. Johnson, this is not a brothel for old women.”

Was for the four nights before the two Texas sex pistols got arrested.

But the Ace Bandages were used as a way to help Cecil maintain maximum performance for Gram. When I told her I’d get the bandages only if I knew their purpose Gram said, “Gonna wrap Cecil up real tight, Mooner. Squeeze him tight an push tha blood down ta his pecker.”

My guess was it the science behind the bandages was was like when most of the air leaks out of a balloon, and you pinch off some of it and then squeeze all the air to the end. You pinch and squeeze and all of a sudden all of the air ends up in a bulb shape at the tip of the balloon.

Which reminds me of something. I don’t especially like Florida. Too hot, too flat, too monotonous and too many hillbillies. I’ve got family there and I worry that the hillbilly stuff might be contagious.

In fact, the only thing I enjoy other than my family when I go down there, is how it helps me feel better about my own state. We’ve got ourselves some serious carriers of the dumb ass gene in Texas, but folks let me assure you that Florida has Texas beat all to hell. Take this one example and you’ll see what I mean.

Tuesday’s evening news had the following feature stories:

  1. The Casey Anthony trial has started jury selection. That’s the woman who chloroformed her daughter to sleep so she could go clubbing, killed the baby, etc.
  2. The woman who shot her two kids on the way to school because they were hard to manage was getting arraigned.
  3. A middle school art teacher, a 64-year old woman, was arrested for punching a girl student.
  4. A professional alligator hunter was bitten and hospitalized. The offending gator was an eight-footer, not really a serious threat to a pro. Oh, yea, and it was all caught on film by a lady from Michigan.
  5. A woman gets convicted of hiring a killer to take out her husband.
  6. A county deputy is arrested for having sex with underage girl.


Those are the ones I remember. Thanks Florida.

Anyway, we made it back. I tired and going to bed, but I’ve got some stories to tell you. Stock up on Carta Blanca beer because you’ll need it. Manana, y’all.

Kate Middleton, Osama bin Laden, Chelsea Handler Camel Toe Take A Vacation

Friday, May 6th, 2011


So. Now that I have your attention…

We are going on vacation. I decided to leave early, and the tour bus pulls out at 6 pm tonight. I told the crew that the bus leaves at 6-sharp, so be there or be left behind. It’s now 6 am, and Gram is already packed and sitting on the front porch with her old geezer-in-a-wheelchair.

“We ain’t missin this this wagon train, Mooner. Ole Cecil here, well he’s never been ta Florida.”

When I asked ole Cecil if going to Florida was on his bucket list, all I got was a wheeze of phlegmy breath and a look of stark-eyed terror. I then asked Gram if Cecil had some back-up oxygen bottles for the clear-tubed contraption that snaked around his head, and she told me, she said, “That ain’t my worry, Mooner. Nurse Judy– she’s the oxigeen an tha diaper lady. Me, I got tha Viagri anna toys.”

When she said the part about the toys, she patted a big Samsonite suitcase at her side. I got her that case in 1978 when she and Grandpa took an anniversary trip to Mexico. It is one of those big turtle jobbies with the indestructible sides, and large enough to carry half the books in the Library of Congress.

And also, it appears, large enough for a week’s-worth of my grandmother’s sex toys.

Mother has stocked the refrigerator on the bus with sandwich fixings, there’s ten cases of Carta Blanca beer in iced coolers (twenty more in the underneath storage dealie), and maybe two-hundred pounds of assorted varieties of tomatoes from the garden. There’s a bunch of other stuff but I don’t really give a rat’s ass about anything save my beer, my tomatoes and making sure that we have enough toilet paper.

Anyway, Aloha for a week.

Manana de la manana de la manana de la manana de la manana de la manana de la manana, y’all.

Vacation Preparations, A Johnson Family Enterprise

Thursday, May 5th, 2011


So. I’m busy getting ready for my trip for vacation and a conundrum popped up right in my face. Who do I take with me? I have managed to collect quite a menagerie of inappropriate animals and they all want to go on vacation with me.

Usually, that’s not such a big deal because I usually drive when vacationing in the contiguous forty-eight. But this trip is too short to drive 4,000 miles round trip, so I was flying. As recently as a year ago, even taking my favorite animals wasn’t burdensome. Dixie has always been a good flier, as long as I seat her in the First Class cabin, and Squirt is happy doing most anything in my company. Except for Dixie’s smart mouth, she is fun on a trip, and the Squirt is such a trip that she is always fun.

When I planned for this year’s short vacation, I included Squirt but no other animals. Plans were made several months ago when my life was far more simple. Simpler? I think things were simpler. But last night we had a big gathering at dinner and Dixie decided to grace me with her presence.

“Well, well and well again,” I said, “to what do we owe the pleasure of your appearance at tonight’s meager family repost?” I hadn’t seen my ungrateful Golden Retriever for several weeks. She had told me she retired from my employment and had grown tired of me.

“Oh, I just stopped by to visit with the ladies of the manor, and they invited me to stay for dinner.”

Bitch. Dixie can be such a bitch.

I was staring hard at her face, searching for anything to give me traction for a smart comeback, when I noticed that her muzzle hair has gone to total gray, and her face seems to be thin, bony. I realized that Dixie has gotten old and I started tearing up. Big, hot tears seemed to jump from my eyes as the realization that age had finally caught up with the most wonderful dog who ever lived.

OK, stop it Mooner. Now is not the time for that.

This is a vacation story, and I was about to tell you that my plans to take the Squirt with me on a short trip. When Dixie heard about the trip she started bitching, and then all hell broke loose. So now, and due to familial devotions, the passenger list has grown to include: me (myself?), Squirt, Dixie, Eighty-three, Rush Limbaugh the pig, the ostrich Rick Perry, Gram and her best buddy P-cubed, SAC Ellen and Streaker Jones.

I just made arrangements to hire a tour bus with two drivers to haul this bunch on our trip, and Mother has taken the assignment to stock the coffers with food and beverage for the trip. Two drivers so we can drive straight through, and Mother because she insisted. When she offered the help, I asked her, “Why are you doing that, Mother, we can handle it.”

“I’m so glad to be rid of your grandmother I’d do most anything to help her out the door. Do you know she brought home some old man from a retirement facility?”

“I heard something about that, Mother.” You must be patient with Mother. Her brand of martyrdom needs simmer time to properly age. Would that be martyrism?

I waited a few beats before saying, “Was there something especially wrong with Gram bedding an old geezer? You seem stressed.”

After a few more beats, “Well, Mooner, did you know that poor man had to bring his own nurse and oxygen tanks?” Two, three and four, “What if he’d died while Gram had him chained to the wall?”

I started to say something that would sound supportive to a martyr when Mother found the words to support herself. “I’ll be miserable here all by myself, but cold loneliness is far better than the worry that your grandmother is going to sex some poor man to death in the bedroom just down the hall from my own.”

Ugh. Sounds like the passenger list just grew by one old geezer and attending nurse. I need a Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

Hey Dougie At @DollarsAsAmmo; If You Don’t Have A Cat Name– Go Away

Wednesday, May 4th, 2011


So. I just checked and discovered I’m back up to 25 Twitter followers. I usually don’t investigate a new follower until they have spent a month on my list, but the name of this one caught my attention. This guy is @DollarsAsAmmo.

I clicked onto his account and here is his profile:

“Promoter of organizations/ppl supporting conservative values, getting them name-recognition w/ our RT’s and mentions– b/c the friendlies deserve our attn & $$!”

I also took some time to read a few of the little fuckwad’s tweets, and they were precisely what was expected. One mention after another of Fox News, Fred Thompson, and the rest. A treasure trove of conservative tweets, and blogs and websites.

I am sure that somewhere someone is doing the same for the liberal cause. Some left-wing bozo spends his days banging away at his keyboard twitting away about Louis Black and Squatlo and such. Maybe there is a need filled by this kind of research machinery, but why in the fuck is this guy following me?

Hey, @DollarsAsAmmo– go the fuck away. I have seen what you support and I don’t like you. Please do not tweet about me or refer your brain-dead followers to my site. Just go the fuck away.

Thank you for listening.

Anyway, the contest for a new name for the cat known as Eighty-three (not 83!) is off to a slow start. Everyone is full of free advice for how to name a fucking cat, but nobody has provided the basic kindness that would be to give an actual suggestion. Maybe I’ll just let the cat name her own damn self.

OK, wait a minute. DollarsAsAmmo? What kind of aggressive goddamn name is that? Hey, Doug_Ray, why was it required that you put a violent stamp on your Twitter name? Why not DollarsAsSupport or DollarsAsName-Recognition?

As a liberal nut job, my guess is that you want to appeal to the vast base of violence-as-a-first-choice conservatives. My pinko-commie logic points to the simple fact that you might be as simple-minded as a typical teabagger. Dougie, did you support those numbskulls in Florida who burned the Koran? Your brain manage to find the justification for bombing the Federal Building in Oklahoma City?


Back to the cat. She likes to shower, loves sardines and will eat anything that I put on my plate, and, “Yes, Squatlo, she even ate asparagus that was oven-roasted.” Eighty-three has shown a bright mind, a desire to learn and extreme hatred for anything rodent, or rodent-like. A Disney World commercial came on the TV last night and she attacked the TV screen with an amazing vengeance.

When the image of Mickey Mouse left the screen and she returned to her perch on the back of my chair, she was muttering.

“What did she say?” I asked Squirt, who perches in my lap.

“She said, ‘Fucking rat!’”

I spent some time looking at cats on the I-net, and, if I must say so myself, she’s an attractive specimen. Long body, slim waist, large almond-shaped eyes, brown mask dealie that makes her look like Halle Berry as Cat Woman.

What else can I tell you? What more information do you need to help me rename her? I need Carta Blanca beer and it’s not yet 9am. Please help me name this fucking cat.

Manana, y’all.  And FUCK RICK PERRY!

Name That Cat; A Scratchy Old Record

Tuesday, May 3rd, 2011


So. I’m flummoxed with the news that Osama bin Laden is dead. Or that Usama bin Ladin is dead. However the hell you spell it, that lousy fucker is dead. I’m glad, no doubt about it, but I’m perplexed at how I feel about it.

I’m too busy to think about it, so let’s talk about other stuff. First, a check on my Twitter account finds me back down to 24 Followers. That’s would mean that over the last week six new people have signed up to follow me, and seven have pushed the “Un-follow” button. I remain dazed and confused, and these actions add to both.

I’m Following 65 Twitter accounts. Most are literary in nature, part of my efforts to learn more about publishing. Since punching the Follow button on the lit people almost a year ago, I have only added a handful of accounts, and all of the new ones are fellow bloggers I chose to follow.

Nobody ever Tweets about me so I’m unsure why I’m even on Twitter. Maybe things will happen there after my book is out.

Second, I have a cat in my life, and for the first time in my life. Having never been around a cat for anything other than brief periods of time, I have found myself totally unprepared for cat fatherhood. OK, since this is to be Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s cat, I’m actually more like a step father-in-law. But the good doctor won’t accept the fucking cat, as full payment of our agreement for Squirt to be my actual puppy, until I train said fucking cat.

Have you ever tried to train a cat? Have you ever tried to train a fucking cat who spent its first nine months living with a crazy cat lady in Cat Lady Prison? Prison life is not good socialization training.

There is one bright spot from my cat training endeavors. I called the Research Department over to If You Can’t Smoke It, Wear It and asked Billy to start thinking about making a hemp cloth that is cat scratch resistant. Eighty-three has shredded a half-dozen shirts, two pairs of shorts and Gram’s fire engine red thong bikini in her short stay. She’ll be hiding in the closet with my gay pig and his ostrich lover if she get hold of more of Gram’s prized outfits.

Speaking of Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry, said pig and ostrich, I want to say, “Fuck Texas Governor Rick ‘Education Is A Terrible Thing To Learn’ Perry.” The idiocies that are Rick Perry are a terrible burden on my state.

Third, or maybe this should be second-and-a-half, we have got to rename the cat. I’ve never named a cat and it has turned out to be a difficult task. My first idea was to name her Stinky, which is what she was when we first got adopted by her. But now she smells pretty good, and thank God she likes to take a shower.

She showers with the Squirt and me each morning as a part of her training. I use the time under the water spray to bond with her and as part of teaching her to pee in the sink. In less than a week I’ve got her peeing in the shower, Squirt providing the instructions. Squirt pees almost like a male dog, raising one back leg as she urinates. But she raises it forward, not the hike backward that a boy dog does.

Squirt is a seriously cute little shit.

“Squat when you pee, Squirt, like a regular girl dog,” I tried to tell her. “I read where cats squat, and she needs to know she’s a cat.”

“Hey, big boy, I don’t tell you how to pee,” Squirt said, “so leave me to this training.”

Of course, she’s right, I do muddle in the business of others. And now Eighty-three pees like a male dog, except she lifts her back leg forwards.

I’ve only tried to get her to pee in the sink the one time. Disaster. Everything was fine– she was squatting at the edge of the sink and ready to roll. I had the bright idea to hold a hand mirror to her backside so she could see what was up. That would be the specific moment that the fifth shirt was shredded. The first time a cat looks in a mirror should not be looking at its own ass draped over the edge of a sink.

But I need help with this name dealie. I’ve got no frame of reference, no understanding of cats. I thought to name her Carta Blanca, but she told Squirt that she’s a Siamese, not a Mexican. Since what was Siam is now Thailand, I thought that maybe Pad Thai would fit.

“How about we call you Pad Thai?” I suggested. Stupid fucking cat spit at me and shredded my shirt. I guess food and drink names are not her plate of tacos, or her cup of tea.

She’s got many ill-humored bad habits that set my teeth on edge. But she makes up for it when she purrs. Melts my heart when she does that kneading thingie and purrs. She sits on my chest beside the Squirt, massaging my chest with her front paws, purring like a machine. Very calming.

Maybe we can do a contest here to the bloggie. Name the cat and get a free autographed copy of my soon-to-be-published book, Full Rising Mooner.

Which reminds me. I will be out of touch from this Saturday until next Saturday. Heading down to Florida to visit family. I hate fucking Florida, but I love my family. Manana, y’all.

Cat Scratch Fever; WTF Kind Of Name Is Eighty-three?

Monday, May 2nd, 2011


So. To catch you up on things, Squirt and I were abducted by a cat who participated in a massive escape from Cat Lady Prison, located over to East 51st Street. One of about one hundred fleeing feline inmates who fled the unbearable conditions, the little Siamese, named Eighty-three, jumped into the open window of my classic GTO and hid for her escape.

Somehow the cat lady, warden of Cat Lady Prison, had managed to know that Eighty-three had taken off with us and called the cops.

“You got a cat in there sir? We had a report that a man matching your description just stole a cat from over on East 51st Street,” were the first words the Deputy Sheriff said when he walked up to my window.

Eighty-three was sitting in my lap at the time, so even if I wanted to lie I was caught red-handed. Have you ever wondered where that expression “caught red-handed” came from? My best guess is that someone stole a chicken from a pot and their hands were red and scalded from the water. That or it’s a Billy Shakespeare dealie and it refers to bloody hands. Not that it makes a shit in the bigger scheme of things, but I was just wondering.

Like for instance, who was the first person to say, “What the fuck?” and why did they say it, you know what was their meaning. I remember when I said what the fuck the first time and I also remember the five swats the utterance brought from the assistant principal back to junior high. We were in Mrs. Browningwell’s class and that old Baptist gasbag said something stupid, and…

Anyway, the cat in my lap bristled at the officer’s words– back arched, hair standing up like she’d seen a ghost, and I felt each of the twenty pinpricks made by her claws as she anchored herself on my thighs.

I said, “Officer, I didn’t steal this cat. She stowed away to escape Cat Lady Prison.”

“This isn’t the first time that funny looking cat with no tail has pulled this stunt. It ain’t right a cat’s got no tail…” the deputy stopped mid-sentence, lifted his sunglasses and peered in at my face. “Oh for the love of God. You’re Mooner Johnson, aren’t you?”

“Why yes indeed, that’s my name. The cat in my lap says she’s called Eighty-three, and that cute little lump over there is the Squirt. You want my autograph?” I guess I’m gaining fame in law enforcement circles. “Just don’t Taser me until I call my girlfriend. She’ll want to be there to bail me out.”

Of course she’ll be pissed at having to leave work again, but pleased with her rewards. Every time I get Tasered I get a woodie to beat all get-out.

“I might shoot you, Mr. Johnson, but I won’t Taser you. I heard the stories about trying to get you into a straight jacket after shocking you. I want no part of that.”

It’s difficult to fit a 6”4” man into a straight jacket just for starters. His possessing a rock-hard stiffy adds layers of difficulty to the task.

“Look,” he said, “just hand the cat to me and I’ll return it to its owner.” With that said he reached into the window for the cat. Major fucking error in judgment.

Eighty-three hissed and spit when the officer’s hands approached her, and when he grabbed at her all hell broke loose. In a blur of cat fur and claws, a cacophony of spits and hisses and cat growls, and an, “Aiiiiiiii,” from the deputy, I witnessed the four-second shredding of a sheriff’s uniform. By the time he managed to extract his arms from the car, the sleeves of his shirt were tattered shreds of deep brown wool.

“Sonofabitch!” was all he could say.

“Holy shit, did you see that?” was the Squirt’s response.

After I got over the shock and surprise, I started laughing. Couldn’t help it. And, of course, my giggles started the Squirt. She and I laugh like little girls sometimes. We can be most inappropriate, like when Gram spilled gravy on her date’s lap and she starts cleaning it off at the table. I guess it was contagious because soon Eighty-three was laughing as well.

At least I think she was laughing. If a cat laugh sounds like a mix of hiccups, purrs and snorts, then the smelly little feline was laughing right along with us.

When I managed to get my giggles under control, I realized that the deputy was gone from my window. I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw him in his car. I stuck my head out the window to get a better look and that’s when he gave me that “shoo, go away” thingie with his hand. Made the gesture, repeatedly and with high energy. The shredded sleeve of his shirt looked like Hula skirt.

That particular moment is when my ADHD decided to seize control of events.

“Holy shit you stink; how you bathe a cat; what do we feed you; I hope Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson like imported cats; I need sex; will Eighty-three get along with Gram; I’m not cleaning a fucking cat box; do cats shed; I bet sardine shit make a terrible mess; can cat’s swim– what if cats can’t swim…” The jumbled thoughts spilled out of my mouth.

“Squirt. Ask Eighty-three if she can swim. And ask can she pee in the sink. If she can pee in the sink it will solve a bunch of problems for me.”

The puppy and kitty cat spoke in whispered tones. “She says she can learn to do anything, that as long as she feels respected and appreciated, she won’t any trouble at all.”

Ugh. That was the worst thing I could have heard. Every woman in my life has said those same words to me. I somehow manage to live my life in the attempt to show respect and demonstrate my gratitude to those women and all I get in return are giant loads of crap. The Squirt is the only woman currently in my life who doesn’t hassle my ass.

“Tell her respect is a two-way street, Squirt. Tell her she’s entering a world filled with strong, bitchy women.”

Squirt cocked her head and stared at me. “Qui estes-vous appeler une chienne, Senor Mooner. Are you calling ME a bitch?”

“Oh for shit sakes, of course not. Look, we need to get out of here and back to the ranch. Eighty-three needs a bath and I need a cold Carta Blanca beer.”

The cat stiffened in my lap again and said something to Squirt.

“She said if you think she’s taking a bath you better rethink things. She says cats don’t take bathes, they clean themselves, and thank you.”

Ugh, and ugh again. The bitchiness begins.

“Well,” I told them, “tell little miss stink bomb to get in the floor board at your feet so she’s safe. And tell her to get busy with her self-cleaning routine as we drive.”

I decided to give the cat a chance to do it herself. If not, I’d bathe her when we got home. Then I started ADHD’ing again. “What the fuck kind of name is Eighty-three; we need to rename you; I need sex; how do you bathe a fucking cat; will Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh get along with the cat; it isn’t natural for a cat to not have a tail; wouldn’t it be nice to have a fresh-plucked tomato from the garden with my beer…”

Manana, y’all.