Archive for July, 2011

Rick Perry Almost Spoils Breakfast; Aggies Have Differing Opinions

Sunday, July 31st, 2011

 

So. When we last spoke yesterday, I was headed to the lake to take the clutch of animals I claim as pets to go fishing. As we prepared to leave, Gram stopped me in the big kitchen to ask a favor.

“Mooner, honey, I need ta ask a favor,” Gram said. She had this conspiratorial look on her face, the look that tells me I might not like what the old airbag is planning. “Me an tha P-cubed er takin’ the Fer Rarie down ta College Station, so they’ll be two extra fer dinner.”

My randy old grandmother and her best buddy P-cubed are two of the horniest women in the state. P-cubed, whose driver’s license reads “Penelope Paxon-Parades,” is Mutt to Gram’s Jeff. Or maybe P-cubed is Jeff, but who gives a shit? The two of them are Mutt and Jeff, Frick and Frack, Martin and Lewis and Abbott and Costello, with a heavy dose of Penn and Teller.

P-cubed is the quiet straight man and Gram is everything else. Gram is like the long rubber band on a wind-up balsa wood glider that has been wound too tight. She’s all lumpy knots of gristle and bad intentions, always on the edge of snapping. Gram is quick to mouth off at anything she questions and has an itchy trigger finger holding her shotgun temper.

Her running mate is nothing alike. P-cubed is this cherub-faced over-stuffed cushion with a likable laugh, attentive green eyes and a thousand Bible verses and preachy platitudes perched on the tip of her tongue. Where Gram will rip your lungs out and pour salt on them if you barely step out of line, Penelope recently told a convicted killer that she forgives him for his sins. She then told him, “Blessed are the young.”

What the two of them share are a full life as best friends, the Baptist church, a rich sense of humor, and a voracious appetite for young men. These two old birds of prey are the most dangerous thing on four legs to unsuspecting college-age men. Boys, if you will. The girls bait their man trap with the most seductive bait there is to a late-teenage American male—a bright-red 550-horsepower Ferrari.

Show me a heterosexual teenage boy who is unimpressed with my Gram’s car, and I’ll show you a eunuch. If you’ve got balls you’ve got the testosterone that fuels the love of fast cars. And testosterone-fueled teenagers light Gram’s and P-cubed ‘s fires.

Well, Gram and P-cubed didn’t get home in time for dinner last night, but I wasn’t surprised when the two of them showed up to breakfast with three young men in tow. Of course Mother couldn’t help but to say something, she said, “Three young boy’s? You picked up three poor children and brought them home?”

“Oh quit yer bitchin’. We filled our stringer and couldn’t figger which un ta throw back,” Gram replied. “So we shared little Oscar over there.”

P-cubed giggled, and said, “Fishes and loaves,” Mother, “Jesus will provide.”

Oscar blushed and Mother started fanning herself with her Baptist Daily Prayer flier. The prayer pamphlet has become my mother’s constant companion lately. Seems my grandmother and I have been bringing on Mother’s vapors with regularity.

Gram made introductions all around and we sat to breakfast. The young man who sat at P-cubed’s side was a mechanical engineering student at A&M named Paul. Paul was a cherub-faced kid and had a scary resemblance to his geriatric date. He kept staring at me as we ate.

“Hey girls,” I said. “How did you manage to get three men home with you in your little car?”

Gram chewed and swallowed a bite of pancake and said to me, she said, “Weren’t no trouble, Mooner honey, we jist tied Oscar to tha trunk.”

I had to fucking ask.

“Oh mercy, sweet Jesus,” from Mother as she fanned with gusto. “Have you lost your mind?”

Gram’s ass lifted from her stool and the evil eye was working its way to her face, so I intervened. “OK, everybody, what’s on today’s agenda, huh?” I said. I wanted to cut this one off at the pass. “Who wants to go fishing with the guys and me?”

“Hey,” Paul exclaimed with a finger pointed in my direction. “You’re that asshole that writes the stupid blog. You’re the one that started all of that Fuck-Rick-Perry bullshit.”

“That would be me, little man. And I’m mighty proud you noticed.”

Paul’s cherubic face turned scarlet. “You are a godless heretic, Mr. Johnson, and Governor Perry has saved Texas from financial ruin. I’ll add you to my prayer list, I’ll ask God to show you the way of your sins.”

Since I somehow manage to start each day with a full measure of patience and tolerance, I didn’t jerk the little dweeb off his stool and kick him to the curb. What I did was say, “Let me get this right, Paulie. You just got drunk, stoned on magic mushroom juice and spent the night rutting with a woman old enough to be your great-grandmother, and I’m a heretic?”

“Yes, you are, and you are a shitty writer too.”

I thumped him on his nose. I reached out lightening fast and thumped his nose. Hard. I heard the “pop” of cartilage more than I felt it, same as little Paulie. He stiffened in his chair with a look of shock on his face, and then the trickle of blood showed from his nostril and gathered on his lip. He reached his right wrist to swipe at his nose and held it out to examine.

“You broke my nose, you bastard,” he whispered. Then louder, after a bewildered look around the table, “He broke my fucking nose!”

“Forgive and forget, Paul. You started it.” P-cubed meted the verdict with a pat to Paulie’s cheek. “Come with mommy and let me clean you up. I’m such a softie for a man with values.”

I didn’t see the two of them the rest of the day, but Oscar went fishing with the Squirt, the cat and me. As we were digging our fishing worms, Oscar asked me, he said, “Mr. Johnson, could you teach me how to do that thing with your finger where you thumped Paul’s nose?”

“Call me Mooner, young man, and I’ll teach you how to reject the charms of a snake lady with a Ferrari as well,” I told him. “Look here. The first thing you need to understand about finger flicking is choosing the right finger to pair with your thumb. Any of your three longest fingers will work and you need to determine which of yours is strongest. Practice with a piece of paper and learn to shred the paper with a single flick.”

We finished the flicking lesson while we drank Carta Blanca beer and filled our stringer with fish from the lake. The lake levels are so low that the deep channel of my creek is over-filled with fish. So much of the lake is either dry dirt or so shallow that the fishes are populating whatever deep water they can find. Then they have to compete for food and get into fistfights over our worms. Very sad. We need an end to our drought.

Oscar asked how to repay me for all the fun and I told him to go to my store and by a “Fuck Rick Perry” bumper sticker and then proudly display it down to Texas A&M, Prick Perry’s alma mater.

“No problemo, Mooner,” was Oscar’s promise. “I’ll do it manana.”

Scientists Discover Dumb Bomb; Republicans Explode

Friday, July 29th, 2011

 

So. Now that I have bitched my ass off about the American Congress and after watching talking heads supporting all sides of the debt ceiling debate, I’m all done with it. I have had enough.

It seems that the Republicans have self-destructed from a critical mass of childish dumb ass. It appears that scientists can now measure just how much stupid it takes to blow shit up. When you place power into the hands of uninformed bigots, you get the current Republican House caucus.

After reflecting on events over the last month, I find myself bursting with pride over our President. His mature attitudes and assumed role as a statesman have set the stage for the self-destructive actions of his opposition.

Bullies hate reason.

Which reminds me. The Squirt, Honor the cat and I were at the computer yesterday looking for a copy of the movie Slaughterhouse-Five. Squatlo told the story of the banning of Kurt Vonnegut’s book by some silly school board, and his story sparked my emotions like a baseball bat-sized firecracker punk.

OK, that might have been the dumbest analogy I have ever made. I was attempting to say that Squat’s story was a big cinder that fell into the tinder box of gasoline-soaked rags that is my mind. Those would be cotton rags, and premium gasoline of at least 90 octane rating.

I was sitting at my computer desk, phone in hand and movie rental stores on the screen. My desk sits beside a big window that looks out to an interior courtyard that’s maybe 40-feet square, and open on one end. The open end looks towards the back of the ranch towards the orchard then the big garden, and all the way to the lake.

My view through that open end is framed by our huge pecan trees. Stately and well-trimmed, their tall, straight trunks remind me of the Pines of Rome. I can see the garden beneath their bright green canopy, and blue skies above. This summer, a big herd of Mexican Red Tailed Hawks have taken roost. These guys a too fucking big to call them a flock. There are at least a dozen of the beautiful creatures and we haven’t seen a rodent or a snake all summer. These hawks are smart hunters with efficient skills.

So, I’m at the desk, phone in hand and the cat in my lap. I’m not yet fully comfortable having the little tailless Siamese feline sit in my lap. The thought of having twenty razor-sharp miniature scimitars nestled against my balls is somewhat unsettling. The whole purring dealie concerns me as well. It hasn’t yet happened in my awake time, but I had a dream the other night where I got a woody pecker from the vibration of the purring cat. I can handle having dreams about stuff that I can’t handle when awake.

I have a small quilt that I fold and lay across my legs anytime I sit with the cat in my lap.

The Squirt is perched on the back of the low couch that sits in front of the big window beside my desk. She loves to sit there looking out the window while she jabbers away at me, and now me and the cat. Today it’s all about how pretty the Mexican Red Tailed Hawks are as they float and circle outside in search of prey.

“Los halcones son hermosos, Bwana Mooner. Qu’ils cercle autour tellement eleve,” Squirt said dreamily as she watched the pretty hawks circle above.

“Sometimes I think I have a connection with them,” Squirt said. “Sometimes I think they are looking right at me.”

Anyway, I was talking to a big-box movie house and asking about do they have a copy of S-5, the cat is pretending to sleep, and Squirt continues to watch the hawks and prattle a constant update on their activities. I’m getting pissed because I can’t find even a VHS copy of Slaughterhouse-Five.

“Oh look. I think the big guy spots some prey,” Squirt tells the cat and me.

I looked out the window and saw that the largest of the hawks has separated from the pack and he seemed focused on something near the back of the house. I said, “Looks like he’s zeroed-in on something in the courtyard,” I then dial the next video store number.

A young-sounding female voice answers and when I opened my mouth to speak—BANG! The outside glass of my triple pane window explodes and all hell breaks loose in my office. In exactly one-half of one second the cat has shredded her way from my lap, said lap protected with a thick quilt covering, and up my not quilt-covered chest to my shoulders and head where she stopped.

In the same half second, Squirt has become Bark Woman. She’s barking and cussing at the majestic bird that sits, stunned and groggy, in the mulched flower bed below the window.

“Afr, arf, arf, arf, you mother fucker! Arf, arf, arf! Grrrrrrrrrrrrr!” And then, “Open this window and let me at him, Mooner. Arf, arf arf! I’ll rip his heart out! Arf, arf, grrrrrr!”

Now me, I found myself in somewhat of a pickle because I’ve got a ten-pound scaredie-cat perched on me. Honor has one of her back feet anchored in the flesh and fabric of my shirt collar on each side of my neck, and each set of her front claws is anchored in my scalp. She’s growling herself, and shaking with intense anger. The shaking is causing her claws to gradually sink deeper into both fabric and flesh.

“What tha fuck is goin’ on in here?” Somehow my Gram had managed to get from her wing in the house to my office door in seconds. “Sounded like a car wreck in here.”

The old gas bag surveyed the situation inside the room and starred giggling. “Look at chew, Mooner. You need ta find another way to attach yer hood ornamenter to yer skull. Yer gonna lose yer face if it falls off.” Gram giggled some more and said, “Now tell yer fucking dog to shut her yap an call the wind’a company.”

The hawk regained its senses and flew off, and I’ve got eight punctures in my shoulders and ten deeper wounds in my scalp. They burn as if the cat’s claws were poison tipped. I’ve got scratches from belly button-to neck up my front, and I’m iodine stained on the wounds and my fingers as well. I had to do my own nursing from fear that Gram’s ministrations would cause additional pain, and I’m not a skilled nurse.

Now, of course, I’m afraid to let the little dog and cat walk around the property without a human with them for fear that the hawk will make another attack. Thank goodness I’ve trained them to pee in the sink.

Which reminds me. Have you guys visited my store yet? Just go over there to your right at the Blog Roller and click on Mooner Merchandise Store. That’s where you will find all the neat things emblazoned with “Fuck Rick Perry”. I think my next like will be my “I Pee In Sinks” line. Would that be a great tee shirt to wear while dining at your favorite cafe? Or in the sitting room at the doctor’s office?

I promised to take the guys fishing and I’m taking Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry with us. My gay pig and ostrich are huge pains in the ass, but I’m thinking the big ostrich will intimidate the hawks into looking elsewhere for supper. One of those my bird is bigger than your bird dealies.

I’m ready to sit in the shade on the dock and sip a few icy-cold Carta Blanca beers. Manana, y’all.

It’s All About Jobs Stupid; The Store Is Open

Thursday, July 28th, 2011

 

So. I’m trying to not stay constantly angry about the debt ceiling situation in Washington, DC. I’m keeping myself busy with family and friends, and I have stayed away from the TV. I have avoided everything that would put me into contact with news content. I even stick my fingers in my ears when someone starts to speak of it.

It’s not fucking working. I’m as mad as all bloody hell.

I’m not going to attempt to provide advanced economic modeling to demonstrate my point that we need both a taller roof and increased tax base to provide cover for our now-fragile economy. That is beyond my limited mental capacities. But I will give you my two-minute evaluation. Here goes.

The entire world economy was attacked from within when greedy banks and investment firms ignored classic lending rules. Financial markets threw their lending rule books into the shit can and made loans to anyone/anything smart enough to file an application. Seeking obscene profits from not credit worthy borrowers provided instant fees and above prime rate returns.

What those silly assholes failed to do was create a viable exit plan just in fucking case things went south with the loans. So they then created new kinds of financing—what the genius boys over to Wall Street like to call “Derivatives.”

Surprise, surprise, Gomer Pile, but Derivatives turned out to be another Ponzi scheme that collapsed because it had to. All Ponzi schemes collapse, and when this one did, it took all of us with it. The most important negative aspect of this collapse was that it killed-off existing jobs and impeded new job development.

NEWS ALERT TO CONGRESS…. It’s jobs, you dumb fucks. Jobs are the answer to economic recovery. Productive jobs with solid pay.

But you can’t create jobs by cutting spending. Go to Sherry’s Raindrops Make Things Beautiful 2 by clicking http://www.luckyfrogs.blogspot.com/ where she makes as cogent a case on this as I have seen. Remember the old adage “It takes money to make money?” That is what we are speaking of here. It will require investment (read spending) to create new jobs.

For some silly reason I think that Congress will solve this problem without putting us into default. Call my stupid, but I think they will solve this with last-minute “heroics.” They’ll be patting themselves on the back, blaming the other for the mess and taking full credit for the solution.

To voluntarily place America into default is unconscionable. That is exactly the same thing as when billionaires like Donald Trump put assets into bankruptcy so that they can take advantage of a situation and burn whomever gets burned.

Donald-fucking-Trump has never cared if he profits at the expense of others. “It’s just business,” he has said time, and time again. “It’s just business.”

Hey, fuckballs, listen up. This debt ceiling is not just business. This is our lives. Stop pandering to your contributors and do the RIGHT thing.

Ugh. This shit is almost enough to kill my enthusiasm for my new product line over to Mooner Johnson’s Store. Click on the Mooner Merchandise button over on the right—it’s the first entry on the Blog Roller. Brandon from My Own Private Idaho created a ton of neat stuff with the FUCK RICK PERRY thematic materials. Also check out Brandon’s classy website at http://www.lostinidaho.me/ .

Caps and shirts and stickers and totes, and shit. Great designs and fair prices. Phase One of Mooner Johnson’s Fuck Rick Perry To The Tenth Degree Tour wass the creation of this merchandise concept. Phase Two is getting them on sale here.

Phase Three is getting other bloggers to brand Fuck Rick Perry with their logos and stuff, and put it up for sale. I’m going to collect every blogger’s stuff. It will have just as good an investment potential as my stock portfolio.

Write your congressmen and tell them to compromise and get America going again. And drink Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

Mooner Johnson’s Store Is Open For Business!!!

Wednesday, July 27th, 2011

 

So. Hooooo-Fucking-Raaaaaaah!!!

The Mooner Johnson store is open for business and Fuck Rick Perry merchandise is now on sale. A huge thanks to Brandon from over to My Own Private Idaho. Brandon did all of the art work and graphics and he’s even installing all of the merchandise in the store for me. You must go check it out by clicking to:

http://www.cafepress.com/MoonerJohnsonCafePressStore

Brandon already has 14 different products up as I’m doing this, and they are absolutely fucking knockouts. You have to go look and see what great work he has done. I can hardly wait to start giving shit away.

OK, so that you know, this is Phase One of the newly announced:

 

Mooner Johnson’s Fuck Rick Perry To The Tenth Degree Tour

This tour will feature many of your favorite bloggers putting their names on FUCK RICK PERRY merchandise. This merchandise will be made available in any number of ways here in Mooner World and on the other bloggers’ sites as well.

You can join now. If you have a blog and you want to participate just email me at: mooner@moonerjohnson.com and I can give you the details.

Future products will include: Heil Boehner, Who Gives A Shit, and much, much more.

I’m so fucking excited I think I just shit myself. No fooling. Manana, y’all.

Burn Baby Burn And Other Stuff From The Sixties; Ugh!

Wednesday, July 27th, 2011

 

So. When I was a kid and young adult, America was a country in turmoil. Social turmoil. Our dark-skinned citizenry had finally had enough oppression after a few hundred years of slavery and racial bigotry, and rose up en mass to gain equal footing with we whites. Black people burned their ghetto neighborhoods to force their position.

Women, the second class citizenry of every race, rose up en mass and burned their bras and told any unyielding man to kiss their ass.

Young people burned their draft cards and refused to go to Viet Nam, a military action fought to keep the military industrial complex financially strong and assuage the conservative right politicos of the time.

I, luckily, have several childhood injuries that prevented me from getting accepted in the military. My draft number was 42 and I was called to induction early in the process. My best friend, Streaker Jones, had already prepared for our flight to Canada. If we hadn’t both been declared ineligible for service we would be in Vancouver today.

What pushed those divergent groups of Americans to rise up and start burning shit is not a complex social sciences problem. You don’t need a think tank to figure it out. The fucking Rand Corporation is no wiser than the average American on this dealie, because the issue in each case can be traced to the same, very basic and very easy to see cause.

Whenever any group in power uses their power to oppress other groups, those groups will rise up. The uprisings always start with debate—reasoned, logical and moral debate. When the power structures ignore reasoned debate, things move to the heated debate stage. Heated debate is when polarization occurs. That’s when all Americans are forced to choose sides.

When the power structure continues to use its power to enforce the oppression— well, folks, that’s when things start burning. And I, for one, am afraid America is at the tinder box stage.

I got frustrated with myself last night while trying to get my tee shirts ready for sale here to my bloggie. Brandon over to My Own Private Idaho designed these terrific graphics for some products, but I’m too computer stupid to take things from there. I spent four hours on it and couldn’t even get the images loaded onto the Cafe Press site. Ugh.

My ADHD was driving me mad so I decided to take the girls and go for a drive. Squirt and Honor the cat love driving in my old GTO. I have safety harnesses for each that allow them to safely move about the cabin, so they get to poke their noses out the window and bark and growl at people and shit.

Did you know cats can growl? I didn’t. First time Honor growled it scared the shit out of me. And cats aren’t like dogs, uh-uh. Dogs, they’ll growl and then bite if you don’t pay attention to the warning. A dog’s growl says, “Back off asshole or I’m ripping your balls off.”

A cat’s growl often arrives after a peremptory strike. Cat’s growl says, “OK motherfucker. Those bloody balls… you want some more of that?”

Anyway, we were cruising down south and decided to stop for a cup a Joe. That’s what the Squirt calls the dregs of my cup she gets whenever I finish my coffee. But I have to be careful to insure that she gets but a few drops of Joe. That little shit is high strung as it is. Last time she drank too much coffee was a fucking disaster. I left my chair out and she climbed onto the table and swilled a half-cup from my mug. I drink dark roasted Costa Rican beans, espresso ground, and I place three tablespoons of the powdered bean into each mug I brew.

We stopped at a local coffee shop in south Austin to have an iced coffee. The girls waited outside to hold a table while went in to get our order. When I came out to sit, there were six older folks sitting at the table next to us. They were in a discussion about the debt ceiling. They were speaking of how the right-wing Christian conservatives have debased our education systems and social systems in Texas just so Rick Perry can run for president and gain favor with big business.

And they were angrily talking about Boehner’s speech from Tuesday night. They think he is a liar and a lout. I won’t tell you all of the reasons they do not like the Speaker of The House of Representatives. I think that my reading audience is smart enough to figure that shit all the way out. But I will tell you that they used the word “hate”. They hate Boehner and they hate what he and his ilk are doing to our country.

While I stayed out of this conversation verbally, I was listening intently. The subject went from what they hate about the situation and moved to what they are going to do about it. That is when I heard chilling words. One of the women at the table spoke of the thing that I fear most from our current political situation.

“Hey,” the woman said. “Do any of you guys remember the Gray Panthers? Maybe we should restart the Gray Panthers and take matters into our own hands.”

Guys, I think the debate has heated up. Drink Carta Blanca beer and come back manana, y’all.

FUCK RICK PERRY!

Boehner. Hitler…. Boehner. Hitler; Compromise Assholes

Tuesday, July 26th, 2011

 

So. Did you guys see the speeches on the debt ceiling last night? Is it just me, or did Boehner contradict himself all over the place? I thought the Prez presented a thoughtful, cogent and non-threatening method to keep America open for business.

I think that if the Republican fuckball we call Speaker of the House had ended his presentation with a “Sieg Heil” I would at least respect him more for his honesty. The way the Christian right-wing hides behind their moral superiorities offends me. Hitler’s politics were based upon his rock-solid belief that the white Aryan Christian race of uber-perfect humans were the only humans deserving to make decisions.

Our boy Adolf apparently also thought that white Christian folks were the only ones deserving to even occupy space on Earth’s bountiful crust. I’ve seen no evidence that America’s religious-based conservatives are genocidests as of this date, but hell, we’re still in the early stage of their development. Hitler was in power for several years before he started actually killing people with differing heritage or ideologies.

But just like Hitler’s Nazi party in the early stages of their reign or terror over to Germany, the Republicans are instituting castigating laws and policies that oppress and steal the rights of their opposition. Hitler condemned any religion not Christian, he oppressed gays any way he could, and he insisted that people marry and have babies to further the cause.

Does any of that shit sound familiar to you?

COMPROMISE, ASSHOLES!

Which reminds me. I had a batch of comments on my bloggie two days ago, 48 to be precise, that turned out to be spammers who took the time to hit my site en mass. Not to profile them, but the names sounded Indonesian and that would explain their Indonesian addresses. The silly fuckers were promoting sales of a Yamaha 2000 power generator.

Whatinthefuck is up with that? Why is my site a target for generator sales? Do the Indonesians think that I’m such a back-woods hick that I don’t have indoor electricity? OK, don’t answer that one.

Anyway, when I figured out that I was under spam attack–that would be after approving and responding to a few of their comments– I sent all of their comments to the Trash heap, and decided to go to my visitor evaluation plugin widget dealie and see what might be attracting them to my site. Most of them appeared to have arrived via a lemming trail, but the first few had Googled the words “gay male poo tang scent feet” as the entre to my site.

Huh?

I was totally flummoxed by this revelation. At breakfast this morning, I had to ask the family what they thought of this. I HAD to fucking ask.

“Well,” started Gram, “You got that ignernt-fuckin’ pig an his sex pal tha bird fer starters.” Gram gave me the evil eye and added, she said “An iffn I catch ‘em in my potion pantry I’mma plug ‘em, an good.”

My grandmother was referring to slugs from her twelve-gage shotgun and Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry, my VERY gay pet hog and ostrich. I think Gram was right though, the two of them might explain the “gay” and the “gay male” parts of the Googleating dealie.

I then said that I thought that maybe having a lesbian sister and a lesbian ex-wife who are now married to each other would add additional weight to the “gay” parts. In a straw vote around the table, we got near unanimous agreement. For some reason Honor the cat refused to take part in this discussion. She just sat on her stool, always placed where it is in whatever sunlight filters into the kitchen, and licks her ass while she ignores the rest of us, like a cat does.

“OK,” I said but what about the ‘poo tang scent’ parts? That makes no sense to me.”

Squirt answered with, “Puet-poo ist Indonesisch fur skunk veneno?”

I thought about that for a minute. “Good call little lady. Maybe Indonesians call skunk venom poo tang scent.” I kissed her little nose and told the table how very proud I am of her progress as my translator.

The fucking cat continued to preen and pretend we didn’t exist. Which reminds me.

Brandon over to Lost in Idaho is designing some FUCK RICK PERRY! Tee shirts so we can put them on sale here and elsewhere. His first designs are killer and I can hardly wait to get them aboard the store. He’s doing them in a way that will allow other bloggers and webber personages to take off my logo and put theirs on.

It is my desire to have as many bloggers and websites as possible selling the FUCK RICK PERRY! shirts and other stuff. Stay tuned for details.

OK, I need to go since I promised my sweet little puppy and ungrateful fucking cat I’d take them fishing. The Carta Blanca is already iced-down, so all we need to do is dig some worms and head to the dock.

Manana, y’all.

Mooner’s Blog Roller Foiled; Fuck Rick Perry!

Sunday, July 24th, 2011

 

So. I don’t know if my life is driving you crazy but it is making me a total fucking nut case. My ADHD seems to have somehow caught ADD, and my distractions have become disturbances of major proportions. Cover that mess with the wet blanket of my obsessions, that has been soaked in the jet fuel of my compulsions, and I’m one errant spark away from total fucking decomposition.

I’m starting to think that all of those scientists over to Switzerland or Austria, or whereverthefuck they plan to build that Supercollider thingie, should take a break and study my brainwave traffic first. I’m sensing that a miles-long stainless steel tunnel is totally unnecessary for the production of split atoms and de-structured atomic sub-particles.

The way my thoughts are spinning around at high speeds and slamming into each other lately, I’m thinking they could just suspend their precious little target molecules in saline solution, fill a hypodermic needle full of the salty brew and then jam it into my brain through my sinus cavities. If I could determine how to remove the experiment’s results without loss of motor skills, I’d volunteer.

I was actually feeling reasonably well when I got out of bed early this morning. I had made my selection for the fourth inductee over to the Blog Roller before going to bed last night and I decided to check in over there to her place before heading to the kitchen to face my family. Facing my family on Sunday mornings can often be laborious. What with the extra-large Sunday newspaper, and the recapping of the past week’s experiences and the planning for the coming week’s activities… well allow me to say, simply, that Johnson family Sunday morning breakfasts have broken grown men down into sniveling idiots.

When I logged on over to my fourth inductee’s bloggie site, I was immediately unsettled. Something had changed and it took a minute for me to get what it was. It hit me when I gave up my pursuit to find the change and looked at the latest blog posting. It hit me hard.

What I missed was the now removed picture of a very tall stiletto-heeled shoe with a caption that always makes me smile when I read it. I don’t always read it when I check in over there, but each time I do, I giggle to myself. The caption that was the accomplice of the high-heeled shoe was fucking hilarious.

But I read the content of the latest posting and was disturbed to read that this blogger had decided to clean up their blog act so as to not create disturbances elsewhere. That, dear readers, was a fucking conundrum for yours truly. That was a punch in my stomach.

That was a giant kick in the ass.

See, the settled-upon number four was actually my fifth choice, fifth behind my actual fourth choice. I decided to wait to name my original fourth choice until she starts posting on a regular basis again. It seems that many bloggers lack the vicious and evil drive to make postings that consumes Squatlo and me. I attempt to segregate my prejudice towards errant-posting bloggers, but if I can’t see at least a couple postings a week, I find myself required to move you down the totem pole that is my Blog Roller.

Holy shit. I have no fucking idea what I just said.

Look. I had already decided who was to be next on my list but a recent infrequency of postings caused me to wait in naming said to my list. I then moved on to my next chosen inductee only to log on over there and discover that she is changing her content.

How in the fuck can I name a dealie when the content is about to change? Really, howinthefuckingshit can I take that risk?

I need a Carta Blanca beer for shitsakes.

Fuck it, and FUCK RICK PERRY! I’m not doing anything right now. I’m going over to Squatlo’s place and looking up one of his fake Michele Bachmann videos. A little release and then I’m nighty-fucking-night.

Manana, y’all.

Epiphanies Suck; Rick Perry Too

Saturday, July 23rd, 2011

 

So. Life is strange. Remember when you were age ten when you had your first “I’m-so-much smarter-than-when-I-was-X” epiphany? You know, you come to some important realization about yourself or the world around you, and then you feel a burst of pride that you have matured sooooo very much since whatever age it is that you are comparing your current self to?

Like right this minute, I’m thinking that I am sooo very much smarter at self-editing than just a few years ago. When I first started writing, I would reread that last paragraph and think to myself, I’d think, “Well said, Mooner my man. Well fucking said.”

But today I see those same words and realize that– -while I said exactly, and with great specificity, precisely what it was I wanted to say—I might have communicated accurately with maybe 41% of you guys.

Which reminds me. Yesterday’s breakfast conversations centered on the inappropriatenesses of my various bloggie behaviors. I told you about one aspect of the debate when Mother accused me of being a racist and ruining her life. There were more, many more recriminations against my actions here to bloggieland. Mother was on a roll, and I don’t mean a blog roll. Or an egg roll, dinner roll or even a role model. It was more she was whacking me with her rolled up Baptist Prayer leaflet.

Another of the things about my blogging she finds unconscionable, a second harbinger of her fall from grace in her Baptist church, is my use of the word “guys.” OK, and let’s stop for a second and look at this little dealie. How in the fuck do you decide where to put punctuation marks around quotation marks when the marks are not an actual part of any modifications or adornments to whateverthefuck it is that’s placed between the quote marks?

And now, for shitsakes, I have managed to mangle multiple thoughts and story lines all at the same time. I’m confusing myself. Let me start over. First, should that period (the punctuation mark and not the unit of time) have been placed inside the quotes or, rather, immediately after. Said another way, was it grammatically correct as done, like this: “guys”.; or should I have gone like this: “guys.”… And holy shit, where do I place the fucking question mark I wanted to put after the second example of quote punctuation?

Shit. What I want to communicate to you is my confusion and I have the confidence of near certainty that you do, indeed, get that. That I am confused.

So, Mother said that when I call you guys “guys”, I am hurting many of your feelings. “Most women will even be offended when you call them guys,” were her specific words.

Since that pissed me off, I stewed all day and finally decided to look up the definition. What I found is that the formal use of guys is intended for male genital-attached humans only. However, in it’s informal use the word guys is meant for all sexes.

Therefore, when I say “you guys” I am doing so informally so as to be neither racist nor discriminatory in any manifestation of bigotry. Rather I am being magnanimously inclusive of all creatures, races and religions. Well maybe not all religions, or for that matter magnanimously either.

But my ADHD has managed to digress the ever-loving shit out of us. Where I meant to go with this is to say that I have had many of those certain-age epiphanies. When I was ten I looked back at my nine-year-old self and giggled at my earlier childishness. The when I was nineteen I did the same with sixteen. Again at twenty-five and thirty and thirty-eight and so on through life.

I started to have one of those moments last night when I looked to the dictionary to settle the dispute over calling you guys “you guys.” (OK, now look at where I placed that period. Is that correct?) I was starting to think that I am soooo very much smarter than when I was a kid when it hit me, and it hit me hard.

I realized, a realization that still sits like three-pound bean burrito in my stomach, that as I get older I realize just how much I don’t know. I realize that I’m not getting smarter, I’m just getting older. And what a fucking Ugh! moment that was.

Do you guys have Ugh! moments. Ugh! moments are like Oprah’s Aha! Moments except without all the bullshit and silly pretenses. Ugh! Moments are when you realize the you or the world are fucked up. Like now.

Ugh!

At least T-Q freed me from the chains of racism. He approved of my behaviors. So let’s hoist a Carta Blanca beer to T-Q and drink to racial diversity.

FUCK RICK PERRY, and I’ll see y’all manana.

@Thank_Q Is Inductee Number 3; Is Mooner Racist?

Friday, July 22nd, 2011

 

So. It’s time for the third installment to my new Blog Roller, and what was an easy choice to make has become a difficult announcement. Maybe that should be that this is a difficult pronouncement. I decided yesterday who would be my third inductee to be displayed over there to the right on my roller dealie, and I was going to post the story yesterday. But, of course, I got distracted and forgot.

At an early family breakfast this morning, I made the mistake of mentioning that I had forgotten and opened myself to their inspection. Huge fucking mistake.

“Now, son,” my martyred mother counseled with speech dripping the atonements reserved for retired teachers who were raised in the Baptist church. “You mustn’t bring race into the discussion. I can’t have any of my friends from the church read your Internet newspaper and then lecture me on your inappropriateness.”

Mother, that would be my actual mother, fanned herself with her Baptist Daily Prayer leaflet with her right hand, lacing her left index finger inside the collar of her robe to allow the fanned air to slide beneath. She stopped, quite theatrically, and continued with, “Mooner, honey, I simply can’t abide another meeting with the ethics committee over one of your… your…”

At this juncture Mother’s fan hand was switched to high speed setting, and her left index finger was joined by the remaining digits to tug her collar out of shape. “Oh, sweet Jesus, I have no idea what to call that pornography and blasphemous drivel you call your blog.”

“What… in tha fuck… are you a yammerin’ about, Mother?” my Gram piped up. “Mooner’s making a public service with his bloggie. Now shut tha fuck up an eat yer oatie meal.”

Sister, who would be my actual sister, was at the house this morning to work in the big garden. Her first-and-only wife and my third ex-wife, Anna the Amazon, was out of town to visit her family and Sister came across town to visit hers. Sister giggled at the interchange between the two Johnson family matriarchs and said, “Who are you naming this time, Mooner– what’s got your mother so upset?”

I hate when Sister says, “Your mother,” like she and I didn’t share the same womb. I know that many of Mother’s consternations are directly connected to my childhood adventures, but she had two kids.

I answered her with, “Well Sis, here’s what seems to be the rub with YOUR mother. I decided to name my buddy over to Thank-Q For Common Sense because of the high quality stuff he does over there.”

“Isn’t he that nice African American man from Mississippi?” said Sister.

“Oh dear,” Mother huffed, “are you going to support your brother’s plan to ruin my reputation?”

Sister looked at me, her bewildered face creased with the beginnings of a grin. Then Gram pushed up from her stool and started to pounce, so I said, “OK, everyone, let’s discuss this issue.”

Here’s the crux of this mornings discussion. Thank-Q, T-Q to me, is a man from Mississippi who has black skin– skin he was born with– and he has lived the life of a black-skinned man raised in the South. He is smart and he has a keen insight into morality. Not the fake morality you find in today’s Churches, actual morality, morality based upon the values held by honest humans.

He’s funny too, or I might not like him quite so much, and he does some really neat shit over there. He did a soap opera dealie earlier this year wherein he had different bloggers do a day in the life story. He also did this live radio-on-the-I-net show that was some of the funniest stuff I ever heard.

T-Q’s site is one of my daily checker sites. I go to see what’s up over there and sometimes I go to grab a dose of his moral reality.

But here’s the problem my mother has. She thinks it is racist of me to even say that T-Q is an African American man. “It shouldn’t matter, Mooner, and your pointing it out is a racist act.”

OK, I think I get the gist of that. But I’m not using his blackness to segregate or demean him in any way, I’m describing him in a way that gives insight into who he is. Two of my ex-wives were black skinned. Ebony beauties both– one African American from Austin, Texas, and the second from actual Africa by way of Paris, France.

I don’t know how to even think about them as colorless just as I can’t think of Anna the Amazon as anything but a very large woman. Who happened to discover that she is a lesbian when she fell in love with my sister.

How can I separate what those women are from how I describe them? One of my ex-wives has skin so white and unmarked that she looks cast from alabaster. She could play a Kabuki actress without any white face paint. Another comes from a family whose history is steeped in Mayan culture from deep in Mexico. Should I not say that she is Hispanic– do I never mention the sexy, brown skin that wraps her luscious curves?

Ugh. Double-fucking ugh!

Look, I usually have clear thoughts about race issues. But this one has me flummoxed. OK, wait a minute. Do you get flummoxed by something, like hit in the head with a bat, or do you become flummoxed– like you become nauseated with a bad oyster?

Ugh, again. I need Carta Blanca beer.

Alright, here’s what I’m doing. I’ll make my announcement how I wish to make it and then T-Q can spank my silly white ass if I fuck it up.

So now, I present to you my next entry into my new Blog Roller… Thank-Q For Common Sense, an African American man from Mississippi of high moral character, keen insights and good humor.

Mnanana, y’all.

Ps– Don’t forget that a Twitter link will not show the Blog Roller. You need to click on my Blog tag to refresh the full page.

@Reckmonster Inspires Camel Toe Dream; Mooner’s Trains Derail

Wednesday, July 20th, 2011

 

So. I was going to tell you the name of the third installee of my Blog Roller today but something has interrupted the trains of thoughts in the switch yards that is my brain circuitry. And look at that shit… I can’t get one full sentence out before the grammar teacher who resides inside my skull is reproaching me.

First, maybe that should have been “installeded”, or possibly “installerated” Blog Roller designee. Second, my trains of thoughts and mental circuit boards are tough to specify. I say “trainS” and “thoughtS” and “yardS” on purpose. The plurals are required in my cases. If you have my form of ADHD you have an inkling of understanding as to what goes on in the toxic swill swirling in the cauldron that is my skull.

If you do not suffer from ADHD, or its little sister ADD, then you haven’t got a fucking clue what goes on inside my head. Everybody knows people who pretend to have ADHD– people who use ADHD as an excuse to cover for laziness or inattention. Those of us who truly suffer the slings and arrows of our ailment would like to crush the fakers’ balls in a vise. Or maybe remove their tonsils through their giant smelly assholes.

Which reminds me that I still have my tonsils. Proudly, I’m the only living Johnson family member to have made it with his tonsils intact. Old Doc Ashburn tried to take them from me numerous times when I was younger. Tried every trick in the book to get me to sit still for him to butcher me. And that– me saying Doc Ashburn wanted to butcher me– reminds me that my given name at birth was “Butcher”.

That’s right, my actual name is Butcher Einstein Johnson. I won’t tell you the story because it is contained in my soon-to-be-published book, Full Rising Mooner. What I will say about that is this: what I will say is, “What the fuck?”

Really, whatinthefuck is going on when a bunch of hillbillies name a kid a name like that? People make fun of me all the time for my having the moniker “Mooner”. When I tell them my actual name they all shake their heads and say, “Oh… Sorry.”

Anyway, I have multiple trains of thoughts, some racing down their tracks like a Japanese bullet train, some dragging along like a thousand-car coal train with a single tired engine, and the balance are commuter trains that make frequent stops and change schedules with the same frequencies.

The main method I employ to control these thoughts can best be described as switching yards, like you always see in action films, where some guy escapes capture by running between tracks and trains. In my brain I have more than one switch yard. My brain contains separate yards for trains traveling as first line thoughts, mid line thoughts, obsessive thoughts and then pesky thoughts.

Often, a single train will derail and I’ll lose focus for a moment. Sometimes trains get improperly switched in a yard and I’ll lose focus and say something stupid. Occasionally, however, the switch yard controller mechanism in my brain falls asleep at the switch all my trains derail or crash into each other. That event is what I call “brain fritz”.

Remember in the old BBC TV series Monty Python, when the John Cleese professor character would say, “My brain hurts,”?

That, dear readers, is brain fritz for me. My brain hurts. It’s not a headache in the classic sense and it isn’t brain freeze like with ice cream. It is the combination of those two sensations, then add some confusions and delusions, and then subtract the pain.

Holy fucking shit what a digression I’ve got here. The origination point of this posting was to tell you that I got the fritz brain last night and that caused me to have another funky dream. Since I wrote about the Reckmonster yesterday, she was in it.

In this dream I was eating at the Lubys Cafeteria over to Mopac at US 183 here in Austin. I was inside their building to start and it was a giant place, and full of people in long lines. We served ourselves, so I had big spoon and was helping myself to a taste of whatever I saw that spiked interest.

I ate most of a bowl of tapioca pudding, half a bowl of oatmeal and spoonfuls of a bunch of other stuff. I rounded a big turn in the food line, and there, on the right, was a dazzling assortment of camel toes on ice. Displayed like seafood at the fish market, every toe was perched on the ice and surrounded with herbal adornments to best demonstrate the attributes of each.

Little signs told of their origins. They said “Sarah Palin Camel Toe” and “Reckmonster Camel Toe” and “Queen Elizabeth Camel Toe” and Dr. Marcus Bachmann Camel Toe” and so on. I thought I had died and gone to heaven in this dream.

I won’t tell you from which camel toes displayed I spooned my samples, and neither will I tell you precisely how that worked. What I will say is that I awoke with a rock-hard dream woody, which I washed clean with a hearty lathering with Ivory Soap, and images of the Reckmonster.

And now Reck is going to be pissed at me and I’ll get an ass chewing from her for discussing her “business” in this forum. But who gives a shit anyway. That dream makes it all worthwhile.

So drink Carta Blanca beer and come back manana, y’all.

Rantings of the Reckmonster Latest Inductee; Will Sexing Soon Follow?

Tuesday, July 19th, 2011

 

So. This is post number two wherein I disclose another of my favorite blogger buddies and carefully explain why they are a favorite. Many of you might think that I name this next lady to my list because she is lobbying hard to become wife number twelve on my wife list. Some of you might think that I’m putting her name in lights because she has the hots for me.

But you would be wrong for the most part, and obviously have never read Rantings of the Reckmonster, my good buddy, and future twelfth wife-to-be. And would you look at that word “twelfth” for just a fucking minute. Is that not one of the most awkward words you have ever seen? Fuck it, I’m writing it 12th for now on.

Which reminds me of the Texas Aggies and their 12th Man dealie, which in turn, reminds me of the short Texas governor and shitball supreme, Rick Perry. See, little Prick Perry was a yell leader at Texas A&M since he was too scared to go out for a sport, or ROTC.

Any grown man who is so frightened of snakes– and the skinny coyote population traveling the greenbelt of his $10,000-a-month rented governor’s mansion here in drought-stricken Texas, that he carries a lady’s pistol when he jogs with a two-man bodyguard detail, is a pussy. Silly little fucker struts around like a rooster and shooting off his mouth about how tough he is about shit, and he carries a lady’s gun when he jogs in the company of trained assassins.

When you get a chance, go to one of the websites on Aggie yell leaders and take a peek at the little Prick Perry want-a-bees. Ask yourself this question after you have gotten the gist of what a yell leader actually is. Ask yourself, “Self, do I want to trust my country/state to a man who would be proud that he did this shit?”

Anyway, my future 12th wife is Michelle, a diminutive mostly Philipina (Filipina?) psycho therapist working in the same area of Tennessee as my first-listed favorite, Squatlo. Since both she and Squatlo use the word “rant” in their title names, you can guess that The Reckmonster rants. I call her Reck and she’s a Daily Checker. Eagerly, I click over there to see just whatthefuck she’s going off on today.

Sometimes she makes me laugh my ass off with her acerbic wit and humor, and other times she posts stories about the American Service veterans treated in the VA hospital where she works, which make me cry. Oh for shit sakes. Should that be “wherein she works”? Maybe “wherein, at which she works, at”.

Whatever, it’s curious that she and Squat are in the same town and are both former Catholics. Which is an interesting concept to me, that is to say former Catholic. See, I was raised a Baptist and they believe that once you are saved– you are ALWAYS saved. That’s right, walk to the front of the church, whisper in the preacher’s ear that you love Jesus and accept him as your Saviour, then get dipped in the nasty, fetid water of the Baptist bathtub that sits behind the pulpit of every Baptist church– and you are saved forever. That’s right forfuckingever, as in ETERNALLY!

Since I was baptized twice, I am saved for forever-and-a-day. Hoo-fucking rah!

My ADHD is acting up something awful. The Reckmonster does that to me. She is a terrible tease, dangling her womanly charms in front of me with the promise of unheard of pleasures if I’ll just marry, and divorce, wife number 11. My only potential to become number 11 is SAC Ellen, a gun-toting special agent for US Department of Homeland Security. I fear that any marriage to SAC Ellen would be my last. I’ll either find a way to stay married, or I’ll end up in a body bag and buried so deep I’ll never be found.

Which reminds me. Why does a woman have only a “bosom” and not “bosoms”? That one confuses the shit out of me.

Reck stands tall for her veterans and stands up for them as well. I named the cat who adopted Squirt and me “Honor” to recognize the sacrifices our service men and women make for me. I think that maybe Honor the cat displays some of the Reck’s personality. She’s frisky and sparky, she’ll spit and hiss at any transgression, and she’s got a purr machine that will melt your heart.

I’m dying to get close to the Reckmonster’s purr machine.

Reck lives daily the consequences of budget cuts to social support services which are the backbone of the budget-balancing act of the spineless right-wing Christian conservatives who are running our country. She sees what happens when vets return from active duty and cannot get the mental and health benefits they so rightly deserve.

Mostly, she cracks me up. So, one more once, hoist your Carta Blanca beers and click on my Blog Roll to the Rantings of the Reckmonster. Manana, y’all.

Twitter Screws Mooner; Squatlo Rant Suffers

Tuesday, July 19th, 2011

 

So. I just now posted my Squatlo Rant added to Blog Roller story. I always direct-feed each posting on Twitter. Then I go to Twitter and log on to the Tweet to insure everything posted right. When I just went over there, I clicked to get to the Squatlo Rant entry, and the way they transfer from Twitter doesn’t show the tool bar, or whateverinthefuck you call the tool bar dealie on the right that shows the Blog Roll.

Ugh!  And FUCK RICK PERRY!

Squatlo Rant Makes Mooner’s Blog Roll; Honor Student First To Qualify

Tuesday, July 19th, 2011

 

So. I have, at long fucking last, debugged the blog roller thingie where I can list my favorites from Blogworld over there [imagine I drew an arrow pointing to the right between these bracket jobbers]. The arrow you are imagining is pointing to the Blog Roll on my webber where you can see but one name– Squatlo Rant.

What I’m going to do is add folks to the Blog Roller dealie one at a time and tell you why I like them– why they were added. When you hover your mousie pointer over an entry on the Blog Roll, a pop-up will provide you with a brief explanation as to why I went to so much fucking trouble to have a Blog Roll.

This entire webber and bloggie situation has been problematic for me from the start. When you combine my lack of computer knowledge with Microsoft’s idiotic Vista operating system and then custom design an advanced website… well, you have some buggaboos built into very foundation of the system.

Then, just as readers begin to locate the bloggie somehow, a/some right-wing Christian hacker/s fuckball/s invade and plant Trojan Horse viruses with the intent to create havoc and frustrations. And answer me this– why isn’t it virusses, with the added “s”?

The Trojans spent time observing and gathering information from my entire computer and when the time was ripe, they raped and pillaged. Like a ripped condom, the Trojans spilled evil seeds all over the place. It has cost me time, money, frustrations and even readership, and I am just now getting my shop reopened after that calamity.

Oh for shit sakes. I am just now getting my shop reopened after those calamities. I need to pluralize since there were multiple Trojans and many different problems. And for that matter, why shouldn’t I say “pluralate”? That would be a far better describer of the actual intent/action. And fuck me running, that needs to be intents/actions. Am I the only one having trouble communicating clearly and accurately?

Anyway, when you layer that entire computer/Inet shit storm with a thick, sticky coat of my ADHD, well you can imagine my confusion. Which reminds me of the Fire Sign Theater. I love Fire Sign Theater. Many hours of my youth were spent with buddies– FST on the stereo, smoldering doobies making the rounds and icy-cold Carta Blanca beers in every hand. One of these days maybe I’ll tell some of those stories but for now, I need to stick to the subject and tell you guys about my good friend, Bob aka Squatlo. Or as I affectionately call him– Squat.

Squat retired from a tire factory job and decided to be a photographer to supplement his pension. He is great with nature pics and when you go over there to his site (having clicked the “Squatlo Rant” button over there [second “think right-pointing arrow prompt” inserted here]), you can click your way into his photo gallery and see what I mean.

Squat also decided to blog and rant on things, and it turns out that he is quite good at it. Liberal is his bend (bent?) and dumbass is the target of his wit. I sometimes find myself spending a thousand words in the attempt to tell you why something bothers me. Then I go over to Squat’s place and see that he said what I imagined I wanted to say in a paragraph.

He post’s what he calls “Guano”, which is stuff he pilfers from others– cartoons, crazy photos and the like, and that shit can be hilarious. And then he’s always embedding videos of silly shit that supports some idea or theme he’s addressing. I’m hooked on the vids. He put up this fake Michele Bachmann video that was so sexy I rubbed callouses on my pecker in a week’s time. I must have logged into that thing 136 times.

OK, I clicked the button 142 times in eight days. So sue me.

Squat is also where I have found many other buddies from Blogworld. All you need to do is check out his Blog Roller, or look at who comments on his site, to find some very interesting characters.

Squatlo Rant is what I call a Daily Checker, a site that I go to every day. With Squat though, I should say Hourly Checker because he posts multiple times each day. He’s a prolific son-of-a-bitch.

Did I do that right? Is it son-of-a-bitch or just son of a bitch? My editor ate my ass out about my hypenationing habits constantly as she reviewed my book. But who-gives-a-shit, right?

So, let’s all hoist a cold Carta Blanca beer and salute Squatlo Rant, the smartest blog on the I-net! Manana, y’all.

Dr. Marcus Bachmann? Mooner’s Gay Pig And Ostrich Drink Carta Blanca Beer

Saturday, July 16th, 2011

 

So. As if there didn’t already exist enough evidence that I am crazy, additional forensic science has emerged to further underscore the depths of my lunacies. It seems that I am destined to be crazy for the entire length and breadth of my time on this Earth.

I have spent most of my lifetime in constant psycho therapy and many months of that time was spent by me, months at a time, inside the padded-wall confinements of Shoal Creek Mental Hospital here in Austin, Texas. I have been incarcerated over to the loony bin for “observation” and “protection” and “aberrant behavior” and then this one time for “murder of a particularly maniacal nature”.

The murder indecent will must go undiscussed, as it is a central thematic story in my soon-to-be-published book, titled Full Rising Mooner. Which brings up something. I’m working with my Publisher to get the cover designed for the book and we need to have a phone conversation in order to talk through some things. The Publisher is a busy person, so we have been working with a moving target time to converse with each other.

We had a date and time set, said date and time when I would be at home in my office out to the ranch, so I asked to be called at the home phone number. Of course, the Publisher needed to reschedule and since my schedule is flexible, I agreed to a new time when I would be fishing out to the dock with my menagerie of animals, late yesterday afternoon.

And I, again of course, forgot to provide my cell phone number to provide access for the communication.

So, at the appointed time of the call setting, I somehow managed to get my animals quiet so I could enjoy an uninterrupted business call. How I managed this was to give each of them an entire Carta Blanca beer of their own. “If each of you will promise to shut up and not cut up while I’m on the telephone, I’ll let you have a personal bottle of beer,” was how I enlisted their quiet.

Squirt looked be dead in the eye and said to me, she said, “Was ist der Trick, Bwana Mooner? Qui etes-vous tenter de tromper?”

“There’s no trick, little lady. I’m not attempting to fool anybody. I just need you guys to be veeeeery quiet so I can do some business on the phone.” I’m finding that as I mature, I’m becoming a better, more patient parent. When my own actual kids were the age of this batch, I would have said something like, “OK, you little shits. If you don’t remain quiet while I’m on the phone– I’ll drown you and tell your mother you ran away.”

Have you ever seen a cat drink beer from a tall brown bottle? Honor the cat treats it like a big brown bird that requires 100% of her cat hunting skills to stalk, capture and torture before consuming. Hell, watching my motley crew drink Carta Blanca is a circus of giggles. Rush Limbaugh, hog that he is, grabs the bottle in his snotty snout and sucks it dry in one noisy gulp. Rick Perry struts around his bottle in circles and poses like a fucking peacock before upending it.

For the Squirt, she has been trained to drink only by the caps-full so she requires my assistance, often, to finish an entire beer. And fuck me running. Should that be cap-fulls, or maybe caps-fulls? When I first decided to become a man of papers, a literary writer and author, I made myself the promise that I would make the maximum efforts to insure that I accurately communicated with you guys.

Early in life, I was educated to the fact that communication is the responsibility of the communicator, not the communicatee. Communicatered? See what I mean? Right there is a fine example of what I’m talking about.

If you were to follow the classic example of modern communication theory, I would be the “communicator” and you guys would be the “receivers”. But to call you “receivers” would not properly express my true idea because I want you to actually experience in your thoughts what it is that I’m saying. I don’t seek for you to “receive” my words, I want you to fucking understand me.

In the effort to adequately communicate two paragraphs ago, I attempted to fill a gap in the English dictionary and make a new word to fit my needs. I first tried “communicatee” as that would seem to illustrate a yin/yang relationship to my role as “communicator”. However, my ADHD-addled brain quickly rejected communicatee as possibly inadequate in that particular instance because I wasn’t speaking to our relationship, but rather to the action of communication. So I tried “communicatered”, and I have to say that communicatered might be one of my worst word inventions to-date.

That sounds like some fucking political word-spinning asshole attempting to make a cut in social security benefits sound like a message from God.

Fucking right-wing Christian Republican shitballs.

Holy shit is my brain fritzed! I couldn’t rub two sticks together and make a fire if I led the horse to water. I need a beer.

I’ll stop while you can still follow my train of thought. I feel my communication skills are now getting derailed by the multiple racing thoughts in my skull. So, please allow me to say the one last thing that I know with absolute certainty that I can communicate with perfect clarity.

FUCK RICK PERRY!

Manana, y’all.

Language Barriers; Another Camel Toe Contest

Friday, July 15th, 2011

 

So. Yesterday was as interesting a Thursday as I might ever have had. OK, wait. Perhaps I should have said that yesterday was as interesting a Thursday as ever I might have had. That’s the sort of grammar dealie that throws me the worst. Proper use of adverbs, and other of our language’s modifiers, confuse me the most.

When I seek to communicate with maximum clarity and minimum disclarity, I sometimes get all perplexed and shit. Like with the word clarity. See, Websters’ Unabridged says that the opposite of clarity is confusion. But I’m not confused in the least when I attempt to communicate, but rather I have a clarity issue with my attempt to say precisely what it is I want to say, in a way that will accurately communicate said what it is I want to say, to the reader.

When I sense that my prose is falling short of accurate communication, those sensings are the stimuli for my need to invent a word to fit the situation. Like disclarity, which in and of itself, maybe should be unclarity. Or even anticlarity. I guess the choice there would be the gross expected lack of clarity I would expect my reader to suffer.

Take, for example, yesterday’s trip to the dentist, my dentist. It was time for me to get my teeth cleaned and inspected, and since the Squirt has broken the point off one of her way-back molars, she needed an inspection as well. The little dog refuses to see the vet for her dental care because I love Melissa, my longtime hygienist over to Dr. Kelly Keith’s office. I like the doctor too, and Alma is one of my favorite Grand Dames, but if Melissa ever retires I’m going to simply take the pliers to my remaining teeth and go on a liquid diet.

Anyway, Squirt will only go to my dental practice of choice and she has fallen for sweet Melissa as hard as I have. It’s a hoot trying to interpret Squirt’s multi-language banter when her mouth is full of Melissa fingers and dental instruments.

“Miff unth anth therth phuff an theeth?” was one of the trickier of Squirt’s comments requiring my interpretive skills.

Melissa said, “She is so cute, but I haven’t a clue what she says.”

“Well,” I started, “if I’m getting the gist of it, I think she just used German, French and Swahili to say, ‘That tickles.’”

I later was informed that I had missed that one in its entirety. Squirt told me, she said, “Ich sagte: J’ai besoin de cracher, dumbass.”

“Hey, little lady, don’t be calling me the dumbass. It’s the job of the communicator to insure the clarity of his communication,” I told her. “I will admit that my second choice was that you needed to spit.”

See what I mean about language? Which reminds me. You need to go over to Squatlo Rant and check out the John Stewart video clip he posted yesterday. It might be the funniest ten minutes of TV ever. It’s a dealie about Dr. Marcus Bachmann, the alleged gay husband of Michele. I’ve watched it a half-dozen times already.

Which might explain the silly dream I had last night. It was a camel toe dream and it was one of my “Mystery Camel Toe Series” where I see just the camel toe and have to guess who it belongs to. OK, I have to guess to whom it belongs. See what I mean?

So, I had a line-up of three beauties and I guessed the first two correctly– Sarah Palin’s camel toe and Kathy Griffin’s camel toe, a pair of my personal favorites. The third I missed by a country mile. It was a plump job, dressed in a light purple leotard of sparkly Lycra. It had a largish center meat line that I thought I recognized as another of my favorites. “That’s Oprah Winfrey,” I said to my dream’s contest announcer, Pat Sajack. “I love Oprah’s camel toe and she almost always displays it in the color purple.”

I was incredibly wrong, a fact I discovered when the bag was lifted and I saw the cherubic face and impish grin of Dr. Marcus Bachmann. Dr. Bachmann had a very convincing slug of imitation lady’s pocket meat. It was like his pretending to be a woman was something well-practiced.

I awoke from the dream in a sweat at 4:30 am and washed my mouth out with a Carta Blanca beer. I keep my favorite brew handy in a mini-fridge sitting near my bed.

Ugh. I think I need some extra therapy. Manana, y’all.

Dr. Marcus Still Gay? Cats A Mystery

Thursday, July 14th, 2011

 

So. I don’t have much time today so I’m going to tie up a few loose ends in today’s bloggie dealie. First off, I have gotten some Google buddy contacts and I have no fucking idea what that is all about. It seems that Google is doing its impression of Face Book only new and improved.

Who gives a flying fuck?

Second, I somehow managed to start a shit storm yesterday when I said that, in my humble opinion, Dr. Marcus Bachmann is a closeted gay man. Yes, in case you didn’t tune in yesterday, I am of the educated opinion that Michele Bachmann’s hubby is homosexual.

To all of you fine right-wing Christian folks out there– the ones of you who said so many nice things to me over the last 24 hours– I have two things to say. The first, based upon observation, consultation and scientific evaluation, is that it is my OPINION that Dr. Marcus Bachmann is a self-hating gay man pretending to have been cured through prayer.

It seems that Dr. Marcus Bachmann likes to pretend often. He likes to obtain pretend degrees from pretend colleges and he likes to make real money while he pretends to “cure” other gay people of their gayness. He “plays” pretend doctor with his pretend degrees and acts like he some kind of authority.

The one role he doesn’t pretend to play is that of a giant, slimy asshole. He is, actually, a giant, slimy asshole.

I asked Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry, my own closeted gays, what they thought of my opinion. The pig and ostrich had differing opinions on my opinion. Rick Perry agrees with me but Rush thinks I’m wrong. My gay pig says that Marcus and Michele Bachmann look a perfect couple like Ken and Barbie.

When I reminded him that as a couple, he is a giant pig and Rick Perry a tall, skinny and highly masculine fellow, he decided to rethink things. Looking at the Bachmanns standing together reminds me of Rick and Rush.

The second thing I have to say to you religious fuckballs is this, “Bite my ass!”

Next I want to update you re: my fascinating Twitter account. I have moved up and down again, and now have ended a week’s totals at a net of 23 Followers. That is a net loss of 3 Followers for the week. If I’m lucky I can be down to zero by this time in September.

OK, my last thing is to call out all of you chickens, you panty-waisted pussies who are too afraid to tell us about your first masturbation experience. So far only Squatlo and the Reckmonster have bellied up to the bar. So come on, it doesn’t hurt much. Tell us your story.

I need to scoot along now because I have a full day. We already picked the garden to take to the Food Bank, then Squirt and I need to go to the dentist, Honor the cat has a doctor’s appointment and then I’m taking them fishing as a reward for their acting like big girls.

And I did say I’m taking the cat to the doctor. I did not say to the vet. Cats are a mystery that I doubt I’ll ever solve. So drink Carta Blanca beer in a responsible way, and I’ll be back manana, y’all.

Dr. Marcus Bachmann A Closet Gay? Mooner Votes Yes

Wednesday, July 13th, 2011

 

So. I see where Mitt Romney refused to sign the Family League 14-Point Presidential Pledge. That’s the extremely prejudiced document, already executed by Michele Bachmann and Ricky Santorum, that right-wing Christian fuckballs are forcing on Republican presidential candidates.

First I want to say, “Thank you, Mr. Romney, for having the balls to say “No” to bigotry. Thank you for not taking part in the dehumanization of America.”

Second, I want to ask a question. Who appointed the right wing conservative extremist Christians as the spokesmen for God? From where did they get their authority to speak for Jesus? When did the Jesus Christ who taught and practiced peace, love, understanding and acceptance become a gun-toting right-wing hater?

If you believe that Christ died on the cross all of those 2,000+ years ago and that His word is law, then only His words are the law, right? And he hasn’t had a single fucking thing to say since his last words spoken as he departed earth three days after his death. Maybe I abridged that a touch, but I got the gist of it.

By the way, Ms. Bachmann, how do you account for the fact that Jesus made his last appearance in the presence of a prostitute? Do you think it must have been a typographical error that has the Bible reporting that your Saviour’s last instructions to his flock were to be interpreted and delivered by a filthy, dirty whore?

Doesn’t it bother you that it was a whore, and not the revered Disciples, who had the balls to stand at the foot of the cross and publicly mourn your Man’s slaughter at the hands of the Romans?

Which brings up another point. How in the fuck do those guys decide when to take their Bible literally and when to take it otherwise? How in the holy fuck can they figure that out? Is there some guide that I’m unaware of? I know that Jesus Hisownself hasn’t come back yet so we don’t have any additional instructions from Him.

Hell, if I didn’t know any better I’d say that what happens is that any time a right-wing Christian fuckball doesn’t like what the Bible appears to say– they just make some shit up. Like this 14-point dealie.

I haven’t read the entire thing, I simply do not have the stomach for it. But what I did see turned my stomach. It is obviously an “anti” document. Anti-gay, anti-tolerance and anti-social services, but especially anti-gay.

Which sparks-off another observation, a view for which I feel compelled to issue a disclaimer. I have a gay sister, that would be Sister, and a gay ex-wife. The man I most admire for his manliness is a gay man I have known for many years. I support the gay population in their struggles to gain acceptance and equality. I support them fully.

There is one gay faction, however, that I do not support and one which I feel should be castigated. That is the gay person who pretends to be straight and covers his/her homosexuality by acting anti-gay. Like Dr. Marcus Bachmann. That’s right, I said it. Michele Bachmann’s husband is a deep-in-the-closet gay man who has created the most elaborate cover in modern history.

Watch that silly fucker speak for one minute and you can tell. And I’m not talking about his stereotypical effeminate mannerisms. It’s what he says and what he does. He supports the de-gaying of homosexuals through religious practices. Maybe that should be the “un-gayifying” of homosexuals.

He is the classic, “Me thinketh he doth protesteth too strongly.” I think Mr. Michele Bachmann the poster boy for all gay people who are too frightened to live honestly.

To summarize this for you, answer me this. Dr. Bachmann’s clinics specialize in helping a gay man to “train” the homosexuality out of his soul. I say that this is a method born and raised close to the Doctor’s home. What sayeth thou?

Anyway, my hat is off to you, Mitt Romney. I won’t vote for you but I will stand up for you. So, I hoist my icy-cold bottle of Carta Blanca beer in your honor. Manana, y’all.

Tell Your First Time To Masturbate Stories– Or Else

Monday, July 11th, 2011

 

So. When I started yesterday’s bloggie posting I had something very important to tell you. By the time I finished, I had forgotten what was so fucking important and ended up talking about the first time I ever masturbated. OK, the first ever time I masturbated. I’ve been recently re-scolded as to my grammatical shortcomings and I vowed to redouble my efforts at clarity.

By the time my mind had wandered from the subject of telling lies to that of masturbation, I had a bright idea. I like how some bloggers ask a question with each of their postings at the end as a way to stimulate comment and conversation. I thought I would do the same to see what you might have to say on the subject. My question was asking you guys to tell us about what you used the first time you masturbated.

I used Ivory Soap and told you so. I exposed my soft under belly and laid my delicate sensibilities on the alter for your perusal. All I asked in return was for you to return the favor and tell me about your first experience with one-man sex.

But not a single one of you answered the call to public service– not a single fucking one of you wrote back. Nary a one of you had the balls to place your secrets into print and tell your story. Of the several hundred of you who have already read yesterday’s posting, not a one of you has the balls to put yourself out there.

Chickens. Buk-buk-bukawk!

At breakfast this morning I was bitching about this, and Gram had a thought. “Oh quit yer bitchin’, Mooner. You didn’t say shit, jest that ya used yer fucking Ivory Soap. Tell a fuckin’ story or shut tha fuck up.”

Then, of course, she had to tell the entire table about the first time she masturbated. “How ’bout I tell my story to prime tha pumper fer ya. Maybe when they read my story it’ll agitate em inta telling theirs.”

(Those of you readers with squeamish stomaches need to log off now– the following contains disturbing images.)

“Here’s what happened ta me tha first time. You member when yer Aunt Hilda an me was getting’ chased by them big African fellers over to tha Congo, don-cha Mooner?”

I told her that I did but I wasn’t printing that story here because it’s in the book. She gave me the evil eye and said, “I ain’t telling ’bout tha boat ride, ya little shit, I’mma tellin’ ’bout how I diddled myself tha first time. Ain’t what you was askin’?”

“Yes, Gram,” I said as patiently as I could. “Specifically, I asked what they used at that time as I had just told them that I used Ivory Soap.”

“Well that’s what I’mma tell ya. You rememberate yer great uncle Bobby, you know Hilda and my daddy’s brother? Tha one what lost his leg over ta Cuba inna war an hadda walk with a cane?”

I answered, “Yes, Gram, how could I forget. That crazy old fart had that fancy ivory walking stick with all of those beads and animal heads carved into it.”

“Well, fancy you should’a brung up that cane a his ’cause that there’s what I used ta rub off my first climaxer. Still use it when I ain’t got me a man around.”

Ugh. Ugh, ugh and ugh again. I inherited that walking stick and have lent it to a dozen people to use either for when they play dress-up and need a fancy cane, or for when they are injured and need the help.

“Oh for shit sakes, Gram, I let people use that cane. I can’t let people borrow something that you use as a giant dildo.” My stomach turned over when I imagined things.

“Listen here, ya little shit,” she said. “I ain’t never hurt a thing one on yer precious fucking pecker-shaped stick. Only thing I done is rub all the hair off’un tha lion’s head onna top.” She paused and added, “Oh yea, an I lost tha erring that was in tha little guy’s ear one time, but I was sexin it up with Henry Hammond this one time an he found it.”

Now she’s laughing at the memory. Gram slaps her thigh and said, “It was a fuckin’ hoot. Ole Henry he’s a slurping away and comes up an spits tha little loop inta his hand. ‘I been a lookin’ fer that, sweetie’ I told him.”

All I could do was try to not gag on my undigested breakfast. You would think that after all these years of living with that old randy gasbag I would be immune.

“Anyway,” Gram continued the story of her initial masturbation, “I sunk that puppy all tha way to them elephant heads onna very first try…”

That was when Mother gasped and feinted straight out, her body slumping in her chair. Mother has a weak constitution so I got her a chair that would contain her limp body and keep it from dropping to the floor.

Just so you know, the twin elephant heads on the cane are each the size of half a tennis ball and they sit maybe eight inches from the lion’s head that adorns the top of the ivory stick.

“Gram,” I told her, “no more, I can’t take any more of this story.”

She looked at me in disgust and said to me, she said, “Pussy.”

I got up to take my dish to the sink and Gram said, “While yer up whyn’t ya grab me a Carta Blanca. All a this sex talk made me thirsty.”

And all of Gram’s sex talk has given me an idea. I still want you to tell your first masturbation stories. If you don’t, I’ll get Gram to tell you about the time she almost “accidentally” had sex with the neighbors goat.

So, come on and spit it out. Manana, y’all.

99and44one-hundreths-percent Pure; Mooner’s Guilty Conscience

Sunday, July 10th, 2011

 

So. Sometimes I wish that I had the capabilities required to be a liar. Sometimes I wish I could sleep at night after misleading someone with my prevarications. Telling lies makes me feel terrible about myself and brings the guilt out in waves of tsunamic gut wrenching, sleepless nights. Tsunamiatic gut wrenching?

Telling a lie will bring out more guilt in me than if I were to commit murder. This is not a hypothetical imagining but, rather, a experiential observation. I don’t mean experiential from the perspective of like a scientific experiment designed to provide baseline evidence for future evaluations. I’m speaking more from the perspective of a “been-there, done-that” dealie.

OK, I’m starting to confuse myself so why don’t I give you examples of what I’m talking about. When I was five years old, I took some cookies from the platter sitting on the table in our old kitchen out to the ranch. This was years ago and before I had remodeled the entire house after I inherited it at my grandfather’s death. I won’t go into the story as to why I was bequeathed the big ranch rather than Gram or my still-living father, just know that I obtained the title honestly.

Mother and Gram had baked the cookies for some silly Baptist church lady dealie, and the number of cookies produced was the result of careful calculations. Each woman was to receive two cookies each, three for Pastor Browningwell and then an even dozen for the poor folks who were the church’s charges.

So, I grabbed two cookies on my first stealthy attack and then three on a second pass. The cookies were chunky chocolate oatmeal and made from a Johnson family recipe– big chunks of semi-sweet chocolate and not-too sweet oatmeal cake. Messy to eat when eaten hastily by a sneaky five year old child.

But I caught the evidence of cookie theft on my hands and washed them and my face before the theft was discovered. When Gram found the cookies were missing she headed straight to where I sat in front of the old black-and-white TV. I was watching Howdy Doody with the dog and I was shivering in my boots. When Gram asked about the missing cookies, I held up my hands and said, “I didn’t do it.”

Gram cast the evil eye my way and said, “Well, if you didn’t do it, who done it?”

Quick as a rabbit, the lie escaped my lips. “Trixie did it Gram. I saw her.”

Trixie was Dixie’s grandmother and a Golden Retriever that didn’t talk to me, at least that I heard. Trixie was always getting me into trouble so I was lying to get some payback. Gram scolded the dog and took an angry swipe at her with her foot, and chased the poor thing out of the house.

The only sleep I got for the next two weeks was nightmare-filled sweats. When I finally confessed to the crime, I got my ass whipped with a willow switch that I was required to cut from the big tree by the old stock pond. Then I stood for an hour with a bar of lye soap in my mouth and I went to bed without any supper.

My entire life I have had trouble with the spellings of lie and lye. I guess having spent so much time with a bar of lye soap in my mouth any time I told a lie mixed shit up in my head. A lye soap mouthwash was always part of my punishments if my indiscretions involved the use of my mouth. Tell a lie, curse out of anger or otherwise, talk back, or use the Lord’s name in vain were the most common stimuli to provoke a lye sucking.

I can still taste that shit. That’s why Ivory Soap is all I’ll ever use. Besides, Ivory soap is , as they used to say, “Ivory Soap is ninety-nine-and-forty-four-one-hundredths-percent pure.” I buy Ivory Soap by the multiple-case order and I have stockpiles everywhere. I even have it in the safety box out to our fishing dock. I keep it every fucking where. After getting stuck without it several times as a teenager, I never leave home without it.

I love it smell and feel and the way it looks. I love that, except for the size and shape of the bars, it hasn’t changed a bit since I was a kid. They did fuck with the scent of it a few years back, but consumer backlash righted that ship.

First time I ever masturbated was in the shower with a fresh bar of Ivory Soap. Somehow the symbolism of doing the dirty with a bar of soap helped cleanse my conscience of its Baptist-infused guilt. Beating off with Ivory Soap was my first rebellion against the Baptist church and a satisfying act at that.

Holy shit, I forgot what I was going to tell you. I can’t remember what it was that spurred this shit out of the far reaches of my skull. But now I’m wondering what you guys used the first time you masturbated. If you’re not too chicken to say, tell me.

If you are too chicken, drink a couple Carta Blanca beers to screw-up your courage and then tell us about it. Maybe I’ll remember why I called this meeting manana, y’all.

Gram Calls Rick Perry To Task; Texas Governor Ruins State’s Economy

Friday, July 8th, 2011

 

So. I need to make this quick because I’m taking Squirt and Honor the cat on a field trip to our hemp fabric clothing factory, and it’s a five-hour drive. I wasn’t even going to post anything today but my grandmother made a personal request of me.

We were at an early breakfast and Gram was reading the Op Ed page of our local newspaper. I had been first to read the front section of the paper, so I knew that Gram would be steaming when she read this one article. A conservative writer, Rick Wartzman, has written an article that attempts to reestablish the positive aspects of Texas leading the nation in job growth over the last several years. Basically, his logic is that “liberals” like Rachael Maddow have ignored reality when discounting governor Little Ricky Perry’s results in growing jobs in Texas.

I could tell when Gram had reached the above-mentioned article because she was snorting and cussing under her breath. When she finished her reading, she carefully folded and creased the section of paper into a bat shape, and pointed it across the table at me.

“Mooner, I want ya ta git on yer blabby an sit this shit straight. Sumbody needs ta tell tha truth about that little prick we got fer a gov’ner,” were her exact words to me.

“But Gram, I’m driving the kids out to the If You Can’t Wear It, Smoke It plant today. I need to review the winter line of stuff so Streaker Jones and Dixie can get the catalog printed.” Streaker Jones and Dixie are my working partners in that enterprise, and we have some nifty jackets and sweaters coming this winter.

Gram gave me the evil eye and said, “Who gives a shit about yer silly catalog when that fuckball Rick Perry is ruinin’ our en-tire state with his tallywaggins?”

Hunh? It took a second for my brain to compute. Oh, I got it. “You’re right, Gram. Prick Perry is ruining our state with his shenanigans. I’ll dash off a quick ditty and post it before we leave the house.”

So, here is my quick ditty in outline form:

  1. Texas has had no more actual job “growth” than any other state in our fine union. The excess jobs registered on Texas’ ledger are jobs that were stolen from other states. That is to say, jobs that would have been generated in say, California, were lured away with offers of reduced or no taxes and extremely lax environmental restrictions on polluters.
  2. For the most part these have not been what most of us would consider “great” jobs. Since Rick Perry has been our governor, Texas has become a leader in uninsured citizens, at or below poverty rate citizens and we have the highest percentage of minimum wage earners.
  3. Greedy corporations from other states have taken advantage of this “Pro Business” attitude, and moved jobs to Texas at the expense of our citizens. We have an as-yet unresolved state budget deficit in excess of $20 billion– a deficit that has been pushed forward so as to not interfere with Perry’s run for the Presidency. Little Pricky has his chest all puffed out and he’s squawking that he “fixed” things here with our budget. Simply put, that is BULLSHIT folks. The deficit is still there and it will be back in our faces in a year or so.

 

I could say more but what more do you require to see the truth? Any way you spin it, Rick Perry’s policies have ruined the fabric of Texas’ economy and infrastructure. That’s why I say:

FUCK RICK PERRY!

Now y’all drink some Carta Blanca beer and come back manana.