Archive for June, 2011

Rotary Phone Crybaby; Rick Perry Still A Prick

Thursday, June 30th, 2011


So. The Texas state legislature has finally determined that they can do no more harm than already done, and they have adjourned. I’m unsure those silly fuckers left anything unharmed in their most recent attacks on the citizens of Texas.

They gutted our schools, hospitals and social support services. They forced their errant, ignorant Christian values down womens’ throats and stole more of the human rights we all deserve. They “balanced the state budget” in an act the great Houdini would applaud by minimizing the actual shortfall, cutting education and social spending, and pushing the problem into the future.

Cynic that I am, I’m convinced that this is a calculated move by the political machine that is Prick Perry. I think he believes he will reside in the White House in two years and our state’s future will be his distant memory. My feelings are that he did everything this legislative session he could to make himself look good to his fan base of right-wing religious fuckballs, and did so at the expense of the infrastructure of my great state.

Fuck Rick Perry.

Last week I tried to tell you about when we went over to mow the grass over to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s place. Since we’ll be headed to mow again manana, I remembered that I forgot to finish my story. Manana is Spanish for “tomorrow”, so that means that we are mowing the grass again Friday morning.

Oh for shit sakes. Manana means tomorrow but it also means “in the morning,” or “morning.” So, what I should have said is that we are going over to Sammie’s place to mow, “Manana en la manana.”

That would accurately state that we are going to mow “tomorrow morning,” or, “tomorrow in the morning.” I always attempt precision and accuracy when I write to you, a positive trait that has had significant negative impact on me. One of those dealies wherein a person gets punished for doing good deeds.

Like when that ungrateful fucking skunk squirted me after I saved his entire family’s lives from drowning the week-before-last. Rotten little shitball. Judging from the progress made to-date, I’m still a week away from any sexing. Every time my body temperature rises I exude eau d’ skunk from my ass regions. SAC Ellen hates skunk smell and refuses me her charms until I can sweat nothing but eau d’ Mooner.

Anyway, the Squirt and Honor the cat went with me to mow the grass last week, and when we got there none of the rechargeable lawn equipment had full charges in their batteries. It had been so long since I had to mow, a blown circuit breaker in the garage had gone unnoticed.

I keep an old fashioned reel push mower over there for just such a circumstance. It is a well-oiled machine with razor-sharp blades. I have this buddy who owns a knife shop and he sharpens all of my blades. So, we reset the circuit breaker to charge the equipment for future usages, and took the push mower out of its protective cover.

This mower is the first lawn mower I ever had. Grandpa bought it for me at a yard sale when we were visiting my cousins up to Amarillo, and we had to dismantle it to fit it in the trunk of the car to get it back to Austin. I had been bitching about not having any spending money so my grandfather was going to get me started in the lawn mowing business.

That’s how I got my first taste of entrepreneurship. “Mooner Mows Grass” was the name, and grass cutting was my game. Daddy would drop me off of a morning in old west Austin with the mower, a canteen of water and a lunch bag. I’d knock on doors, sell my services and mow grass until Daddy found me later in the day.

Since my father had my same ADHD, I wasn’t always gathered-up promptly. It often took a late night call to the ranch, made from some concerned citizen’s rotary phone, to arrange the pick up.

Remember when everyone had rotary phones and every phone sat on a table or a counter?

Ugh, I’ve got tears in my eyes. I’m fucking nostalgic for rotary phones. I’m starting to get weepy-eyed over a fucking antique communication device.

I did love them though. The way they felt as you dragged your finger around the dial to wind-up the numbers of the person you called, and then the noise it made as it self-unwinded. Self unwounded? And we all had phone numbers that were interchanges plus numbers and no Area Codes. Our old number was Drake-44527. The first two numbers were the “D” and the “r”.

For the love of God, now I’m weeping. I need professional help. And a cold Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, Y’all. (Maybe manana en la manana)

Stop Lying To Us Governor Rick Perry

Tuesday, June 28th, 2011


So. The right-wing Christian puppet known as Texas Governor Rick “We Don’t Need No Education” Perry had a big meeting yesterday with The Billionaire Boys’ Club yesterday to, as stated by one Perry advisor, “Discuss why Texas has such a great business climate. This had nothing to do with fund raising for a presidential run.”

OK, first of all, stop fucking lying about every fucking thing. Politicians only attend meetings sponsored by the Koch brothers while holding both hands out to the conservative cash cows that are the Koch brothers. I’m not doing all the back story on the Koch assholes, that’s all available over to Squatlo Rant (link provided here yesterday). Just stop lying about stupid shit. Even you guys should be above that.

Then for seconds, when is someone on the national scene going to call Rick Perry’s great Texas business climate what it really is? What that little prick has done is induce as many greedy corporations to our state as possible using cash payments paid for by the citizens of our once-great state. Big companies don’t like to pay for the state infrastructure needed to support them and our boy Prick Perry has a way to accommodate them.

The cash payments come in the form of tax credits and abatements, employee training stipends and favorable zoning and environmental exclusions. Major corporations and their big salaried bosses love Texas because we have no personal income tax and no effective corporate taxation. In Texas, we raise the money to pay for our infrastructure and social support systems with property taxes– the same taxes these corporations are not required to pay when they relocate here.

Effectively, these moves to Texas allow the big shakers to move from a state where they are required to pay their fair share of the burden of running the state, to a state where our governor wants to be president so badly that he’ll mortgage his own state’s future to get there.

There is no free lunch, brothers and sisters, and Rick Perry’s plan for success has a huge fucking price. The price, comprising only those damages known at this date, exceeds $26 billion. Twenty… Six… Billion… Fucking… Dollars! That would be the acknowledged budget shortfall in the state treasuries due to Perry’s “sound” business practices. The good citizens of Texas pay for these greedy businessmen to lunch on our dimes.

We cut our school budgets to support Perry’s idiotic practices and, effectively, I feel the Prickster needs to show the $26 billion as a political contribution. Effectively, Rick Perry has used the state treasury for his political ambitions.


Which reminds me. I’m seriously thinking about starting up the Pump Da Hump body image studios. Response has been so strong that I think this one has legs. I’m looking for capital partners. Since we’ll headquartered in Texas, I think we can garner some significant tax abatements to get us to do things here. Maybe I’ll limit things to the first twenty-five applicants.

Wait, I forgot my original hypothesis from when I first started this. I think what has happened is that politicians have lied to us so much, we have become a desensitized society. Like the little guy who gets gang-raped in prison and can’t tell the difference between the ninth rapist and the nineteenth, I think we have gotten into some sort of Stockholm Syndrome.

Ugh. I need some sex and I need it bad. I though I was ready but we went to the big garden to collect stuff for the Food Bank and the sweaty efforts started my ass to smelling like a skunk again. Until I can sweat without issuing ode d’ skunk, I get no poontang from the SACster.

Thank God for Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

Not A Kate Middleton Sarah Palin Kathy Griffin Chelsea Handler or Queen Elizabeth Camel Toe Story

Monday, June 27th, 2011


So. I have got to stop looking at the statistics-gathering devices attached to my bloggie. As I do every night before laying me (myself?) down to to sleep, I logged-on to my Admin dealie to the bloggie to see what’s up on Mooner I-Land. That’s when I check comments (always), see where my visitors live (usually), and look at top searches and top views (rarely).

When I first opened this book on the I-net, I looked at all of my statistical shit multiple times per day. In the beginning, my visitor counts read “Zero” and my visitor locations said “Nowhere.” It took quite a while for me to be found by anybody, which was no surprise to me, but once I was found– I was found.

What found me was that first bloggie posting about camel toes. You know, the one when I was over to the Sprouts Farmers’ Market and the lady smuggled her camel into the store beneath tight Lycra workout shorts. My mouth waters every time I think of those moments.

Which reminds me. Go over to Squatlo Rant at and check the posting he did last week called “Japanese Bagelheads”. It’s a story about how you use saline solution to make temporary bulges on your face. Squat has a bunch of pics to show how it works and I, of course, started wondering why not use the method to plump-up naturally deflated camel toes.

Then I, again of course, started to think of the business opportunities and created a concept for a chain of salons we’d call “Plump Da Hump”, or maybe “Pooch-Up Your Pachyderm”. We could offer services to add pocket meat volumes to both sexes– it’s almost like a Public Service kind of thingie.

We could pump-up poor Renee Zellweger to look like she’s packing the same poochies that Chelsea Handler’s camel toe so proudly displays. We could even name all of our services after the level of plumping and, holy shit I’ve had another idea– we can also do be-jeweling or whateverthefuck you call those colored adornments. And henna tattoos too!

OK, what about this. The Chealsea Handler Camel Toe would be a medium plump with a bull’s eye be-jeweled around the targeted area. Then, the Kathy Griffin Camel Tow would be slightly fuller on the one side and we’d be-jewel arrows pointing to the toe and then place the words “Suck It” above the arrows and just at the top of the bikini line.

We could do a Kate Middleton Camel Toe where we be-jewel a crown over a tastefully engorged pubic mound. That one would be a huge seller around the entire fucking globe.

Oh, and we could do waxing and dying too, you know, provide a broad base of year-round services. We could do holiday specials and dress a lady’s nether regions to look like a Christmas package with bows and cards that have the “To: and From:” dealies as additional-charge add-ons. We could serve Carta Blanca beer and wine and Margaritas as complimentary refreshments.

And we could have a skincare line of products. And everything would be organic and as green oriented as possible.

The men’s product line could possibly be as extensive as the womens’. My philosophical inspiration for the men’s line is that African tribal culture that does adornments of their penises, the Beja. The Beja are a nomadic bunch who adorn their peckers for both beauty and pleasure.

Holy shit, could that be where they got the name for be-jeweling, from the Beja’s? If so, they better be paying a royalty. I hate when people steal a person’s idea and don’t pay for it.

Doing male pecker enhancements is an idea that’s been stewing in the cauldron of my brain for many years. I, Mooner Johnson, have had such a male enhancement since childhood when, as the result of an accident, my pecker was mangled and mauled and…

Can’t talk about my accidental pecker adornment since that story is in the fucking book, and holy shit has my ADHD digressed us all over the fucking place.

What I started to say is that last night I read my bloggie statistical info only to rediscover that the main searches used to find me, second only to searches for “Mooner Johnson”, were those for “camel toes.” Why I wanted to tell you that bit of drivel is, therefore, to additionally say that each time I discover that info I have a dream about camel toes, which I then tell you, and thereforemore, the telling to you restarts and rejuvenates the camel toe search bias.

I’m unsure if this is a Catch-22 dealie or one of those circle jerks. Either way, I read the stats and then dream a camel toe dream then write a camel toe story and then read the stats, and so on. It’s no fucking wonder I’m nuts.

But imagine this, if you will, for I find a small measure of joy in it. There’s this sixteen-year-old sitting in his tiny closet-sized room in Mongolia, or some fucking place. He’s got his special sock, all clean and fluffed with Downey fabric softener, at his side. The family is asleep so he fires up his laptop and punches in “Sarah Palin camel toe” in hopes of obtaining images that will inspire him to a steamy climax.

And up pops my site! Hoo-yah!

Drink Carta Blanca beer and I’ll see you manana, y’all.

Mooner Loses Quote; Cordless Tools Best

Sunday, June 26th, 2011


So. As an offset to the many positive benefits of our recent rainfall, grass grows. Specifically, the grass over to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s house grows. As an offset to the many benefits I receive from my steadfast ecological sensibilities, the grass over to Dr. Sam’s house grows.

The only benefit I have gained from us having the drought has been that I don’t have to mow the grass over there. I mow the grass over there because I was unable to find an ecologically sound landscape service to do it for her.

OK, that was a lie. What I should have said is, I couldn’t find an ecologically sound landscape service to care for Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s yard who would work under my direct supervision. I did find several who gave it a shot, but none of those guys had any sticking power. It isn’t like I’m all that difficult to work with– I don’t have that many conditions that a landscape contractor should feel compelled to quit in mid-mow.


I’m simply quite conscientious. And compulsive. And impulsive, maybe somewhat. And I would guess that I’m sometimes intrusive.

But that’s all Gnat’s fault. My trusty assistant deals with most all of my assisting duties but there are several areas she refuses me her assistances. One is food shopping, where I’m glad to make my way in the world without her inconsiderations. When I send you to the store with instructions to get me sea salt and I specify “Sel Gris by Le Tresor,” can you blame me for losing it when you show up with Ittica d’Or?

Can you fucking blame me? I request, with careful specificities, a particular kind of salt, sea; I spell the name, correctly, in legible print on the grocery list; I even explain the whys and wherefores which underscore my needs for this exact fucking sea salt. I even told her where, on the sea salt section of the condiments aisle over to the Whole Foods, my prized, hand-harvested (using ancient Celtic methods) gray salt was last seen.

I even showed her the now-emptied tin she was shopping to replace.

You can’t convince me that Gnat bought the wrong imported European gray hand-harvested sea salt by accident. “This one was $8.00 per ounce less, Mooner, and it comes in the same tin, for shit sakes,” was Gnat’s feeble defense.

Anyway, since it rained, I loaded the cat and dog into my old GTO and we left the ranch at 6:30 and headed over to Sammie’s place to mow the lawn. I don’t harbor gasoline-powered lawn equipment, so one side of her garage holds an array of electric tools as they recharge between my uses. I’m very glad that all of the old-fashioned power cord energized tools have worn out. Some of my angriest fistfights with inanimate objects were with tools bearing power cords.

Actually, the marquis (in the plural, howeverthefuck you spell that one) would have read something like, “Mooner Johnson VS The 100-Foot Stanly Orange Cord… Man Versus Tripwire III.” It was always the fucking power cords that started the fisticuffs. Not that I kept records, but I’m eight and five against all cords of 75-feet or longer. I go nine and one on the shorter guys.

So, since Gnat won’t assist me out of my grass-mowing miseries, I go mow Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s grass as needed.

And whatthefuck is this? I’ll put parenthesis around it… (“) There it is, can you see that little fucker? I have somehow managed to become infected with an errant quote mark thingie. I keep deleting it and it keeps popping up again. Watch this. I’ll delete it and you’ll see… Gone, for now.

When we got over to Sammie’s to mow the lawn, we discovered that she had just watered her entire fucking landscape. Since you NEVER mow wet grass, we couldn’t perform out appointed task. As we were already there, we decided to clean the swimming pool and check to see if all the skunk damage had cleared up. This is the same pool in which the three of us, Squirt Honor the cat and me (myself) were sprayed with skunk venom awhile back.

OK, wait. We weren’t “in” the pool, we were beside it. The family of nearly-drowned and terribly ungrateful fucking skunks was “in” the pool.

I’ll bet you spell it “marquises.” Or maybe it would be “marquine.” Oh for shit sakes, it could be “marqui,” like some words pluralate. And now look at this.. that thing is back. “ Do you see it?

Ugh. I wonder what I’m missing, like where is the rest of the stuff left unsaid? There’s an entire thought and the other, closing quote mark out there somewhere in my computer– lost and unsaid. What if it was the smartest thing I have ever said and now it’s lost?

Double ugh. Drink Carta Blanca beer and I’ll see you manana, y’all.

Ciscos’ Huevos Rancheros And Carta Blanca Beer; Hoo Dogies

Thursday, June 23rd, 2011


So. Since it rained stuff has started to grow here in Central Texas. I guess we’ve been under drought conditions for so long our plants have decided they live in a desert. The entire area was brown and wilted as I drove across town in Monday afternoon’s 105-degree heat. Today, I’ve got my green Austin, Texas back. Bing, bang and boom– we’re green again.

The benefits of a Nitrogen-rich rain are visible everywhere, but no place more than in our big garden. Tall plants, like sweet corn and okra, were looking like old men– stooped and tired. They now stand like proud soldiers at full attention.

All of the fruits in the garden have soaked their fill and swollen to bursting. That includes all the melons, cukes, and squashies. I took the animals down early this morning to harvest for the Food Bank. Yesterday was our usual harvest day but it was too muddy. Rush Limbaugh would have made a huge mess if I’d let him slop in the waterlogged trenches.

After dropping the bushel baskets of food off, we stopped by Ciscos over on East Cesar Chavez and I got us all huevos rancheros for breakfast. We love huevos rancheros and Ciscos makes them mighty fine. OK, since I don’t take Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh to town as a routine practice, I got Squirt and Honor the cat a similar breakfast plate to my own.

We sat on the tailgate of the farm truck and ate our eggs with a single bottle of Carta Blanca beer. Any Mexican foodstuff goes better with Carta Blanca beer, and at any time of day. La cerveza es mas fina– Cerveza Carta Blanca.

This was Honor’s first plate of the runny-egged goodness that is huevos rancheros. She was a hoot as she poked the jiggly yolks, gently prodding until the first one broke. The single dollop of bright yolk that stuck to her paw was carefully examined with kitty eyes and nose, and then, very carefully, her pink tongue edged from her mouth to barely touch it.

Thirty seconds later her plate looked like it had been through the “Heavy Wash” cycle on the commercial dishwasher back to the ranch.

This will be a short bloggie dealie because to date, today has been just that uneventful. For some reason my ADHD and its little brother, the ADD, are in some sort of remission. I know they’ll be back and back soon. Manana, y’all.

Rick Perry Almost Drowns; Mooner Takes One For The Team

Tuesday, June 21st, 2011


So. I couldn’t sleep last night and got out of bed to go to the computer to play poker. By the time I had cleared the crust from my eyes and got them focused on the monitor, I remembered that the fucking feds have shut down the poker sites to US players.

Preventing adult Americans from playing poker on the Internet is the single dumbest political act I’ve yet seen this year. OK, wait a minute because I just told a huge lie. Texas governor Rick Perry is the single dumbest political act I’ve seen in my entire life.

Overstatements aside, banning me from playing poker is really dumb. I’m over twenty-one, I pay taxes on my winnings and this is America for flaming fuck sakes! This, and because people keep “accidentally” shooting me, is why I don’t carry a gun. I’m afraid you’d find me more than willing to put myself out of miseries by popping a cap into right-wing religious fuckballs who push their brand of morality in my face. I have an intrinsic dislike for guns and I hate the loosey-goosey attitude of the gun rights bunch.

True, my main squeeze carries both a handgun and a US Government-issued electronic stunner device in the leather harness she wears to work. SAC Ellen strikes a fit figure when she’s all dressed for her work for Homeland Security. If I didn’t still smell like a skunk when I sweat, I’d be putting that stunner to good use. I needs me some sexing, or as Gram puts it, “Mooner, you need ta git ya some pong-tanger. Yer drivin’ me nutsie.”

Don’t you just love the word “poontang”? I wonder who invented that word?

I couldn’t sleep last night because we almost lost the gay ostrich when we went fishing yesterday. I had to give him mouth-to-mouth to save his life, and he beat me black and blue for my troubles.

We were fishing as usual, at least the Squirt, Honor the cat and me (myself?) were were fishing as usual, but we had the Father’s Day additions of Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry join us for the trip. The gay pig was bitching and moaning about how hot and tired he was before we even finished the walk to the fishing pier from the garden, where we had harvested some worms for bait.

He was pissed because I wouldn’t let him root around and ruin big patches of garden, and he was whining like the porked-up crybaby he is. Just like his namesake, the piggish radio pontificator, my giant hog brags about false accomplishments and whines about the successes of others. He also whines about every inconvenience he encounters. I’m so fed up with the fat, gay pig I’m ready to give him to Gram for sausage meat. If it weren’t for his lover, Rick Perry, I might just do it.

The first incident of fishing dysfunction came when I was baiting the hooks on the half-dozen cane poles we use. The 350-pound flightless bird got in close to see if the worms were screaming when I passed the hooks through them, and knocked the bait bucket on its side, spilling the worms on the wooden pier. As the little buggers wiggled and wriggled around, many of them slipped between the planks and dropped into the water.

In maybe a half-minute, the water was boiling beneath the dock as the fish fed on the earthworms. I wasn’t upset about this since I chum a little bait anyway. But when Rick Perry saw what was going on in the water, he knocked me off the little chair I use for fishing and dumped me on my ass. He wedged himself against and between the dock’s rails, bulbous body pressing into the opening and looking like a too-fat person with a too-tight belt.

His empty cantaloupe-sized head is swinging at the end of his long neck and he’s popping it underwater. I guess he thought that “fishing” was the endeavor of accidentally dropping worms into the water and then bobbing to grab the fish in your beak. He was fucking hilarious.

When the fish had eaten all the fallen worms, Rick Perry tugged and extracted himself from between the rails and sat on the pier with a thud. He must have taken a lot of water chasing fish because he sounded like someone dropped a giant water bladder. His eyes were spinning and he kept burping and swallowing. Rush Limbaugh snuggled to his side and nuzzled the big bird with his snout.

For the life of me I don’t know how I can say that Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry make a cute couple, but they do. A rude and porked-up shit machine and an empty-skulled bird brain, and cute as all get out as gay lovers.

Anyway, I got the baited hooks into the water and we started catching fish. The cat manages to get more than half our catch into the cooler without shredding them to sushi, and it’s Father’s Day and I’ve had a few beers already. The Squirt and I are laughing at Honor as she fights her instincts to drop the caught fish rather than claw it, when the pig pushes me in the back and grunts. I turned to see Rick Perry is all the way down and not breathing.

I’m quick and solid in the face of emergencies so I checked his pulse– weak, but there, and said, “Someone call 911.”

I straightened his long neck and checked Rick Perry’s airwaves. “Airway clear, I’m starting CPR.”

I like to say aloud what I’m doing in emergencies as it helps me to focus. With my ADHD my attempts at healing can take remarkable wrong turns if I don’t follow set procedures with verbal touchstones.

I placed my mouth over the end of his mouth and blew with all my might. It felt like I was attempting to inflate a rubber raft with a coffee straw. “This won’t work, guys. Help me roll him to the edge of the dock.”

We rolled the water-laden lump close to the edge and I draped his head and half of his neck over the side. “All right. I’m gonna sit on his belly and try to squeeze the water out of him.”

I did and it reminded me of when I used to play with Mother’s big rubber douche bag when I was a kid. Mother left it hanging in the shower and it absolutely fascinated me. One of these days I’ll tell you a story about when I used it this one Thanksgiving.

The water rushed out of the bird in torrents as I squeezed his belly. I was doing a little bounce and gently banging my butt on him to squeeze. We’d been at it for eleven bouncy squeezes when I heard a cough and felt Rick Perry start breathing under me. The he started moving, and as I started to get up and do something else, the giant fucking asshole came off the deck swinging his head like a mace.

Now, let me say this before I get back to finishing this story. When I stood to get off the big assed bird I didn’t know what else I was going to do to help him. But I sure as hell wasn’t prepared to need to defend myself from someone whose life I had just saved.

Rick Perry came off the the deck like a punch-drunk fighter. He managed to whack me on the arms four times, in the knees twice and he konked my head as the coup de gras. I awoke flat on my back in a heap with the Squirt licking my face.

As a father, it was heartwarming to see the looks of concern on all my pets’ faces. When my head cleared enough to walk home, we gathered mall our shit and headed out. I managed to make it through dinner before the aches of the ostrich head butts got to me. I went to bed early to sleep off the beating, but couldn’t get comfortable in any position to sleep. That’s why I got up to play poker.

Has anyone else taken a beating when attempting to assist another? It seems to happen to me often. Am I the only one?

Manana, y’all.

Father’s Day Salute; Rick Perry Wields Empty Head As A Weapon

Sunday, June 19th, 2011


So. Happy Father’s Day to all of us fathers. I wish that sincerely in spite of the fact that I’m somewhat ambivalent about this kind of holiday. Valentine’s Day and Father’s Day and Grandparent’s Day… I get the sentiments but don’t get any personal sentimental values from them.

I do enjoy getting the calls and cards from my three human kids, each of whom live in other states. Those would be the children I’m not allowed to write about upon the threat of an extended stay over to Shoal Creek Loony Bin. Their mother, my ex-wife and psycho therapist, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, laid it out to me this way when presenting her not so veiled threat.

She said to me, she said, “Look, Mooner, you inappropriate asshole, our kids are the only people who are in your life through no choice of their own. The rest of us can only blame ourselves. Don’t write about them and embarrass them.”

Whenever I attempt any kind of counter argument she’ll simply say, “Then why did all three of them move out of the state?”

“Because you are such a bitch,” I always respond.

But she’s right and I know better. I’d leave town too if I’d witnessed my father’s arrest on TV. With his pants at his ankles and his brightly-colored ass hair shaved to look like a cartoon character. During a City Council Meeting. A dozen times.

Or maybe they moved because they grew tired of the full-body searches they endured to visit me over to Shoal Creek. I guess the joy of playing in a padded cell was outweighed by the invasive scans.

I’m thinking we need a new holiday, one to honor the people who put up with the most. I think we need a “Children’s Day” or we could call it “I Survived My Father Day.” I think we need a day to tell our kids how sorry we are for fucking up their lives and embarrassing so badly that they feel the need a couple thousand miles of separation.

But my kids love me and now I’ll shut my big yap about that taboo subject and tell you what has been planned for me by my adopted kids. Since Daddy and Grandpa are both long dead, I am the Johnson Family patriarch, a fact long lamented by both my mother and grandmother.

Gram doesn’t say much, but Mother constantly reminds me that Daddy was a better father than I was a son. It doesn’t hurt my feelings– I know she’s right. My father was a very good man.

Anyway, Squirt and Honor the cat, and the two homosexuals who hide in my closet, are taking me fishing for Father’s Day. Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh are getting pasty-looking from spending too much time indoors. My pet ostrich and hog need airing out, same as my closet.

Isn’t it funny the way your kids choose what to do for Father’s Day? If they were to take me to do exactly what I wish to be doing today, the cooler of Carta Blanca beer and old dad here would be dropped off over to SAC Ellen’s place for a day of sexing.

Instead, father and beer alike are headed to our pier to sit in the hundred-degree heat to fish. The joys of my Father’s Day will be watching these four misfits. From digging the fishing worms to the crazed antics that is this fish-catching circus, this will be a good day for me.

Hell, it already started when at breakfast, the Squirt told me, “Happy Father’s Day,” in twenty different languages. My favorite was the Filipino greeting of, “Aran masaya ama.” At least I think that was Filipino. I’ll ask the Reckmonster.

Anyway, I need to get going. Rick Perry is swinging his empty head around like a weapon and breaking things.

Happy Father’s Day! Manana, y’all.

Honor Learns A Life Lesson; Rick Perry Still A Prick

Friday, June 17th, 2011


So. I was just doing some bloggie maintenance, responding to the comments and emails resulting from yesterday’s offer for free books. I was responding to A Daft Scots Lass when Honor the cat dropped a sparrow at my feet. A dead sparrow, and one that looked as if a cat had played with it to death. Played-with-it-to-death? Maybe I’d want to hyphenate those words to properly display my intent.

The little birdie was soaked with cat slobber and it had the appearance of a badminton shuttlecock that had been used for a five-set professional tennis match. The little tailless Siamese sat like a proud daughter presenting an all-A’s Report Card to her father as her gift for Father’s Day

“What’s this, little lady?” I asked when she dropped the slimy bird bundle on, not beside, my foot.

Honor mewled and meowed excitedly, rambling for a good three minutes. I heard how she was just walking through the orchard, the trees in which are not liking the latest effect of Global Warming, and she was looking for a piece of ripe fruit to bring to the breakfast table. We encourage every diner to contribute to each meal here to the ranch. Somehow when everyone does a little something, the food tastes better and a better time is had by all.

Anyway, she was walking the orchard in search of fallen fruit when the sparrow caught her eye. He was flitting from tree-to-tree on the low-hanging branches in the cherry tree section.

“It was sooo weird, Mooner,” the short haired cat told me. Like a South African person saying their country’s name, the words were spilling out of her mouth. “I was walking along, minding my own business, and when I caught sight of the sparrow it was like something hit me. Remember when you told me about when you were struck by lightening?”

Have you ever noticed how South Africans say their country’s name? “Sowafrika,” they’ll say as fast as I say, “Quilt.” It’s a speed talk dealie that makes no sense to me. This is what I was telling the Daft Scots Lass when the bird hit my foot.

Anyway, Honor’s eye was caught by the flitting sparrow, “And then something came over me and I hunted him down and we played “Tag, you’re It” and then he stopped breathing.”

“Those were your instincts, little lady. Instincts are powerful internal controls that take over operations in our brains. Nothing we can do about our instincts except learn and recognize when they are at play,” I told her. Then I hastily added, “And we always do the right thing when our instincts cause us to fuck up.”

I could tell right away that Honor was confused with the fuck up part. “Look, sweetie, it’s alright for you to hunt birds. You are, after all, a fucking cat. It’s what you do.”

She looked at me with her adorable slanted eyes and asked, “OK, so what did I do wrong?”

“Good question. You’ve done nothing wrong, but remember when we went fishing the first time and I told you that we have to eat anything we kill?”

“Yes,” she meowed.

“Well, that sparrow is deader than a door nail.”

Since sparrows are lean on the meat, I sent her off to catch some more for dinner. They’ll be messy to clean, and Gram will bitch about the bones, but I’ll grill them with mesquite wood smoke. Cleaning them is a double bitch, but I might as well teach the cat to prepare her kills for the table. Sparrows are more trouble to eat than crawfish and far less rewarding.

Which reminds me. Did you guys hear that little Ricky Perry is having lower lumbar surgery? They’re having to make repairs from him patting himself on the back so much. That is the most vain-glorious mother fucker on the face of the earth.

Oh well, he’s soon to be the country’s problem, not just mine. Makes me want to crack a cold Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.


Free Books Here; Rick Perry Confesses

Thursday, June 16th, 2011


So. I’m too hot and tired to write much today. It’s 8 am and I just finished two hours of gardening in 82-degrees and 89% humidity. Ugh.

In an effort to expend minimal effort, I’ll just drop a few random thoughts your way. First, my Twitter Follower log was at 23 when I just checked. After calling Texas Governor Rick Perry a Christian terrorist yesterday, I lost a net three from my counter dealie. Good for me.

Since my book will be out soon, I feel compelled to make major renovations here to Moonerland. I need to attach an actual store to the “Store” button on the webber home page. I also want to be able to post pictures and create an actual Blog Roll. I’m told a Blog Roll is where I can list my favorite bloggers and websites and shit and gain the cross-pollenizations that come from linkerating together with other sites.

Maybe that would be linkifying. Oh, for shit sakes– is it “pollenerations”?

Who gives a shit, I want to linkerate and pollenigize using my friends as ballast. The reason I don’t use the current Blog Roll on my site is because that was how the asshole hackers invaded my stuff and planted Trojan horses awhile back. I need to rework the entire roller thingie to be safe.

Which reminds me. I’m going to need all of the help I can get to sell my book. Since I have always been a believer that the best way to fill your stringer with fish is to chum the waters, let me throw a little sumptin-sumptin out at you. That one always gets me. I know the proper English would be “something-something”, but how do you spell the slangerized term?

What I’m offering to do is, I’ll send a personalized, autographed first edition of my new book to any blogger who will promise to read it, comment on it and link to my site’s store. I don’t care what you say so long as you tell the truth. I expect most people to think it’s trash. That’s why I’m certain I’ll need your help. I just want you to promise to read it, comment honestly and then give me a linked chance to cash in.

So far, two people have read the finished version with the following, abridged reviews:

  1. “Mooner Johnson’s Full Rising Mooner is a reminder of the great novel by John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces.”
  2. “If John Kennedy Toole was a moronic Antichrist, he might have written Full Rising Mooner.”


I’m so fucking proud. For today, I’ll take the first 50 requests from bloggers for books. You need to have a findable bloggie site, and swear to keep your part of the bargain. You can either make your request in an email or a comment, I don’t give a shit which way.

So drink Carta Blanca beer in responsible ways, and I’ll see you manana, y’all.

Rick Perry, Christian Terrorist; A Mooner Johnson Alert

Wednesday, June 15th, 2011


So. Since I have extra time to myself I’m able to catch up on my reading. That’s a good-news, bad-news dealie. I started rereading the Spenser series of books by Robert Parker again and that would be the good news. I have likely reread the series two dozen times. With ADD, I can’t remember the plot lines the day after finishing, so the series stays fresh for me. Spenser reminds me of me.

Except stronger. And smarter. Maybe braver and handsome-more as well.

The new-found free time, but one result of my recent dosing with skunk venom, has also allowed me to catch up with the many periodicals that usually go unread by me. Magazines are so celebrity biased and jammed with advertisements that I don’t enjoy them anymore. I did find one interesting discovery yesterday when I was scanning Vogue.

You know those tear-and-sniff and tear-and-scratch-and-sniff thingies for perfumes that are in magazines? The pages are always a different size than the magazine sheets, and there are so many in each publication that the fucking things won’t lay flat. Makes them a bitch to stack. We save all of our periodicals because, as Gram puts it, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Ya got room in yer barn an somebody’s gonna want my Grannies and Gangsters perscription one a these days.”

Indeed. I do have the room to store all of this shit, but since when does having the capacity justify the act? Sort of like what the Republican legislative majorities around the country are doing with their silly and sometimes abusive lawmaking.

I think I have also had a revelation about the ADHD, insight if you will. When I have free time on my hands my brain tends to fritz more frequently, more strongly and for more duration of fritz events. I went to the bookcase in the study to find the next Spenser book to read, saw a spider on the floor, and went to the kitchen to get the broom and dustpan to remove the spider. I try not to kill critters, I simply attempt to remove them.

Sometimes this “removal so as to do no harm by killing” philosophy blows up in my face. Like with fucking skunks.

When I got to the kitchen, Gram was sitting at the big bar top and told me that if I got my smelly skunk ass within fifteen feet of her she’s dumping a double load of buckshot in me. As her 12-gage was sitting on the floor propped beside her chair, I took the threat in earnest. So, I was working my way to the pantry, located on the other side of the kitchen from where Gram sat to the bar, with my back pressed against the wall, cabinets and appliances.

I felt sort of stupid, like some dumbass in a movie who is walking on the building ledge outside the windows– hands behind to keep contact with the building, and feet shuffling sideways as I scooted. Who in their right mind is stepping out a fifty-story window to walk on a three-inch ledge?

When I got to the pantry, I opened the door, turned the light on and quickly shut the door on Gram’s beady-eyed glare. When I came out six hours later, I had reorganized the entire pantry. Instead of having the stored goods racked according to varieties, alphabetically, I did my best to place things together as they are used together. Like I had the pastas with the olive oils, the rice with the olive oils, and so forth.

I’m lucky I have so many bottles of olive oils. Olives and olive oil are some of nature’s magic acts, like tomatoes.

Anyway, the spider was gone by the time I got back to the study, and I don’t like the perfume ad dealies in magazines except to say that, in their existence they caused me to realize not only that idle time plays the devil with my ADHD, but also that many perfumes have undertones of skunk venom in their aromas.

Somehow I knew this already, but sniffing a few hundred magazine perfume ad samples burned the knowledge deep into my gray matter.

The time alone has also allowed me to think more about Texas governor, Rick “God Anointed Me King” Perry. Thinking about that little Christian terrorist makes my brain hurt. I think he might be the most dangerous man in America. I fear for our country if his brand of politics gains purchase across the country.

Thank God for Carta Blanca beer, magic mushroom juice and homegrown tomatoes. Loneliness is a terrible thing to waste. Manana, y’all.

No Good Deed; Life’s Hard Lessons

Tuesday, June 14th, 2011


So. I’m almost recovered from what has become known as “Skunkgate” around our dinner table. The Skunk-er-raters, that would be the Squirt, Honor the cat and me (myself?), gathered ourselves and retreated from our lovely fishing trip to save the day over to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s house. The swimming pool over to Squirt’s soon-to-be-ex mother’s house was filled with a family of five skunks. The house, technically speaking, is also the soon-to-be the house of Honor. Once Honor is trained and fully indoctrinated, she is to become Dr. Sam’s cat. And the Squirt becomes my puppy.

Don’t tell Sammie, but I think the cat will suffer from significant separation anxieties should a segregation occur. An issue to be later dealt, but an issue none, and the less.

When Gram dropped us off at Sammie’s, we found Mom and Pop skunk, and three little skunkies, all swimming around unable to gain the minimal purchase required to lever themselves out of the pool. They were all doing the guppy breathing of a drowning animal and were swallowing pool water at an amazing rate.

After a quick assessment of the situation, I told Squirt, “Look sweetie, edge over and get in front of the big one– the daddy skunk. Tell him that we won’t hurt them. Tell him we’re here to save his family from drowning.”

Squirt strutted over to get situated and I remembered another instruction. “Ask him if any of them have the rabies.”

I’m not busting my ass to save rabid skunks. I like skunks but have a strong dislike for anything rabid. “Tell him I’m drowning the lot of them if they’re rabid.” She talked to the skunk daddy, a difficult task since he was swimming in circles and taking-on water like the Titanic.

She spoke with him for a few minutes and raced over to sit pretty at my feet, her formal speaking posture. “OK, Bwana Mooner. He says no rabies and save the kits first. Told me the bambinos es esse ‘kits’”

I guess skunk babies would be called kits– don’t know for certain but it makes sense to me. All I could find to use for skunk removal was a broad wooden board, a leftover fence plank from when Sammie got a new fence awhile back. It was six-feet long and eight-inches wide. I positioned myself in front of the first kit and enticed it to climb a board, and aboard. With its daddy’s encouragement, the little shunkie grabbed the plank and clung for its life. I gently laid it in the mulch-covered flower bed next to the pool, and the little guy started puking up pool water in squirts.

I repeated the process with the other kits and then focused my attentions on the mother, who was almost down for the count. Her head was spending as much time under as above the water. She didn’t have the strength to climb the board, so in desperation I moved her to the edge of the pool with the plank and then nudged her onto the board with my hand.

I had to hold mommy on the board and stoop to unload her to keep from dropping her as I moved to the mulch. She was gagging and puking water before I even got her set down. When I stood up and walked back to the pool, I noticed the strong, foul odor of skunk essence coming from my hand. I made a few tacky comments about the odor and invited the cat and dog to come take a whiff.

Squirt stalked up to my hand, closed her eyes and took a huge drag of air through her adorable nose. She started gagging and coughing and wiping her snout on the grass. The cat just wrinkled her nose and sniffed from three feet away.

“Yes,” I said, “skunk venom is mighty smelly shit.”

“You’re gonna need to cut your hand off Mooner. That’s the only way that smell is ever going away,” Squirt said and then she started giggling. Which started me giggling and then the cat.

I rescued the daddy and set him with his family to purge the chlorinated pool water from his gut, and than I returned the plank to the garage where I found it. When I walked back to see how everyone was doing, Squirt and the daddy skunk were arguing. I asked why and was told, “He’s grateful for us saving them, but he’s pissed we disrespected his wife.”

What the fuck?, I thought to myself. I dropped my shorts to the ground and shot the little fucker a moon. Squirt and Honor came to my side and flashed their own cute tushies. I had my head between my knees looking at the skunk family while we mooned them when I saw the daddy turn his hips to moon us back.

I must have still been a little wasted because it took me more time than an instant to remember that skunks don’t moon. They squirt skunk venom.

The three of us were splashed with a full load of venom by a mature, and obviously well-fed, male skunk.


Last time this happened it was a month before I could taste or smell anything besides skunk juice. Last time I wasn’t hit on my bare ass AND my face, just my bare ass.

The Squirt won’t speak to me and the cat hisses whenever I enter the room. My two companions blame me for everything And it looks like my sex life will be nonexistent for a while.

Fucksicles. Thank God for Carta Blanca beer and my bloggie buddies.

Manana, y’all.

Summer Fun In Austin, Texas; Rick Perry Still An Asswipe

Monday, June 13th, 2011


So. The three of us, Squirt, Honor and me, were out on our long dock fishing, drinking Carta Blanca beer and cutting up like little girls. The water frontage part of our land includes a deep inlet where our creek enters the big lake. The dock sits in this deep-water portage so that even in times of significant drought, we have plenty of water. And we in Central Texas are in a significant drought.

I blame Texas Governor Ricky “How’d Ya Like The Way I Fucked Newt Gingrich?” Perry for the drought. We haven’t reached our annual rainfall averages since that silly little fucker was elected to the state’s highest post. If I use typical right-wing Christian thought processes, I’m required to conclude that God is punishing Texas for electing the little shitball.

On our way to the dock, Gram had dosed the three of us with a new potion she’s working on she calls “Ain’t No Fleas On Me, An No Ticks Neither”. Summer heat brings an onslaught of ticks and fleas and Gram is always looking for business opportunities. When I asked her what was in this one, she said to me, she said, “Well, Mooner honey, there’s a double dose a tha mushroom water, some smoky tamater juice, a little billy goat piss an a peench a ground up oster-itcher feathers.”

The double-shot of magic mushroom tea explains why we were giggling and cutting up so. “Check yerself ever hour or so, see iffn ya got any skeeters er tickies on ya,” Gram demanded as we walked off to fish. What got us laughing the first time was when Squirt reminded us it was time to check ourselves for bugs, and I dropped my shorts and flashed the miniature dog and diminutive cat a pose of my recently landscaped ass.

In preparation for Father’s Day coming up, I had Ingrid pluck and dye my ass hair into portraits of my three kids. She had a little trouble with the dyes this year, so the kids have raccoon eyes. When I waved my bare ass at the girls, they thought I was hilarious.

Then they started imitating me by waggling and waving their asses at me, and each other. Squirt backed her way across the wooden planks of the dock and wiggled her butt. “Look at moi, los todos amigos. Yo es Mooner fucking Johnson. Mi ass es muy bonito.”

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery and Squirt has a cute ass. I adore the shape of it and how the short hairs grow in patterns.

Anyway, the three of us were so drunk and stoned that we’re just goofing away while the fish are dragging our bait worms out to sea, when my phone rang. “Who the hell is so fucking rude as to interrupt our fishing trip?” I said, I felt jokingly, into my cell phone.

I heard a hiss of breath, which I recognized, and said, “Oh hey, Sammie, how’s it hanging?”

“My last nerve is hanging by a thread, Mooner. There’s skunks in my pool and they can’t get out. I need you to come right now and get them out,” she demanded. “I’ve got my Ya-Ya Sisters coming this weekend and we’re eating dinner out by the pool.”

I hate it when my ex-wife, therapist and mother of the aforementioned children tells me to do shit “right now”.

“Well, my sweet ex-wife,” I told her. “We’re too wasted to drive and I’m too happy to be upset with your rudeness. Call the exterminator.”

I put the phone away from my ear to avoid the psycho therapist’s tirade and said to the pets, “Hey, little buddies, want to go fuck with some skunks?”

The response reminded me of newsreel scenes of the streets of Paris when the Allies freed it from Nazi control. “No problem, Sammie,” I said into the phone. “The Skunk-a-nators are on the way. Soon as we can find somebody to drive us we’ll head your way.”

“Please hurry, Mooner. There’s already an oily film on the surface of my pool.”

We gathered our fishing gear and headed up to the house. We spent the time discussing how we would intimidate and scare those fucking skunks away. We’re still in mid-gigglefest. Squirt suggested that we all three moon the skunks and I told her, “Yea, little lady, we’ll make them jump straight out of the water and head for the bushes.”

Instead of The Skunk-a-nators, we decided on “The Skunk-er-ators” as the name for our new extermination enterprise. When we got up to the house and stored our buckets and poles, Gram was the only one there. “Hey Gram, how about you take us over to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s house. She’s got a pool full of skunks. I’m too shit-faced to drive and Squirt’s still too short to see over the dashboard.”

We three had another giggle outburst at my joke about the miniature dog driving the car. Gram said, “I’ll take y’all so long as ya stop yer fucking giggling. Ya sound like a bunch a schoolgirls.”

She then checked us all for fleas and ticks and then scoped out our very dilated pupils. “From tha looks a yer eyeballies, I think I might need ta back off a touch onna shroomer juicie. Fucking tick could bite yas onna ass an you’d never feel a thing.”

We went to my room to clean up and change clothes, and we all took turns peeing in the sink– watching each other in the big vanity mirror. This brought on another extended jag of laughter that nearly brought me to my knees. Honor the cat is still a little pee shy and she did that start-to-go-pee-then-back-away dealie maybe ten times before she actually went.

The little Siamese cat is pee shy and I’m still a touch shy of the smell of her pee. I don’t know about the other breeds of cat, but Siamese cat pee stinks. When she finished, I pinched my nose and made an “oooee” noise, and that cracked us up again.

Anyway, Gram drove us over to Sammie’s house in her Ferrari, me in front and the pets in the mostly pretend rear seats. The cat hasn’t adjusted to my grandmother’s driving style, so I wrap her paws in gauze and tape them tight. It wouldn’t take but the one time for the cat to freak out during one of Gram’s lane changes and poke sixteen, or so, of her sharp claws into the leather of the car for us to have a significant problem.

But look, I need to take a break now so that I can go puke again.

Anybody know how to get skunk venom out of pet fur and ass hair? Manana, y’all.

Mountain View Lurkers; Fluck Plick Pelly

Thursday, June 9th, 2011


So. As if Texas Governor Rick “Do I Look Thinner In Cowboy Boots” Perry didn’t do enough things to set our state back fifty years in the Regular Legislative Session, he’s now Special Sessioning us back another twenty years. Sessionating? Sessionalizing, got to be Special Sessionalizing.

The Special Session was called specifically to deal with the critical budget issues he was unable to resolve. Had to make time for the important stuff like allowing handguns on school properties and forcing a woman to have an intimate relationship with her fetus before any abortion procedure. Our $27 Billion budget shortfall was considered a secondary issue.

As one of his last in-your-face acts of the regular session of our legislature, his redistricting plan was approved. Every ten years, as the Census provides states with new Congressional Districts and shifting population concentrations, the majority party in our state uses redistricting to fuck over their harshest critics and strongest opponents.

Long-standing Texas Congressman Lloyd Doggett has been one of Little Pricky Perry’s harshest critics. Austin and Travis County have forever been staunchly Democratic and Congressman Doggett has long been our man. A more human person cannot be found as an elected official, and and his strong stands for personal rights and protections for our weak are his hallmarks.

For decades, the city Austin and Travis County have held the boundaries for the US Congressional District office held by Mr. Doggett. For decades he has represented the wishes of our citizens. But he is likely spending his last days representing “those lefties” as we are known down to the current Texas Legislature. What twenty years of right-wing political shenanigans has failed to do, the Republican religious fuckballs in this state Congress have done with the swipe of a pen.

Our geographic area, a solid blob on any map showing population and development, has been divided into five separate geographic districts diluting Austin’s voters’ ballots. Evaluating statewide voter preferences, the Legislature has managed to divvy-up Austin voters into four voter Districts and turn our voting effect from solid Democratic into a minority in each of the five areas. Four total actual Districts, but five distinct geographic areas.

In order to dilute the power of Austin voters, the Republicans were required to go to extreme lengths. The new map reminds me of a Ren and Stimpy cartoon when they had the flu. Remember the closeup of Ren’s eyeballs with the bloodshot veins? That’s this new map.

The map looks like it was drawn by first graders, an obvious comment on the group mental prowess of the draw-ers. The Districts are long and skinny affairs drawn to take the urban population of one of America’s finest cities and dilute it through enough Republican and Tea Bagger ranch land to make each area conservative in the majority.

One of these areas stretches from Austin westward to what is basically El Paso, a distance of more than 550 miles. Guys, that is the same distance as between Nashville and Washington DC.

I’ll miss Lloyd Doggett. When I won the Environmental Excellence Award I’m not supposed to talk about here because it’s in the fucking book, Congressman Doggett sent me a personal letter of congratulations and thanks. Governor Perry, the unwitting party responsible for sponsoring my selection, chose to not make the award presentation to me. Instead he had the Assistant Governor do the photo op the year I was a winner.

Fuck Rick Perry and each of his ilk.

Which reminds me. Every time I check my “who has been logged-on to my webber and bloggie” dealie, one, or more, viewers are from Mountain View, California. The listings show from nine to as many as fifteen viewers on the first page of listings, and there is always a Mountain View watcher shown. Always.

And these Mountain View viewers all have IP addresses that start “74.125.”, and then often the entire numbers are but a single, last digit different. WTF is up with that?

Really, whatinthefuck is going on? I looked up tech industries on Google and found that Mountain View is a tech hotbed. But why are you fuckers spending so much time with my site? Are you reading my stuff or monitoring my un-American activities or what?

Come on, help me figure this shit out. Would one of you guys tell me what is so fucking fascinating here to keep you constantly logged-on?

I think I’m getting paranoid. Technologies scare me in the first place. I’m always worried that any device that can bring us closer together can also provide access to our personal secrets. These Mountain View guys seem like lurkers to me. They never threaten or act untoward, they just sit and stare with unblinking eyes. I know that I’m not interesting enough to read constantly.

Maybe those are the guys who suck my content like a leech and then translate it into different languages and then put it on the I-net plastered with advertisements. I Googled myself a few days ago and found that I’m a Chinese dude sponsored by a cigarette company and a chiropractor with a big-toothed smile. Whythefuck do the Chinese care what I have to say about Texas politics?

Maybe I should say, “Fluck Plick Pelly!”

Maybe that was inappropriate. But who gives a shit. I wonder how that translates into Chinese. And how does a Chinese guy say my name– “Moonel?” “Moonel and Glam and Squilt and Honol.” And “Stleakel Jones.”

And whatever happened to the Benny Hill Show? I never see it anywhere. And Ren and Stimpy for that matter. I loves me some dog and cat humor.

Speaking of dogs and cats, I have promised Squirt and Honor the cat a fishing trip. The circus that breaks out when we go to the lake has become my major entertainment value. For the price of a few sixers of Carta Blanca beer and a few hours of my time, I get my troubles washed away.

So, I hanging the “Gone Fishing” sign. Manana, y;all.

@cv2012 Put Up Or Go Away

Tuesday, June 7th, 2011


So. I just looked at my Twitter account and was again flabbergasted at my numbers. I’m back at 25 Followers, which for the week is a plus 14 and minus 15. Last time I checked I was at 26 Followers. I find it hard to see how I would have more than eleven followers to stick after reading my shit. Wouldn’t surprise me to have only three.

Of the 25 who have stuck, one recent addition fascinates me. He (she or an it, maybe?) would be @cv2012. The photo with the profile is washed-out, but it appears to be a thirteen-year-old white kid. The site is dedicated to a Conservative Victory in 2012, and if it is a thirteen-year-old, my stuff is too adult for consumption.

I hate it that most of the ultra-conservative fuckballs are white, and Christian. I guess the white part stems from being a favored race for so long, we feel empowered to make personal choices for others. I’m sure that the Christian part is because that religion less resembles the teachings of Christ, and more and more looks like just one more terroristic bunch of religious fuckballs.

Anyway, @cv2012, hey dude or whatever you are. Why don’t you either say something or go away? I’m proud of my low Follower list and I don’t like you mucking it up unless you can contribute something. Come on, take a shot. I say, “Fuck (P)Rick Perry!” What might you say? I say that, “As a rule, the basic ultra-conservative is either a privileged white asshole or a stupid one. Hell, there’s even some stupid and privileged white assholes.”

I’ll print anything you say as long as it contains no threats. So, put up or go away. You’re fucking up my numbers.

If you drink Carta Blanca beer you can stay regardless. Just provide proof of purchase.

Smoked Tomato Camel Toe Contest; @Reckmonster, @Thundercat832 and @ADaftScot Compete

Tuesday, June 7th, 2011


So. I awoke at 3:34 am to the sounds of barnyard sex. At least I think the huffing and ass smacking and grunting were barnyard sex. I hope it was barnyard sex. With Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh I can’t always be sure. My gay pig and ostrich are noisy as lovers and likewise during their daily routines as mates.

I needed to ask them how they made that ass-smacking noise. The ostrich has neither hands to slap an ass nor an ass that would make slap sounds when slapped. His thick, dense feathers cover all of his muscular torso. Slap the giant hog anywhere except his head and feet and it sounds like a slapped ass. Him having only hooves at the end of stubby legs, and we all know that hooves are ill-fitted to ass slapping, caused me to want to ask how they made the ass-slapping noise.

I had to ask. I had to fucking ask.

While I approve of any sexual conjoining among consenting adults, as a heterosexual man, I find many aspects of gay men’s sexual practices icky. I find many aspects of man-on-man pig and ostrich sex disturbing.

After hearing an explanation on the hows of their ass slapping, they settled back into peaceful, snot-snoring slumber and I lay awake. My eyes were burning from spending the day tending my big smoker, by brain was burning with the sick enigma of knowing that I would be perfectly willing, UNDER THE RIGHT CIRCUMSTANCES, to sex Sarah Palin until she walked bow-legged. And my heart was burning with pent-up desire to sex the SACster until I walk bow-legged.

I had been dreaming when awakened by Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry having sex in my closet. It was another fucking camel toe dream, and a dumb one at that. In this dream I had a motorcycle and the camel toe contest was to see which one felt best when the lady sat behind me for a ride on the Harley. The ladies were each required to wear white cotton undies, the kind preferred by my fifth ex-wife Roshandra Washington-Johnson.

Roshandra looks just like Robin Quivers on the Howard Stern radio show, and just the thought of her rich, black skin in those white cotton undies makes my heart skip a beat. But enough of Roshandra here. She’s in the fucking book.

So, the lady would sit on the back of the bike and snuggle her camel toe tight to my back. Now look, don’t start yakking at me about just how impractical this would be. It was a fucking dream for shitsakes. My dream at that, and I really like camel toes. It’s sick, I fully acknowledge that as fact. But I love camel toes.

This particular contest, and all of my camel toe dreams seem to be contests, featured Sarah fucking Palin, Thundercat-32, Reckmonster and A Daft Scots Lass. The winner last night was the T-cat. Her pocket poochie was full and succulent. I find myself saying, “Robust,” even. T-cat was second to take the ride after Ms. Palin, and the Reckmonster was next up when my silly-assed closeted gay pets woke me. T-cat won by default, but her’s was a winner under any circumstances.

Something always prevents me from evaluating the Reckster’s toe. For some strange reason I have never seen the Reckmonster’s lady meat in any of my dreams. Maybe I better ask Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson about that one.

Now, as I tell you about this dream, I realize that tomato camel toes were in the dream too. You know how sometimes tomatoes grow in interesting shapes? Quite often they grow in the shape of a camel toe. But holy shit am I digressing the points I intended when I fired-up my PC.

Squatlo asked me about why I grill and smoke tomatoes. Here’s the deal. OK, first, I am a tomato fanatic, a tomato nut case of significant magnitudes. I love to grow them, eat them, cook them, look at them and even dream about them. I relish all things tomato and I have learned to prepare and use tomatoes in all known ways.

Some unknown as well. Like the time I experimented with tomato juice as an enema. All I’ll say is that it worked.

Squat, grilled tomatoes are good for salsa– add grilled tomatillos, onions and peppers plus un-grilled garlic. That one we can same as plain grilled tomatoes. Makes tasty sauces and soups.

Smoked tomatoes are always slow-smoked in whole and also halves. Place the skin side down on the halvesies. Smoke the whole tomatoes until the skin pops then take them off. This is what Gram uses to make her famous catchup. The halves are left on until almost dry, and they are used to make tomato paste. And snackies. Nothing like a bite of smoked tomato followed by a deep swig of icy-cold Carta Blanca beer. Sweet, chewey and smoky goodness in every bite.

Gram’s catchup is crazy good. Now I’m signing off to go make some crispy hash browns to eat with the smoky catchup. I’m drooling on my keyboard.

Manana, y’all.

Sex With Sarah Palin; A $50K Personal Appearance Fee Away?

Monday, June 6th, 2011


So. The early summer tomato harvest is finished and the big barn is brimming-over with the luscious red orbs. Efforts started early this morning moved from harvesting to processing. I’ll be in charge of grilling and smoking and Gram heads-up the sun drying team. Streaker Jones came at six am to help Gram and her crew to load up for the trip to his mushroom plant.

Everyone except Gram wears a hood for the trip. Streaker Jones is powerfully protective of the exact location of his psychedelic mushroom operations.

I’ll be smoking and grilling here to the ranch. I use a variety of woods, which I both blend and use separately, to smoke and grill tomatoes. I like mesquite for grilling. It has a flavor so strong and a fire so hot that I find it inappropriate for actual smoking. It can be too strong and make the food taste like nothing but mesquite smoke. If I wanted a smoked tomato that tasted like mesquite smoke I can always lick a mesquite briquette.

I also use oak, pecan, apple, peach and cherry wood. The oak and pecan are in big chunks of trunks and major branches. But the fruit woods are mostly smaller lengths of smaller branches and used in concert with oak or pecan. The Squirt wanted to be my main assistant for tomato smoking, so I assigned her the initial task of fetching the fruit wood sticks from the wood shed and stacking them by the smokers.

The shed sits maybe forty yards from the smokers, and I need a full cord of fruit woods for this year’s smoking. The miniature dog is thirty minutes into her job and already bitching about it.

“Holy shit, Bwana Mooner. C’est beaucoup de fucking bois.”

“Yea,” I told her, “that is a lot of wood. But you standing here bitching at me won’t get it moved.” Saying that embarrassed me. I sounded just like my Gram.

“Sie klang wie Gram, Senor Culo Agujero,” the soon-to-be-my dog said to me.

“I’m sorry, Squirt. I can be an asshole sometimes.” I hate it when I engage the same parental tools as my elders used on me. I stooped to pick her up and planted a big kiss right between her eyes. Her short fur is soft and sweet-smelling after our shower this morning.

Have I told you that Squirt and Honor the cat take showers with me now? We’re a fucking shower-taking sideshow. I’m teaching them to sing in the shower and our current song is the old Kinky Friedman and the Texas Jewboys hit, Waitress Oh Waitress, Come Sit On My Face.

Their favorite line is, “Eatin’ ain’t cheating, it sure ain’t no disgrace.” Mine too.

But here’s the thing. With Sarah Palin touring the country and saying stupid shit the last week, I had another camel toe dream with her in it. It was Sarah fucking Palin, The Daft Scots Lass and The Reckmonster in this one. The four of us were in the shower together with Squirt and the cat.

The Reckmonster made a joke by saying, “Look here, we’ve got four pussies, a dog and a giant asshole taking a shower together. Who needs the giant fucking asshole?” And they kicked me out of my own shower.

In the dream, I padded from the bathroom to lay on my bed, still dripping wet from my shower. I was there with my eyes closed and feeling sorry for myself, lamenting the loss of joy I was to have from soaping the three women into a lather. Then I felt someone snuggle into bed with me. Whoever it was sidled up beside me and began the prelims for a blow job. I didn’t open my eyes to see which lady it was because, quite honestly, given the proper circumstances I would have sex with any of them.

My order of preferences would be the Reck, the Scots Lass and then the brain dead Republican shitball. I don’t really know the Scottie except for reading her stuff over the last week, but I can tell that she’s my kind of woman. The Reckmonster can turn me on with a simple, “What the fuck?”

Sarah Palin is an elephant in a different room.

I’m ashamed to say that I would have sex with her. I have already spent maybe a hundred hours of therapy working on the problem. Translated into meaningful terms, my willingness to bang Sarah Palin is already a $20,000 problem. Hell, for a $50,000 personal appearance fee she’d likely come to the ranch and blow me.

Maybe not. That might be wishful thinking. Would I be breaking any laws to ask her? I guess my main concern would be violating the Mann Act. I could go to Arizona to mail my request since she’s in Arizona now. Seems she has an affection for the A states. But wait. Is the violation of the Mann Act if the request to break a law crosses state lines of if the act itself crosses state lines? Need to call Jeff, my attorney.

And the Scots Lass lives in South Africa, but grew up in Scotland. I’ve been married to an African woman, but not a white African woman, and not a South Africa inhabitant. I must be wondering about that stuff since she was in this dream. I find her charming and sexy as all get-out. But don’t go climbing all over my ass. Go first to the Daft Scots Lass’ site at and read some of her stuff. Then judge my affections.

OK, and I know she’s a married mother and quite happy and all of that. I’d still, under all of the right circumstances, sex her up. Just saying.

I’m seriously fucked up. But I’m loved and I have an ample supple of icy cold Carta Blanca beer to get me through today’s grilling and smoking.

Manana, y’all.

What I learned In First Grade; What Punishment Ensued

Sunday, June 5th, 2011


So. I’ve got the whole crew harvesting tomatoes this weekend. It has gotten too hot for any new fruit to set on our full-size varieties, and the extreme 100-degree days are making their skins tougher than boot leather. This is the harvest time when we pick for sun dried tomatoes and also to roast, and smoke them. This is the off-season for Streaker Jones’ magic mushroom business, so we use his big commercial drying operations. All of the smoking is done here on the ranch.

From this point forward, only the smaller varieties will be much good for eating uncooked. The remaining large types will be allowed to almost over-ripen for making canned tomatoes. The extra ripening adds a little extra sugar and taste that holds up under canning.

Holy shit, I love tomatoes. Tomatoes, tomatoes, tomatoes! Yum-and-kiss-your-sister-yum!

Yesterday I made a comment here about something I learned in First Grade. I mentioned learning the N-word as a describer for a person with black skin, and how I took it home with me and put it to use. I can still shut my eyes and conger-up the taste of lye soap. Lye soap mouthwash was a routine part of my personal hygiene processes until I entered high school.

One of the many side effects of ADHD and its little sister, ADD, is the inability to filter inappropriate thoughts from your brain and remove them from verbal communication. As a kid I likely suffered the effects from my ADHD the most due to this particular side effect. And all of the advice on how to avoid the problem only fueled it.

“Think before you speak, Butcher,” my school teacher mother would advise me. Mother refused to call me Mooner until, same as the lye soap dealie, until I entered high school. Called me by my quite sophisticated given name, Butcher. Don’t even ask, because it’s in the fucking book.

Gram would say to me, she’d say, “Oh fer fucksakes, Mooner, you disruptive little shit. Why’nt ya put yer thinkin’ cap on afore ya open yer yapper?”

Nothing much was known about ADHD when I was a kid. In fact, I don’t think it was even invented until the early 1980’s. One of my sons has it and we learned of it together at his school-enforced visit to a state-sponsored psychiatrist. The doctor was a snotty little prick with a pinched-up face and really bad breath. Bad tooth breath.

Look, let me give some advice to you. Telling an ADHD sufferer to think more, or more carefully, before speaking is like telling a fireman to reduce the flames of a house fire with a few hundred gallons of jet fuel. It’s the thinking that sparks the inappropriate comments.

Better to say, “Stop thinking before you open your big yap.” That way you can limit the possibilities to a minimum few offensive remarks slipping through my lips. If I have but maybe six or seven different thoughts rolling around rather than my typical fifteen, the risk of offensive speech patterns is reduced by half.

Now I’m digressing, but you get it, right? Anyway, I made my comment yesterday about learning the N-word and that sparked Squatlo to tell me about learning to say the word “fuck” his early days of school. He got his little six-year-old ass blistered for its use when he got home.

Me, fuck was one of the first words I learned. One of the first words I heard since it was used as an exclamation upon my birthing. Again, in the book and, therefore, off limits for now.

I can hardly wait to get that fucking book into print. We’re working on the cover and all of the promotional bullshit to go along with it. I hate having big chunks of my life off limits. But I was never punished for using swear words at home. School was a different fucking bag of worms, but I never caught any shit at home for saying shit. Or fuck or hell or damn. Mother would do that deep sigh shit you get from martyrs around the world, but I was never punished for imitating my elders’ speech.

Anyway, Squatlo’s comment caused me to wonder what other folks’ experiences were like with the early days of First Grade. Tell us your stories. I’ll bet there’s some doozies out there. Come on Reckmonster and Thundercat-32. I can hardly wait.

Drink Carta Blanca beer responsibly, and come back manana, y’all.

It’s A Crime To Let A Neighbor Go Hungry; Give To Your Local Food Bank

Friday, June 3rd, 2011


So. I have an action-packed Friday planned. We’re headed out in just a minute to go down to the garden to fill some bushel baskets with stuff to take to the Capitol Area Food Bank. I think that it is a crime to let a neighbor go hungry, and we grow extra stuff to give away. I also have a favored underpass over to Interstate 35 where we pass out stuff that can be eaten raw, or at room temp.

Don’t ever take homeless people leftover poultry.

While in the garden we plan to dig some fishing worms for a short trip to our lakeside dock. Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are not making this excursion. We just managed to repair the damages from their gardening adventure earlier this week, and Gram has unloaded the rock salt from her twelve-gage and replaced it with double-ought buckshot.

“I’mma plug yer fuckin’ hog, Mooner, an make me a pigskin quilt. An keep yer fuckin’ gay giraffe outta my sight too. I hate that fuckin’ bird.”

I know, I know, Rick Perry is a gay ostrich, but you try to straighten out my Gram’s logic. Long neck = giraffe. At least she’s stopped saying “queer”. My Gram has never been prejudiced except for when she holds something in disfavor. She grew up saying queer rather than “fag” because fag has always been disrespectful. When Sister, my lesbian sister, calmly told Gram that queer has become derogatory in the same way as the word “Negro”, my crotchety old gasbag family matriarch said, “Nobody never told me afore. Why in tha fuck do words keep changin’ meanings?”

Why in the fuck indeed. But whyeverthefuck words meanings change over times, I think that you can often follow social changes by looking at how certain words evolve in a society’s speech. And here, the word Negro is a good example. When I was a boy my family used the word Negro rather than any of the other words in common use by Southerners for people with black skin. I picked up the N-word during my first week in First Grade over to the school house.

Came home that night and said something stupid about the black-skinned boy in my class. We had run races at recess that day and I made a honest mistake. I said, “That N***** kid Jack can really run fast.”

Have you ever tasted homemade lye soap? And Holy shit am I digressing. I don’t have time to do anything but tell you how busy I am. I told you about gardening and fishing already. The fishing will be without benefit of any icy-cold Carta Blanca beer. I don’t drink and drive. Then the food deliveries and a trip to the Doc-in-the-box if any of my homeless buddies needs immediate care. I have a doctor buddy runs one of those emergency center dealies that isn’t a hospital. I pay for any medications required and he doctors them for free.

Then, it’s off to the picture framing shop. Squirt and Honor the cat want me to frame their mug shots. I guess it’s something akin to “baby’s first shoes”. I’m thinking that just maybe I’m committing some bad parental supervision here, but they took terrific photos, except for the cat’s left profile, and I find myself excited as well.

We’ll hang them out to Mooners Compost Plant on the Wall of Honor in my personal office. Squirt wants to place them on either side of my certificate for “The Most Inappropriate Man In The World” award. It’s a pretty thing– thick parchment paper with an embossed gold seal. Seal has little blue ribbons hanging from underneath.

Anyway, we’ve got to scoot or I’ll forget to do something, get sidetracked and get into trouble. Manana, y’all.

Crazy Is As Crazy Does; I Need Help

Thursday, June 2nd, 2011


So. Have I told you that I’m crazy? Have I said it enough times for you to understand the full widths and breadths of my lunacies?

The people who maintain close proximity to me in my life all know just how crazy I am. As Gram says it, she’ll say, “Mooner, yur nuttier than a fruit basket.”

I’m nuttier than a fruit cake as well. The last time I was serving some time over to the Shoal Creek Loony Bin Hospital, a visiting intern pulled my chart from the box thingie that sits on the wall outside patients doors, and was reading as she walked into my room. They had just admitted me, and I’m found wrapped in a straight jacket tighter than the frijole paste in a sweet bean tamale, and shackled to the bed at my ankles. I was still half dazed and confused and had a granite-hard woodie poking at the fabric of my “personal confinement apparel”.

The straight jacket, dazed look and manly erection were remnants of a significant zapping by the professional-strength taser wielded by SAC Ellen. The zapping occurred upon my very first meeting with Special Agent in Charge, United States Department of Homeland Security, Ms. Ellen McClellan. You know her as SAC Ellen, or the SACster.

So, this shitwad intern walks into my room reading my chart in the distracted asshole way that medical professionals use to establish pecking order with the patient. They ignore you with great precision as they walk in, attempting to look too busy to be polite. This chart-reading shithead walks in my room reading the chart and holds out her best “one minute please” finger before I can utter a sound. I hate that fucking finger motion. Makes me want to break it off and shove it up their ass.

I think they teach that kind of move in some class at all medical schools. Likely has a name like, “Aloof 101”, or “Shitball Snotty-nosed Doctor Moves” or maybe, “101 Ways to Make Patients More Concerned and Uncomfortable and Want to Choke the Fucking Life Out of You”. That’s where they learn this chart-reading move and learn to say, “you will feel a slight pinch,” and get the lesson on how to snap a pair of rubber gloves as they prepare for a rectal exam.

Fucking assholes.

Anyway, this young woman enters my room reading my chart. She gets maybe seven steps inside the padded walled-and-floored “solitary confinement space” where I’m being warehoused, and she starts laughing. Most people don’t know this, but a padded room has padded floors as well as walls. Sounds are muffled in these rooms so conversations sound like you are having them in a snow covered meadow. She walks in and starts laughing and I ask her, I say, “What’s so funny?”

She pushes the already-pointed “one minute please” finger further towards my face, and keeps laughing. She stops laughing and continues reading, motioning with the finger every few seconds as if to emphasize the importance of what she’s doing, and to remind me of my lack of importance to her work. When she finally finishes reading, she chuckles again and looks at me (at last) and says, “Good morning, Mister ahhhh …” She consults the chart, again, and goes on, “ah, Mister Johnson.”

Then she looks me over and notices my woodie. “My, my, but it is true.”

“What were you finding so funny as you were reading my chart, little lady?” I’m used to getting laughed at, but it’s good to know why. Sometimes I like to adjust my behaviors in the face of ridicule.

“Oh, sir, it would be inappropriate for me to comment on that,” she says. “But I have to ask you, Mister Johnson. Does that thing work?”

Huh? “Wait a fucking minute,” I respond. “It’s OK for you to come into my room laughing your ass of while reading my chart, but you won’t tell me what it is that you find so fucking funny?”

“Don’t curse, Mr. Johnson, I’m only here to help you. But really, is that erection for show purposes only, or can you put it to a better use?”

Wait a minute, and hold on. I have not only digressed the shit out of us, I was also starting to tell you a story that comes from the storyline of my soon to be published book. I can’t tell you the story but I can get to my point. Among other things, the young lady intern was laughing at one of my many diagnoses. She said, this was later after we discussed the taser-induced woodie phenomenon, she said to me, “Well, one of your diagnosis is “He’s a totally crazy and inappropriate fucking redneck’”

“That’s my ex-wife and therapist trying to be funny, young lady.” What else could I say. Sometimes the truth is the only solution.

OK, my ADHD has got my head swimming. I wanted to remind you that I am crazy before I tell you what I did. The thing that ended with me in jail. With the cat and dog. Zapped. The cat and I both got zapped.

Ever seen a cat that’s been hit with a jolt of direct current?

Honor, the zapped cat, is still pissed at me. Squirt, who is acting more like my dog every day, is proud of now having an arrest record. When Jeff, my attorney, sprung us from jail, the Squirt was bouncing around wanting to chest bump everybody. She was trying to do gang signs the guys in the cell next to us taught her, but without opposing thumbs, gang signs are garbled communication.

Me, I blame the cat, but I blame myself for putting the cat in the position to flay the flesh off Catholic Anti-Abortion Protest Lady’s arms. But the sharp-clawed little shit is like me with a tub of cream brulee when it comes to shredding the arms of an attacker. I love cream brulee, and neither of us can stop once started.

I’m so fucking crazy. I know better than to go to Planned Parenthood with my anti-anti-abortion protest signs. It isn’t like this was the first time I’ve been arrested over there.

Thinking on it, maybe I better read up on cat scratch fever. I caught some shredding of my own when I released Honor from the lady’s arm.

Ugh, need Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

The Birds And The Bees; Rick Perry And Rush Limbaugh Shed Light

Wednesday, June 1st, 2011


So. I hope everyone had a nice weekend and properly honored the memories of Memorial Day. We visited Grand Dad and Daddy’s graves in the family cemetery here and then went to see Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s mother’s remains over to Rememberence Gardens. My family patriarchs were both vets, and Sam’s mom, Marie, was a WASP during WWII. The Woman’s Airforce Service Pilots served the vital role to shuttle aircraft during the war and saved the male pilots for battle duties. The WASP’s were granted Medals of Honor year before last, an honor long over due.

Marie was one of my favorite people and I miss her mightily. I miss my father and grandfather too, but Marie was like a mother to me and a great friend too. My tear ducts are so drained, I might not cry for a week.

After our trip to honor our family’s vets, we drove down to the big cemetery in town to pay respects at the function there. When I was a kid, there would be thousands of people at that event. Yesterday’s event had hundreds. Another sad sign for modern times.

Then it was back home to cook and eat our traditional roasted goat BBQ. This year, in order to attempt family harmony, I did all of the outdoor cooking with the help of the animals, and Gram supervised the rest of the meal preparations inside in our big kitchen. My crew included Honor the cat, Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry, Dixie and the Squirt.

Each of my helpers had culinary assignments except for Dixie. When I asked her what she planned to do, she said to me, she said, “I plan to sit on my tired ass and watch this circus.”

Dixie is getting old, I know that. But she has been such a force in my life I am having trouble facing it. My faithful Golden Retriever has been my companion, translator, money maker, art director, and my moral compass for fifteen of her sixteen years. She’s winding down and I’m now dripping tears onto my keyboard. Maybe I have quick-recovery tear ducts.

Anyway, we were all cooking and drinking Carta Blanca beer and sharing the tasty guacamole dip that P-Cubed made. P-cubed is known as “The Guacamole Mama” around town. I can’t figure out what her secret ingredient is, but hers is the best smashed avocado dip in town. When SAC Ellen asked what it was this morning, Gram interrupted and said, “Who gives a shit, federal lady? Long as tha P-cuber brings it… it don’t matter.”

Crazy woman’s logic, but logical none the less.

Anyway, things are at the sit-and-drink-beer-and-tell-stories phase of our part of my part of meal prep, so we’re sitting with our beers and Squirt is interpreting Honor’s stories about living with Crazy Cat Woman. It’s some funny shit, but Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry keep interrupting with their icky petting. Have you ever seen a 500-pound pig and a 350-pound ostrich engage in sexual foreplay?

“What are they doing?” Honor asked through Squirt.

“Well, that, I think, is the pre-sex ritual between between a half-ton of homosexual barnyard animals.” Sometimes it’s difficult to know what to say about my gay pig and ostrich.

“Ist dass Vogel und Bienen, Bwana Mooner?” Squirt asked. “Por favor, Senor, diganos sobre las aves y las bees. Por favor, por favor por favor. Pretty please.”

Oh shit, she wants to know about the birds and bees. What do I do now?

“This might be the highlight of my year,” Dixie said. “Mooner, would you please refresh my beer while you think your way into this?”

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and I have three kids together. Three great human beings, in spite of my fathering, and three human beings I can’t speak of in my writings. That’s a promise made by me to their mother and them, and a promise I feel honor-bound to keep.

It’s also one of the promises that keeps me out of solitary confinement over to Shoal Creek Loony Hospital.

I had the birds-and-bees talk with each of my kids, the human ones, and managed to inflict minimal damages. However, as a full-disclosure kind of guy, some of the discussions were difficult. Like, for example, how do you discuss blow jobs with your daughter? Or how would you address the anus as a sexual organ with your kid? Just asking.

I mean look here, I’m not usually a squeamish guy, but when your twelve-year-old daughter, the apple of your eye, asks you, “Daddy, what are they talking about when they say, ‘Do you swallow?’”

I found my way through that jungle, and again, inflicted minimal damages to the psyches of my children. But this discussion is a horse of a different color. How do you describe/discuss sex with a cat a dog, a pig and an ostrich. When the hog and giant bird are already lovers?

OK, think this one through. Not just sex, gay sex. Not just gay sex, sex between different species. This love affair between Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry is, at least on the surface, wrong. But they seem made for each other.

Ugh. I don’t want to talk about this any more.

Manana, y’all.