Archive for August, 2011

Haku Winners Announced; Texas Governor Rick Perry Still An Asshole

Monday, August 29th, 2011

 

So. Today is the big announcement day for the winner of the Mooner Johnson’s Fuck Rick Perry! Haiku Contest. Maybe this is the the “First Annual” installment of said contest. If the silly shitbrain we call our governor makes a deep run for President, I’ll feel compelled to do this one more once.

The entries were many and varied. For shear volume, the Reckmonster is the clear winner. My sweet baby entered early and often. Brandon from over to My Own Private Idaho had several solid entries, and the two of them are the winners. Please overlook the fact that both are also among the early entries to my Bloggie Roller.

Gram says to me, she said, “Yer playin’ favor-ites, Mooner, ya little shitbird. Ya need ta let sumbody else win.”

In a way I agree with Gram. It would be better for my circulation if I was more inclusive with my awards. But I promised you nothing but truth, justice and full disclosures on these pages and the announcement of the winners further reinforces my appointments to the Bloggie Roller. I can’t “let” anyone in particular win, I need to let everyone in particular win.

Alright, stop. That should make sense but it just doesn’t. I was required in the name truth and honesty to not have prejudice in naming winners. Now that I’ve said that, I realize I have an entirely new set of problems. Think about this:

Since I am the judge, and I will be using my brain to judge; and my brain is fulled with experiences that influence my thinking; and, I’m a crazy ADHD-addled crazy fuckbrain; then, how in the hell can this contest have unbiased judging? How can a person using his brain to judge, be an unbiased judge?

I was disappointed that neither of my other entries over to the Roller even bothered to enter. Thank-Q was busy, so I understand his absence. Squatlo is a different can of beans in the altogether. Squatlo, is seems, is embarrassed with his skills as a poet. Embarrassment is a concept I’ve never managed to grasp so I find myself feeling a touch of superiority with this insight.

As smart as he is, I’m required to dig deep and stretch the fabric of reason to find ways to look down at Bob.

Anyway, Brandon is the winner of the “Most effective basic haiku” category with the following verse:

Thumping his Bible

All the way to President?

NO! FUCK RICK PERRY!

Clear, concise and straight to my point. Congratulations, Brandini.

The Reckmonster’s win is in the “Most Creative use of thematic materials” category. Check this one out:

FUCK politics, man.

RICK wants to be President

PERRY? Maybe Steve.

I love both her linear and Reck-d’linear logic strings. Three cheers for both winners! As soon as I get my fucking book published I’ll get autographed copies in the mail. Which reminds me.

Did you guys see where the mini-brained religious shitball we call governor is asking the Feds for $349 million of new aid? That’s right, little mister “We don’t need no Federal assistance” is practically demanding the money to pay for illegal alien prisoners in our jails. Ricky’s idea on this one is to make the Feds look bad because we lack safe borders and let all the riff-raff into our state.

What he fails to mention is that his very own “Job Growth”[,] which forms the backbone of his Presidential campaign, has attracted thousands of undocumented workers to our state to snatch up all of those amazing job opportunities the Prickster is bragging about. All of those high-paying new positions with huge salaries. Ri—ght. When your population is populaced with an influx of illegals, your fucking prison populations will generally reflect said populace.

Two-faced, lying sack of shit. FUCK RICK PERRY!

Is “populaced” a word? Maybe I should have said, “…your fucking prison populace will reflect said population.” Of course, I would need to change the first part of the sentence structure as well.

But whateverthefuck, Rick Perry is an evil little shitball.

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

Rick Perry Shops For Sex Toys; Ostrich Grateful For Mooner’s Thoughtfulness

Saturday, August 27th, 2011

 

So. It’s Friday and time to clean up my trashy website. First, I will be announcing the winner of the FUCK RICK PERRY! Haiku Contest on Monday. I’ll take entries into the contest through Sunday. The winner(s) will receive an autographed copy of my new book, Full Rising Mooner.

How many books would I need to give away to become a best-selling author? I think it would be a trip if people started introducing me as “best-selling author Mooner Johnson”[.] What a nice change of pace that would be. “The inappropriate redneck fuck brain, Mooner Johnson” is a little shop worn.

I was going to tell you the names some of the leaders of the contest, and also display their crafty three-line poems. But that would taint the jury pool and nobody likes tainted pools. I do like taints, however. That particular part of a woman’s nether-regions is, well, wonderful.

Maybe I need some sexing. SAC Ellen has been traveling the country working hard to address what Homeland Security calls “Domestic Terrorism”[.] She investigates many of the lunatic fringe who manage to catch the eyes of investigators here to the homeland. I’m trying to get her to investigate the prick Rick Perry and his band of propheteers.

That bunch are the biggest threat to our nation’s security since the Russians parked nuclear-armed ICBM missiles down there to Cuber in the sixties. Which reminds me. When will it become necessary to say “the nineteen-sixties” instead of simply the sixties? Does that time hit the clock when we pass another sixties era—like in 2060 we will be required to say 1960—or is it rather when the majority of our population is born after 1969 and lacks the perspective to grasp meaning?

Speaking of sixty-nine, I took the ostrich Rick Perry to the vet yesterday to have the wooden deer statue removed from his ass. Rush Limbaugh, Rick Perry’s piggish gay lover, had stuffed it up there during sex.

“Jesus, Mooner,” Doc Martin started when he took his first gander at the giant bird’s ass. “I don’t make enough money for this shit.”

“He’s adopted, Doc,” I answered, “and there’s no telling what sort of abuse he endured before he ran away from the ostrich ranch. Maybe they made him live with a bunch of emus. Emus are nasty creatures.”

Doc Martin looked me dead in the eye. “Don’t go blaming your bad parenting on natural selection, Mooner. Rick Perry is gay by choice, not chance, and it’s all your fault.”

I let the comment pass and held Ricky’s head to keep him from macing the vet as he plucked the wooden buck from his ass. I don’t mean the bird would spray the vet with toxic spray, but, rather, he would clock the Baptist asshole with a swing of his rock-hard head. The deer pulled free with a sucking sound—at least the boys use generous globs of lube—and the sucking sound was followed by the disturbing splats of an ostrich shit.

“Dammit, Mooner, he just shit all over my shoes.”

“That’s because you are a Baptist bigot and an ignorant fuckball,” I replied. “Now clean yourself up and take a look at my cat.”

Turns out the cat is about a year old and is healthy as a horse. The only problem with the cat’s exam was when Doc Martin again called me a bad parent. Honor hissed and spit at him and then shredded the hem of his lab coat. When we checked out I noticed a $35.00 entry on my bill to make amends.

I’m concerned about the Squirt’s tooter though. The asshole vet thinks he might need to surgically remove the flap of skin surrounding it—sort of a circumcision dealie. We discussed it on the way to the sex toy store and Squirt told me, “No fucking way,” in German, French, Swahili and what I think was Mandarin Chinese.

Shopping with my crew is always interesting. Taking Rick Perry to buy gay sex toys is a fucking trip. He was like a 350-pound kid in a China closet the way be ran from display to display, gazing at all the items with his billiard-ball eyes. He wanted to try everything in the entire store on, or out, or in. I showed him the big sign that said, “You insert it, you own it!”

“The best we can do is discuss how things work, how you use them and their pluses and minuses,” I told him when he got cranky with the rules. “I’m not buying you one of everything in the store.”

We were discussing cock rings and Honor had reached her limit. The little cat shook her head at us and went out to the truck. I don’t haul Rick Perry or Rush Limbaugh either one in my GTO. Squirt joined the cat at t the truck when the ostrich wanted to know how to use a string-of-pearls.

We finished shopping and took his choices to the checkout stand—four cock rings in various colors , Super X size; an assortment of of rabbit vibrators; a case of the new sensual men’s lube; and a thirty-six-inch two-headed black rubber pecker with studs on each end.

A very sexy younger woman was at the register. She was wearing a rubber thong bikini and had tattoos showing on all the exposed skin up to her ears. Every body part that can be pierced was pierced, she had alligator electric clamps pinched onto her nipples, and she clutched the control handle of a rabbit in her hand—the wire of which disappeared into the front of the bikini bottom.

With a dreamy smile on her face, she said to me, she said, “Please lay your purchases on the counter, sir.”

I did, and the dreamy look turned to one of shock. She looked from me to my bird, then down at our selections. “You are a dirty old man,” she sneered. “You’re dis-gusting!”

“These aren’t for me, little lady, they’re for Rick Perry here, and his gay lover Rush Limbaugh. Rushie stayed home to get ready for some sexing with these toys when they arrive.”

My farm truck is an old one-ton Ford flatbed with full wooden slatted side boards. The framework and planks are all made of thick cedar planks from trees we’ve cleared to expand the garden. It has a slide window behind the single seat cab, so the cat, dog and I sit on the seat and the ostrich sits in a harness in the back with his head inside the cabin. It took me quite a while to get comfortable having his basketball-sized head wandering around the cab of the truck.

It can be quite a shock as you’re driving down IH 35 at 65 MPH and you’re suddenly eye-to-eye with a bird head that sports a shovel-sized beak. Did you know that he can break your leg bones with that beak?

Anyway, I guess he appreciates my assistance in the deer statue removal and sex toy buying trip. His has laid his head on my shoulder and keeps sighing big sighs. Even with my 20% off coupon, I spent almost $200.00 at the toy store and every trip to the vet is expensive for a six-foot tall bird. When he nuzzled my neck and hummed a little, I said to him, “You’re welcome, Ricky.”

I can’t figure why people say I’m a bad parent.

I took the cat and dog fishing when we got back so that Rush and Ricky could have my wing of the house to themselves for a few hours. We packed our Carta Blanca beer into the wheeled cooler and took off. Life in the now high desert. It may never rain again.

Manana, y’all.

Rush Limbaugh Stuffs Wooden Deer In Rick Perry’s Ass; Mooner Forced To Teach Gay Pig And Ostrich Sex Ed

Thursday, August 25th, 2011

 

So. I’ve only got time to dash off a quickie this morning. I’ve a full Thursday schedule and each entry is important to accomplish today. First we’ll go pick the remains of our drought-ravaged garden for whatever produce we can take down to the food bank. The already seventy days of 100-plus degrees summer temps have pretty much dry-boiled everything. Melons and cukes and a few peppers are all we have left in any quantities.

After that, it’s off to the vet with the Squirt, Honor the cat and Rick Perry. The cat needs her one-year check up, my giant ostrich needs a rectal exam, and Squirt’s adorable little tooter is infected again. As for the cat, I’m guessing that she’s a year old. Not being a cat person, a guess is the best I can do. The only cat we ever had out here to the ranch was this black monster of Gram’s named Lucifer.

Use your imagination.

The Squirt has a flap of vaginal skin that traps moisture around the cute little heart-shaped vulva that hangs from her hiney. I try to keep it treated with medicated wipes, but the summer heat seems to give her what seems to me to be a yeast infection back there.

The gay ostrich is another situation altogether. My Aunt Hilda, who lives in Gram’s wing of the ranch house with her shrunken-head-in-a-box she calls Dubbie J, collects rodent figurines. My crazy old aunt has hundreds of mice and rats and rabbits and a bunch of the hoven-foot variety of rodent—deer. I wish deer would just go the fuck away. They are almost as destructive as wild pigs and people actually feed them to help sustain untenable herds of the antlered fuckers.

Anyway, Rick Perry was up early this morning banging me on the shoulder with his shovel-sized beak in an attempt to wake me from a dream. I don’t have time to tell you about the dream save to say one thing. Think, “Three-holed condoms.”

Since it was as cool as it will be all day at 5 am, I decided to get up with my pet bird and walk outside with him. He had a pained expression on his face as he walked in circles looking for an appropriate spot for his morning constitutional. Usually this is a thirty-second dance before he plops an eight-pound load to the turf. This morning’s dance more resembled a frantic game of Musical Chairs.

He’d circle, squat and grunt, crane his long neck to look at his butt with those billiard ball eyes of his—grimace—and circle some more. After maybe fifteen minutes of this silliness, I walked into his flight path… OK, wait. He can’t actually fly, but like I said, he was flying around in frantic circles. I managed to get him stopped.

“What’s wrong, big guy?” I queried. “You look distressed.”

He looked at me, craned his neck to look at his ass and then back at me. He cocked his head from side-to-side as he stared into my eyes like he was attempting a Vulcan mind meld.

“Oh, I get it, you want me to look at your ass.”

My answer was him shuffling his ass around and jamming it in my face. I was 6’4” before I started shrinking and I’m still north of 6’3”. Rick Perry’s ass was nearly at eye level. I backed off to give myself room to focus just as the big bird made his “taking a shit” move.

Thank god nothing came out.

I spied something irregular protruding from his fuzzy anus. “Whatthefuckisthat, Ricky? It looks like you’ve got tree growing out your ass.”

I looked closer. “Oh for shitsakes, you are disgusting!”

What I mistook for a tree was actually one of Aunt Hilda’s wooden deer figurines—a buck with a huge rack of antlers. “How in the ever-loving fuck did you get that stuck up your…”

Ick. Fucking ick. ICK and YUK and UGH!

Look, I understand that ass play is an important part of homosexual sex. Hell, it’s a part of any kind of sex. But a foot-long, four-legged wooden deer statue with an eight-inch rack of pointy horns?

“OK, young man. After I take you to the vet to get this thing removed from your ass, I’m sitting you and Rush Limbaugh down for another sex education lesson. When I told you it was OK to stick stuff up your butt, I expected you to be smart about it. I know you guys don’t have fingers—but a fucking wooden deer?”

Now he started crying and put his thirty-pound head on my shoulder, his smelly yellow-staining tears soaking into my UT tee shirt. “It’s OK, buddy. My bad. I should have given you a few options for use as butt plugs.”

One of the reasons I named the giant bird who runs in circles and hides his head from ridicule “Rick Perry” is because he lacks any measurable native intelligence. “I should have known to give you more information. How about I take you over to the sex toy shop after the vet?”

I walked him into the house and called to leave a message for the vet that he’d be seeing the Johnson cat, dog and ostrich today.

The thought that somehow Rush Limbaugh the pig stuffed a foot-long deer statue up his gay lover’s ass is… well it’s unsettling.

I’d drink a Carta Blanca beer if I didn’t have to drive. Manana, y’all.

Welly, Welly, welly Well; Rick Perry Is Bad For The Environment

Tuesday, August 23rd, 2011

 

So. I’ve got this huge fucking debate roiling around in my head. It started as I was getting ready to start the water to cook the pasta to go with the turkey meatballs we made for dinner. I drew the “protein” card for tonight’s dinner and Squirt drew a “carbohydrate” card. I figured that I can kill two birds with the single dish by teaching the Squirt how to make meatballs and pasta.

I’m a multi-tasking son of a bitch.

I got the big pasta pot out of the pantry. When I say the “big” pot I’m differentiating between the three other pasta pots we have. I’ve got the baby bear pasta pot, momma bear, daddy bear and then the great big fucking bear of pasta pots. Since we’ll number nine humans, on each dog, cat, American domesticated hog and a single African ostrich populating the dinner table—the big pasta pot is the order of the day. It’s the same pot I use to steam blue crabs and boil crawfish.

Which reminds me. Squatlo. Listen up. It’s crawfish, not crayfish. Crayfish is what sissies call mud bugs.

I got the pot out and I was telling my little dog about how you need to have a sufficient quantity of water when you cook pasta if you want to cook it correctly. Normally the cat we call Honor would be tailing me as well, but she was out hunting for some doves. Honor drew an “appetizer” card and wanted to offer some grilled birdies. Last I noticed she had collected two doves, three sparrows, half-a-dozen lizards and a rat.

I am not eating the fucking rat. I don’t care how you cook them they ALWAYS taste like rat.

Squirt and I decided to make the meatballs from ground turkey—not my choice—but not altogether bad. We made the meatballs with fresh Mexican oregano, onion and garlic in a fine dice, Parma-Reggi, bread crumbs from a left-over ciabatta loaf, and this nifty smoked paprika I got from Spain.

OK, let’s stop for one minute. Up there when I typed “ciabatta”[,] I got red squiggly lines. When I highlighted it to see what I did wrong, my Vista operating system spell checker dealie gave me the following choices: adiabatic, abattoir, battalion, and coattail. What in the fuck?

I’m starting to wonder if maybe Texas Governor Rick Perry had something to do with this. What with all the dumbing-down of our schools in Texas, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the little Prickster was involved.

Of course, it might also be that the Vista Spell Checker Programmer Team up to Microsoft are all devious assholes hellbent to ruin my life.

Anyway, I took the big pot to the sink to fill it with water. I moved the spout over the pot and turned it on. “Alto, Senor Mooner,” Squirt barked at me. “Stop, I said. Tu ne veux pas d’eau chaude?”

I looked down at the little dog and found myself somewhat perplexed at her question. She was right. Did I want hot water from the spout to the pot, wasting many gallons of precious H2O as it ran the pipes from my solar heater, or should I rather put the first gallons to spill from the spout into the pot and spend more propane gas energy to heat that?

“That’s a mighty smart question, little lady. We’ve got a solar water heating system but the only way to maker it “instant hot” is to pump it around using electricity—a total waste of energy. So, our debate here is this: are we better off to waste the water to get it hot or the propane to get the first cold water heated?”

After my ranting at the Prickster, Rick Perry, this morning, I think I need to be cautious with my own water/energy consumptions. Which reminds me. Can you believe that little fuckball is associated with those crazy modern day prophet shits? I don’t know where my head has been, but little Ricky has been sleeping with that bunch of charismatic Christians who think God comes to speak with them on a regular basis, and I was unaware.

After Jim Jones and David Koresh and the rest of those silly fuckers, you’d think those dumb asses would think twice before saying silly shit like, “God came to me early this morning to tell me that He was killing some blackbirds up to Arkansas because Billy Clinton is from Arkansas, and he put that “don’t ask, don’t tell” dealie in the Army, and that’s why Hurricane Katrina blasted New Orleans and Elvis died young.”

Then again, before I go getting all sanctimonious about that entire dealie I might need to rethink a little as well. Seems I’ve been visited by the big guy myownself a few times. Maybe I should have said “The Big Guy”[.] He seems to visit me when I’m all drugged out on pain meds. Maybe I should drown a few Vicadin with a few icy-cold Carta Blancas and plan a visit.

Having said all of that, I think I have an answer to my question. Energy is a commodity available in thousands of resources. Everything from coal to rubber bands can produce energy. But water is a single source entity—the only water we have is the water we’ve got.

So, therefore, I officially decree that water trumps energy.

All of which has given me an idea. What if I can invent a fresh pasta that cooks in cold water? Anybody have any ideas?

Manana, y’all.

Save The Mother Ship: Fuck Rick Perry!

Monday, August 22nd, 2011

 

So. Today is to be a work day for me. That is to say that I need to go to my office out to Mooners Compost Plant and push some paper around. It’s been too hot for people to do any gardening or landscaping so our compost sales are really slow.

Mulch sales are brisk since one way to prevent the dehydration of your soil is to cover it with mulch. With water rationing an every-summer reality, I find it interesting that people keep watering un-mulched beds with bare soil.

Of course I also find it aggravating to see people watering the street with their automatic sprinkler systems. And people who run their fucking automatic systems more than the allotted number of days piss me off.

OK, now I’m mad. Will everybody please wake the fuck up and think. Rick Perry is wrong. God did not create Earth so that big business can rape and pillage it for profits. Wasteful, casual environmental practices are killing our planet. And our abuses of the limited potable water resources are likely what will be the end of us.

Of the many things that I find incredulous about the Christian right politicos, their attitude about the environment is the one I can least understand. All of this talk about love and nurturing and family and peace and all of those platitudinal rhetorics that those silly shitballs espouse are, in my fevered brain, negated by their positions on the environment.

Ever since I had a peyote button experience when I was seventeen, I have held the strong conviction that our Earth is a giant Mother Ship—the spacecraft that carries all of the lifeforms on our planet on a long-term trip. I’m unsure if the trip is a perpetual travel plan with no final destination or if we’re headed someplace in particular.

But I have absolute certainty that we are quickly fouling our spaceship’s operating and life support systems. I don’t think we will ever get to whereverthefuck it is we are headed.

OK, stop a second. The aforementioned “peyote button experience” wasn’t a one-button weekend. It was a month of July spent in the New Mexico dessert with Streaker Jones and His daddy. Streaker Jones’ father was a Peyote Indian medicine man, a spiritual guide of his people who was plucked from his reservation by the army to serve during WWII. Somehow he ended his army journey dropped—broke and friendless—from the troop train in Austin, Texas at war’s end.

He took Streaker Jones and me on a trip to collect the peyote buttons he needed for his medicine. We spent the days of that month walking the dusty earth of western New Mexico plucking the fruit of the peyote cactus, and the nights were spent drinking Carta Blanca beer and listening to the old man tell us the Peyote Indian version of history.

We didn’t ingest the drug every day, but after the first week I remember that I managed to maintain the desired state of enlightenment that a “seeker of truth” needed with just a few buttons a week. For me, one desired effect of the peyote was that my ADHD calmed to where all the thoughts in my head organized themselves. I still had the same numbers of thoughts, but I could organize them to where only one or two were primaries and the others blended into the fabric of my mind.

Anyway, this one night we were leaning against our sleeping bags, listening to a story of how Earth first became inhabited with near-human inhabitants. Talking Feathers, that was his abbreviated name, was telling the story and I was enraptured with it. With a full bladder of Carta Blanca, I got up to pee and walked away from our little camp, the desert’s night sky bright with stars.

I closed my eyes to pee, enjoying the feeling you can only get from a good pee event. At some point I opened my eyes, stared at the stars and was hit smack-dab in the face with a truth. I was hit with a true epiphany.

“We humans are marooned on a space ship just like those two guys in the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey. And pollution is our HAL 9000!”

Holy shit. Judging from the rate of my digressions in less than two pages of story, I could use a peyote button now.

OK, look. What I’m trying to say is this. If a man truly believes that God created the earth and all of its creatures—creatures both great and small—then don’t we have the fucking OBLIGATION to protect that earth and its creatures? If I truly think that God made me the earth’s shepherd, don’t I need to be sure that I don’t ruin the farm?

Shouldn’t I be concerned that my wasteful uses of water will run the stock tanks dry? Shouldn’t I be concerned that my ruining the ozone layer will create climate changes that lay my soil fallow?

Shouldn’t I have just a teeny-weenie-itsie-bitsy bit of concern that my reckless, wasteful environmental habits are killing my spaceship? Shouldn’t I worry that me being an asshole will cause my spaceship to suffer a shift in its planetary relationship with the sun and that we’ll start spinning out of control and squish everything back into primordial stew under the crush of gravity?

Ugh.

Folks, Texas governor Rick Perry is an asshole. An asshole in many ways. While most of his co-runners on the Republican side of the presidential race are lackadaisical towards the environment, the little prick Rick Perry is the environment’s serial killer. He has systematically killed the Texas environment since he first took office, and he’s looking to start killing an environment near you.

FUCK RICK PERRY before Rick Perry Fucks you.

Now, save a few gallons of water and go pee in the sink. Spaceship Mother Earth will be grateful. Manana, y’all.

Oh Ree-Kee; Rick Perry To Steal Jobs Back From Texas

Saturday, August 20th, 2011

 

So. The pompous little prick we Texans call “Our Asshole Governor” is on the road in a bus that declares “Get America Working Again” in his vain-glorious attempt to become president. Rick “Watch Out California I’m A Stealing Your Jobs” Perry, the former Texas Aggie yell leader, jack-booted cadet and right-hand man of Jesus is touting his record on job growth in Texas as the main reason he should be your president.

Oh, Reeeee-keeeee! Hey, Reeeee-keeeee! Pay ‘tention Ree-keee. Don’ choo read dee papers no more? Hel-looo.

For all of you younger readers, that last little bit was my best Ricky Ricardo imitation from the classic I Love Lucy TV show. I won’t take time now to draw comparisons between the pompous, big-haired, rude, mean and often stupid TV band leader to Governor Rick Perry. That would be inappropriate under the circumstances.

But Ree-kee needs to read the newspaper back here to his current home town and catch up on his job records. The latest records indicate that Texas has its HIGHEST unemployment rate in 24 years. Huh? Did I just say that Governor Perry has led Texas to its highest rate of joblessness in twenty-four years?

Yes, I did. Ooopsie.

When I first heard that the Prickster, that’s my new favorite nickname for the little shitball, was using job gains for America as his central campaign theme, I was flummoxed. I couldn’t figure it out. “How in the fuck,” I asked myself, “is he going to do that? Most of the job gains he managed to produce in Texas were jobs he stole from other states. He lured greedy corporations to Texas with tax abatements and lax environmental enforcements.”

I just could not figure out how that would work. Until I read today’s Austin paper to see that Texas is headed into higher unemployment. Squirt and Honor were sitting with me out on the patio drinking our coffee. I drink a strong cup of French roasted Costa Rican brew I make one cup at a time. I grind my beans into espresso powder and then use three tablespoons to brew each mug.

A little natural cane sugar, some organic half-n-half and viola—a magical brew. Honor the cat has yet to develop a taste for my coffee and opts for a small saucer of my near-cream dairy product. My diminutive puppy, on the other hand, is a caffeine junkie. She calls the dregs of my mug that I give her as I finish each one her “cup a Joe” [.] (for new initiates, that bracketed period, the [.] dealie I left for you at the end of the prior sentence is my personal grammar protest to the confusing methods of punctuating non-quotes that are fitted inside the loving embraces of quotation marks.)

“Te gusta mi cup a Joe, Bwana Mooner,” Squirt tells me. “Come on, man, I need a little jolt.” The little shit shakes and vibrates enough without the coffee fix, but I guess I’m a weak enabler. Maybe I should ask the vet about if it’s bad for her.

Holy shit is my ADHD on the rampage this morning. I just digressed my Rick Perry story with a coffee story and my head just filled with a re-visitation from the dream I had night-before-last where that big fuzzy teddy bear, Dr. Marcus Bachmann, won a special ribbon at a camel toe and corn dog contest I was judging. In my dream his act was a delightful mime of Marilyn Monroe’s famous Happy Birthday, Mister President dealie.

When it invaded my brain just now, I almost gagged on my Costa Rican.

Focus, Mooner, focus. OK, anyway, I figured out how Rick Perry is going to get jobs for America. Are you ready? Rick Perry is going to create jobs for America by stealing them back from Texas.

That’s right, he’s going to steal the previously stolen jobs back by taking them from Texas. A brilliant fucking strategy if I say so myself. Any means to his end. Rick Perry won’t mind fucking Texas to get ahead. Hell, that’s just how the boy rolls.

Man I feel good at having figured that out. After we work in the garden I’m loading the cooler with Carta Blanca beer and going fishing! Manana, y’all.

Marcus Bachmann Wins Camel Toe And Corn Dog Contest; Mooner’s Prayer Of The Day

Friday, August 19th, 2011

 

So. OK, real quick. I need to go over to mow the grass at Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s place and the Squirt and Honor the cat are already loaded into the GTO. I must leave soon or else I’ll melt my handsome ass in sweltering heat.

Here’s what I wanted to tell you. I had this dream last night and the baseline plot was a camel toe and corn dog contest. Use your imagination.

We were up to the State Fair of Texas for the contest and I was the main judge and my diminutive dog and cat my able assistants. The Reckmonster was the blue ribbon winner and Michelle Bachmann was the red ribbon contestant. Mr. Michele Bachmann received a special “Pink Ribbon Award” for his act, a musical adaptation of Marilyn Monroe’s “Happy Birthday Mister President” [.]

That’s all very interesting but not what I wanted to tell you about my dream. The part I need you to hear is what happened at the Rick Perry for President rally taking place on the fairground stage next to ours. Hundreds had gathered for the little prick’s apostlations, but after maybe three minutes, a man yelled, “Fuck Rick Perry,” a pause and then, “Fuck Rick Perry.”

People shouted from around the crowd, “Yea, Fuck Rick Perry!” Then, first a few voices and then adding dozens with each chorus… “Fuck Rick Perry!… Fuck Rick Perry!… Fuck Rick Perry!”

It was amazing and wonderful. They even chanted like I do, saying it like this, “Fuck Rick Per-ry!” you know, not racing through the Perry part but, rather, dragging it out into two distasteful syllables.

So, I have a prayer for the day: Dear God, in all of Your many manifestations both real and imagined, I pray to you guys this really hot fucking morning to do two things for me today. First, how about a little rain for Christ sakes? I mean really, not all of us voted for Rick Perry. And speak of the devil, my second request is that you will make my dream come true. Oh, yea, and thank you for women and Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

Rick Perry Says: “Global Warming Is Jesus’ Comforter”

Thursday, August 18th, 2011

 

So. I feel vindicated. At long last events that I predicted have come true. I remained strong in my convictions—held true to my beliefs—and now, the whole country sees that I was right.

And I have never been more fucking miserable than I am with this vindication.

For years, in fact the last four years, I have tried to tell you that the prick we call Texas governor Rick “Global Warming Is Jesus’ Way To Say I love You” Perry was going to run for President. I’ve said it so often that I started to bore myself. I have said it so often that I have managed to chase many of my readers away.

Now it has happened. Ricky Perry is a candidate. Rick Perry is smart in only one way—he knows how to get elected. Trust me, he has a smart staff and they know how to manipulate votes. Perry is a steamroller who pretends that he can’t hear criticism and walks through the firestorms caused by his ignorant, often stupid remarks.

When many of his remarks and positions finally started catching up with him in our last gubernatorial election, Perry refused to debate the other candidates. That allowed him to let his PAC fill the airwaves with sleight-of-hand ads to take the heat off of his weak debate skills.

If I was still a good Baptist boy, I would tell you that Rick Perry is a false prophet. I would tell you that he is one of those charismatic evil assholes that the Bible warns will lead masses to the slaughter. I won’t list every single thing that leads me to this conclusion, I will only give one simple example of what an evil little shit he is.

Global Warming. Look at his position on Global Warming.

In Texas, Governor Perry has spent the better part of ten years lowering the standards for air and water pollution as part of his program to lure greedy corporations from other states to our state. Greedy corporations that don’t care if they spoil our water and air if it means more profits for them. One result of this plan has helped Texas attract hundreds of businesses to come here and build plants. The second result is that Texas has become the state that creates the highest volume of noxious air pollution, and by a large margin at that.

To paraphrase the ignorant little shit head, “New science is coming out every day that shows man is not responsible for Global Warming.”

That’s right, folks, Earth is getting warmer because Jesus doesn’t want us to be cold. Or maybe God is unhappy with a few thousand of the creatures He created and He wants to kill them off. Hell, if Rick Perry is right about Global Warming, then I think God has a plan to kill humans off. How great would it be if God decided to let the entire human race commit slow, torturous suicide?

Ugh.

But, having spread that thick layer of malaise-o-naise on your breakfast muffins, I have another prediction. I think that the right wing Christian conservatives are going to self destruct. I think that enough of the great disinterested American voting populace will finally awaken to this danger and help stamp it out.

FUCK RICK PERRY! Fuck any person who attempts to rule Americans with religious-based ideologies. Fuck any-fucking-body who places business interests ahead of social welfare and education.

I think America will soon see through Rick Perry’s “I created jobs” rhetoric and see that he just stole jobs from other states and created opportunity by selling-off the environment. People will soon see that he will do the same to our entire country.

That felt good. I’ve got a garden to pick and then I’m having a Carta Blanca beer to celebrate the future political death of right-wing religious fuckballs. Manana, y’all.

ADHD + Vista Operating System = Edit Mess; I Need Proof

Wednesday, August 17th, 2011

 

So. I want to shoot myself. I…just…want….to fucking…shoot myself. Anytime I think I’m getting better, anytime I think I’ve gotten a handle on just how crazy I am—I need to stop whateverthefuck it is I’m doing and grab a gun. I’m so fucked up that I’m starting to worry that I’ve contracted more mental maladies than just the vicious case of the ADHD and mild dose of obsessive-compulsive disorders from which I know I suffer.

When I write, I self-edit as I’m key-stroking after every five words. Why? Because I’m a hunt-and-pecker typist who looks at the keys as he types, AND I FUCKING SUFFER FROM ADHD! That forces me to stop typing and look up to read this silly shit I’m writing every ten seconds.

After finishing a paragraph, or a couple paragraphs, I read what I’ve written to determine if it has some thread of intelligent thought. If I can’t make heads or tails of it why foist it on you?

Then there are the many times that my ADHD fully grabs my brain and hijacks the several thoughts at the top of my heap of thoughts. Those multiple thoughts get spun into logic strands that resemble human DNA. When that happens, my writings resemble conflatulated post-nuclear anti-war protestings aimed at ridding America of Rick Perry and ending the drought.

After such brain hijackings I’m required to rewrite entire sections of whatever stuff I’m writing. If that isn’t bad enough, every time I stop writing—either to go to the bathroom, take a call, get a beer or even to think about what it is I’m writing about—I have to reread my recent writings, again, to get back into the swings of things.

Of course, I reread each page as I finish a new one and then I reread the entire thing when I’m finished. After that rereading, I minimize the document and take a break. When I come back, I reread again. Each of these rereadings always includes an edit.

As I wrote my book, all of the above self edits and rereadings were performed five-words-by-five-words, paragraph-by-paragraph and page-by-page for more than 400 pages. All of that shit was then edited by professional editorators, and several times at that. I self-edited the manuscript, what we authors lovingly call the “mss”, and stop the fucking presses. Whereinthehell does that last comma go? Just look at that little fucker sitting there mocking my ass.

I’m going to put all of my punctuations involving quotation marks, which are NOT affiliated with an actual quotation, in brackets. Like this: “…what we writers call the “mss”[,]…” I’m sick of dealing with that shit.

I self-edited my entire mss at least forty times. Honest to God.

After I sent the finished, final edited mss to the publisher the first time, I opened it up on the computer to show Gram what it looked like and discovered an error on the first fucking page. The first fucking page. I stopped the presses and sent the mss back to the editor to be re-fixed. Again.

Turns out my fucking Vista operating system screws things up. But Justine, my main editor, fixed it and then I resent the re-re-re-re-fixed mss back to the publisher.

Today, all fucking excited and beside myself, I received the UPS package containing the proof copy of the book. Sent to me by the publisher as a final “take-a-gander-at-what-you-have-done” [,] I was more excited than a five-year-old boy on Christmas morning. I grabbed a beer and called everyone in the house to the big kitchen table. When they got there I said, “Grab a cold one everybody, I’ve got a surprise.”

Gram fetched a Carta Blanca from the walk-in cooler, and Mother asked me to make a big pitcher of Margaritas for everyone else. Sister and her wife Anna the Amazon were here, as well as the P-cubed, Squirt and Honor the cat, Rush Limbaugh and the ostrich Rick Perry. My big pet pig has a summer cold and he was snot-snuffling like crazy through his giant snout. He was blowing these sticky snot bubbles the size of a basketball.

“Tell yer fuckin’ pig ta blow his nose, Mooner. Er I’mma git my 12-gager and blow it fer ‘im.”

I grabbed a dirty bath towel from the laundry room and wiped my piggie’s snotty nose. His face crinkled at the dirty cotton towel, but he blew anyway. He acts like a spoiled two-year-old. Appropriate, I guess, for a 500-pound domestic hog with the brain power of a kid of two years age and the manners and shitty attitude of his radio talk show host namesake.

After depositing the snotty towel back to the laundry area and washing my hands, I returned to my place at the head of the table. “This,” I said as I held the UPS package high in the air, “is the proof copy of my book!”

I ripped the package open with greedy hands, grabbed the book waiting inside and brought it to my lips for a big, juicy kiss. After lip-smacking a wet spot on the cover, I held it up for all to see. They applauded and Sister said to me, she said, “Read a little, sweetie.”

Sister sometimes calls me “sweetie” and that warms my heart. Since I haven’t let anyone close to me read the book, I relented to read them a few passages. I always hesitate to read aloud as my ADHD induces frustrating orations. But I opened the proof copy to the first page of Chapter One, found the line where I wanted to start and said, “Holy fucking shit! There’s a typo on the first fucking page!”

I scanned the next few pages and found typos on each. “Mother—fucking—Vista operating-fucking system!” If I had a gun in my hand I’d have shot the book first, my computer second and then myself.

“It’s OK, Mooner,” Mother said, “it’s a proof copy. You get to make corrections before the book goes to print.”

It didn’t matter, I was beside myself with frustrations.

Sister stuck her hand out to me and said, “Pass it around, sweetie. We want to see it.”

I handed her the book and sat on my chair with my head in my hands. Each family member oohed and aahed as they flipped through the pages of the proof copy of Full Rising Mooner. Each had something nice to say, things like, “It’s a nice jacket—clean and simple,” or, “It’s so brave of you to write about your murder charges, son.”

When it arrived into the iron-fisted claws of my grandmother, she looked the cover over with her beady little eyes, looked at me, looked back at the cover and looked back at me. “Who tha fuck you callin’ ‘centric?”

Huh?” the best I could manage from the depths of my self pity.

Mother said, “It’s “eccentric” Gram. You know Mooner has some strange acquaintances.”

Gram gave Mother the evil eye and then shifted her devil’s gaze to me. “You callin’ me strange, Mooner?”

With my head still in my hands, I responded,“Oh for shitsakes, Gram, it’s just a teaser to catch people’s interest in my book. It’s just bullshit like all marketing crap.”

I’m still getting the evil eye—I can feel the heat of Gram’s gaze. “I can take your name off the cover if you want me to. It’ll be no problem since I need to reedit the entire fucking book.”

“Ah it’s OK, sweet cheeks. Maybe I’ll get all famous an shit and it’ll help me catch more boys.”

My randy old grandmother is always looking for an edge as she trolls for college boys in her Ferrari at Texas’ major universities.

And speaking of trolling, fuck it—I’m going fishing. Manana, y’all.

PS: don’t forget to check in on my August 13/11 bloggie and enter the FUCK RICK PERRY Haiku Contest. You can win a free autographed copy of the aforementioned, totally fucked up book.

Happy B-Day To Mooner; Going Fishing

Tuesday, August 16th, 2011

 

So. It’s my birthday and I’ll bitch if I want to. I started writing a story for you, the story of my having received the “Proof Copy” of my book yesterday. A story with a fairy tale start and truck-wreck ending.

I still haven’t gotten my head around the many problems presented in that story, so I’m not printing it here quite yet. Maybe this afternoon.

As for my birthday, I was awakened at 5:30 am by the stares of my pets. I was dreaming that I was trapped in a dark cave full of bats. When I struck a match so I could see where I was going, the entire bat colony dropped from the ceiling and flew into my face. I awakened with a start to the smiling faces of the Squirt and Honor the cat along with my two gay pets.

“Gooten Morrrrr-gannn. Feliz cumpleanos, Bwana Mooner.” Squirt sang to me, sitting on my chest with her chin balanced on mine, her brown eyes full of sparkles as she wishes me a happy birthday.

The fucking cat was on my right side—ass on my pillow and purring in my ear as she kneads pinpricks into my shoulder. My ostrich, Rick Perry, was standing beside the bed and had his long neck arched so his head rested on my other shoulder. His giant billiard ball-sized eyes stared, unblinking, I think at my nose. I worried I might have another big gray hair growing in my nostril and the crazy bird saw it as a meal.

Rush Limbaugh sat at the foot of the bed with his red eyes blinking as he sniffled with his summer cold. My gay pig is taking Mucinix by the handful to little avail. He’s blowing a giant snot ball as I slanted my eyes to him.

“You look miserable, Rushie. What can I do for you?” I asked him. All I got was another snot bubble that burst and splattered on my bed covers. Ick.

“Hurry, Mooner, get up.” Squirt was vibrating with excitement. “C’est votre birthday, e estamos tomando las pesce!”

“What a thoughtful birthday gift. Thanks guys.”

The four domesticated animals that I call my own have somehow come to think that they take me fishing, rather than the truth. But who gives a shit, right? Drowning worms while sitting on the dock with them are some of my best times. I love these guys. Maybe even the fucking cat.

We fixed a big birthday breakfast—apple smoked bacon, pancakes, fried eggs and potato patties made from leftover mashers and fried in butter. I especially like the toasted-brown crusty edges of the potato cakes. They crunch with buttery goodness with every bite. Mixed with egg yolk… mmmm.

We all drank Carta Blanca beer toasts to me. Some might be bothered with beer at eight in the morning, but not me. Any beer worth drinking is worth drinking anytime. Mother is helping the guys do the dishes while I write this and I just know that my grandmother is sitting there to the table casting a pall on the operations.

The dried goat bladder that I call Gram gave me a rough kiss on the cheek and a vintage Fire Sign Theater record for my birthday. She bussed my cheek with her rough lips, placed the album on the table in front of me and said, “Happy birthday, ya little shit.”

I wiped the tear from my eye and said, “Thanks, Gram, I love you too.”

Now. Manana, y’all—we’re going fishing!

PS: As my birthday wish I would like everybody to write me a FUCK RICK PERRY haiku poem. I’ll enter them in the contest.

Contest Reminder; Enter Your Grammer Brackets Here

Monday, August 15th, 2011

 

So. I’ve been working on a posting, laboriously, but I can’t seem to get it into publishable form. When you see it you’ll understand my problems. Having written that last sentence, I realize just how much I love the word “laboriously” [.]

If you had already read the posting I referred above, you would know that I am going to place all punctuation that relates to quote marks that don’t corral an actual quotation into brackets, and insert the bracketed punctuations after the quotes. Like this: [.], [,], [?], [!]. That’s what I did up there to that last paragraph.

Since the regularly-scheduled posting isn’t ready, please now refer to my lasted posted offering titled, Big Announcement!!! FUCK RICK PERRY Haiku, and give me your entry/entries into the contest. Enter as many times as you want and do your best to stick to the 5/7/5-syllable haiku format.

Which reminds me. Over the last week, my Twitter Follower number has had thirteen new additions and sixteen Followers who have clicked the “Unfollow” button. Therefore, in the last week my net number of Followers has dropped from twenty-nine to a new net for the week of twenty-six.

Not that I give a shit, but I find it interesting. In the eight months I have been with a Twitter account, I have had more than a thousand people click the “Follow” button and as of this morning, all but twenty-six have un-clicked me.

Anyway, please enter my haiku contest and win an autographed copy of my book. To prime your pump—try this on on for sizes:

He kills public schools,

Wonder not—Aggie grad he,

Say: FUCK RICK PERRY!

Drink Carta Blanca beer and feel better about yourself. Manana, y’all.

Big Contest Announcement!!! FUCK RICK PERRY! Haiku

Saturday, August 13th, 2011

 

So. I was sitting on the pot this morning with the sports section of the Austin-American Statesman, the too-thin eight pages of mostly uninteresting crap barely holding my interest. There was mention of this Japanese baseball player with a name like Moriasho Soduku or maybe it was Soriduku Mashimoto. Whateverthefuck, this guy’s name reminded me of haiku, and thinking of haiku reminded me that I think America should FUCK RICK PERRY, and so instead of reading the paper—I rather made up FUCK RICK PERRY haikus.

Maybe that should be haikui.

Since I’m expecting to get the proof copy of my fully-completed book within the week, and also because I’m a shameless self promoter of Donald Trumpian proportions, I have decided to have a “FUCK RICK PERRY Haiku Contest.

The winners of the contest will get an autographed copy of the new book, Full Rising Mooner.

Contest rules are simple:

  1. Classical three-line poems in the 5/7/5-syllable format.
  2. It must contain “FUCK RICK PERRY!” as content.
  3. It can be either supportive of Prick Perry, or not.

 

That’s it. So open an icy-cold Carta Blanca beer, grab a deep-lung bong hit if you’re so inclined, and let her rip.

Here is one of mine. Not my best effort, but my best efforts contain much of your fodder and I don’t want to be responsible for fucking up my own contest.

Rick Perry, pure Evil,

He lies, he cheats. Win a book,

Please—FUCK RICK PERRY!

Manana, y’all!

I Miss Squirt; Not A Prick Perry Story

Friday, August 12th, 2011

 

So. It’s been quite a traumatic day, starting from the time I got out of bed early this morning. I was awakened at 5:30 am to the sounds of gay sex emanating from my closet. Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry were making a terrible racket, banging off the walls—grunting and shit. The big ostrich makes this keening noise when he’s sexing, like I imagine Greek women made in ancient days when their men died in battle. It’s eerie as all get out.

From there, I headed into the big kitchen to start breakfast. I had a hankering for some apple smoked bacon, no doubt a Freudian impulse from waking to pig sex noises. I opened the walk-in friggie but found no bacon. Bummer. I put water on to heat for coffee and headed out to the road to get the morning newspaper. Squirt and Honor, my usual companions on the daily trek to get the paper, are off to New Mexico with Dixie and Streaker Jones. They left town early this morning after spending the night at Streaker Jones’ place.

When I got to the road I found an empty paper tube and a pile of trash. The pile of trash is one of the many that assholes drop off on country roads with regularity. Ignorant shitwads push their refuse off the tailgate of their pick up trucks when nobody is watching them. When the weather gets cooler I’m going to sit out here with Gram’s twelve gage and wait

When I got back to the house, Gram was up and I told her about the trash. “I’mma blast tha fuckers, Mooner. That’s three times since July fourth.”

I know,” I told her. “We can sit out together when the weather cools.”

After a breakfast of toast and coffee I headed to get ready for the day. I got myself lathered for a shave and leaned in to the mirror to make the first cut with my razor. I always start at my right side burn, just at the middle of my ear. I wear glasses so I have to snuggle up to the mirror to see. When I turned my face to the side to make the first razor swipe, glints of silver sparkled from my nose.

I put the razor down on the side of the sink, and poked my finger to the tip of my nose and pushed it back to expose the inside of my nostrils. “Mother fucker,” it was almost an angry statement. “Would you look at that fucking thing?”

As I’ve matured, except for the hair on my head—all of my gray hairs are bristles, and the gray hairs in my nose, on my eyebrows and ears are like boar bristles. Stiff, straight and strong. A few months ago I pulled one from my nose with pliers and ended up in the emergency room with a bleeder. When I wrote about it here, Squatlo suggested that I get a men’s groomer machine. You know, one of those little battery operated devices to trim unwanted hairs.

I got one. A complete waste. The little motor doesn’t have the power to do anything but hang up when attempting to cut a gray timber from my nose. I bitched some more about the hair as I shaved and I had a brilliant idea. “What if I attach the round nose hair cutter dealie to my electric hair cutter machine?” This was said by me, to me after shaving,as I examined the hair through a magnifying glass held to the mirror.

I managed to duck tape and Super Glue the round, business end of the men’s groomer to the many-amped hair shears. I did a couple test runs on my chest and butt to see how she worked. Like a charm. I cut several 1/16th-of-an-inch pathways through patches of my thick hair.

I cleaned the loose hairs from the little blades of the attachment, leaned in close to the mirror, and attacked the gray hair in my nose. Several times I stuck the blades to the thick, stiff gray hair and several times the blades refused to make contact. I kept at it until I was frustrated—I couldn’t seem to get a good angle using my own big fingers. So I called Mother to come help me.

We discussed plans and decided it best for me to lay on the end of the bed with my face in the morning sunlight that filters into my room. Mother knelt on the floor and my I pried my nostril open so she could put the pedal to the metal. She looked into my nose—her cat-eye glasses perched on the tip of hers.

“I see it, Mooner honey. But are you sure of this? I don’t like the idea of sticking a power tool inside your nose.”

“Oh for shitsakes, Mother. Would you just do it already.”

Mother gave me her look of long-suffering martyrdom, turned on the motor to the shears and moved in to cut the hair. She made a good dozen attempts before she turned the motor off and said, “The shear is vibrating so fast I can’t get a hold on the hair.”

We debated a minute and I had an idea, “OK, leave it off and reach in and get the hair inside the blades. Then turn it on.”

She did. “Alright, son, I’m ready to turn it on so be still.”

“Be still” are words my mother has said to me many times in my life. On many of those occasions, I have ended up damaged in some ways. The worst of that damage was inflicted as I stood on the old peach crate Mother used to fit Sister and me to our reworked, hand-me-down clothes.

The last thing I remember before waking up in the emergency room was the “click” sound the toggle switch on the electric shears makes, and the feeling that someone jammed a pool cue up my nose. I had prior experience with a pool cue shoved up my nose and, I guess, the memory caused me to pass out cold.

The first sound I heard upon regaining consciousness was the irritating voice of old Doctor Ashburn. “Well, well well—if it isn’t Mooner Johnson with another medical emergency come to my loving hands for a cure.” He surveyed my face and added, “This is two nostril problems in a row, Mooner. When did you decide to stop wrecking your pecker and start in on your nose?”

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, old man. Just give what I need to sign to get out of here and I’m gone.”

He laughed a hearty laugh and said, “I’ll turn you loose as soon as I’m sure I got the bleeding stopped. You had a sharp-bladed plastic knob twisted in one of those wires you call nose hairs. Somehow you managed to spin the whole mess up into your sinus cavity under your eye. When I pulled the plastic free—a difficult chore for an old man—the hair came out by the root and started bleeding like a stuck hog.” The he gave me another dose of his hearty laugh.

“I cauterized the bleeder, Mooner, and packed your nose with medicated gauze. Your face is gonna look like you caught a right hook to the nose. Treat this one just like the last one—don’t blow your nose for a week. And for God sakes don’t get it bumped. You’ve got so much scar tissue up there you’ll bleed-out with a pinprick.” More maniacal laughter.

“How in God’s name did you manage to stick that thing way up there?” he asked me.

“American ingenuity,” I answered. I don’t think I whimpered.

“Oh don’t be a crybaby, Mooner. You’ve been way more damaged than this, and often at that.”

I wonder if Thomas Edison or the guy who invented the wheel hurt themselves while inventerating. Inventionizing? I know I suffer the inattention of ADHD, but you would think that a mind sharp enough to invent a balsa wood airplane bomb would be smart enough to remember to place the wings in the “long flight” setting rather than that for “loop-d-loops”.

We set the neighbor’s shake shingle roof on fire, the Holt boys and me. We unwound 2,000 little Black Cat firecrackers and repackaged the gunpowder into a newspaper stick of explosive. We tied a dozen of the fuses together to buy some time, and wrapped the stick tight with electrician’s tape.

The bomb was then strapped to one of those big balsa wood gliders—the bomber model. It had a fat, real-rubber rubber band as an engine. I remember that it took so many turns of the propeller to wind it up that I got cramps in my hand.

Once fully wound, we stood behind the Holt’s house and I held the plane high above my head, knees bent to lower the fuse into Stevie Holt’s reach. He lit that fuse and I gently threw the loaded bomber towards the open field that stretched for miles next to the Holt property.

After a slow start the plane gained speed and altitude and made this giant, lazy loop. It almost cleared the neighbor’s roof to make a second big loop. Almost.

I’m back home from the hospital and sitting with my second Carta Blanca of the day. I’m lonely without the Squirt, for sure, and I’m concerned that I miss the fucking cat as well. Streaker Jones won’t have them back until Sunday and I’m bored without companionship.

And any of you that suffer from the dreaded ADHD can testify to this fact: a bored ADHD sufferer is a dangerous bundle of fuckball. I’ve had to shake-off my thoughts of how to get tomato stains out of underwear the entire time I’ve been writing to you guys. If my miniature pets had been here, I wouldn’t even have tomato-stained underwear.

Ugh. Manana, y’all.

Tax Abatements Stink; I Pee In Sinks

Wednesday, August 10th, 2011

 

So. I was down to City Hall last night with plans to protest a development deal that was structured with tax abatements. The tax abatements are lures to attract greedy bottom feeder corporations to our area for their business expansions. Stink baits are what these abatements are, pure and simple—stink baits.

The businesses promise big numbers of high-paying jobs and deliver many fewer jobs and at far lower wage scales To date, the few of the companies who have delivered on their promises are overwhelmed by the great majority who do not.

I don’t like it when our fuckball Republican governor uses tax abatements and I really don’t like it when our liberal City Council uses them. Local businesses who have provided jobs, community support and paid their fucking taxes for decades can’t qualify for these handouts. We locals are simply not pretty enough to gain those favors. Politicians, as my granddaddy used to say, want strange pussy. Like Brandon’s posting today over to My Own Private Idaho, politicians are not happy with the one at home, they need new stuff.

OK, except for that idiot fuckball Arnold Swarz-in-koff-en-burgher. He got his strange at home, and that entire dealie is plenty strange in my opinion.

Like I say, it stinks.

I was sitting in the Council meeting audience with a butt show planned. Streaker Jones, as always, was there to provide crowd control for when I flashed my gorgeous ass. I had Ingrid pluck and dye my butt hair into a neon green “No Relocation Without Taxation!”

I thought this a clever word smithing. But my slogan contained too many words to allow my usual picture. I like my moon shows to have one cheek bearing the slogan and the other a caricature befitting an enhancement of said slogan.

Having said that, I thought the slogan had plenty of punch as a stand-alone.

Anyway, when the mayor spotted me in the audience he motioned Roshandra Washington-Johnson, Council Bailiff and my ex number five, to bring him the rebuttal speaker list for last night’s meeting. After glancing at the list and then staring at me with steely eyes, he announced that discussion of the development issue was tabled for thirty days.

I was pissed, but Streaker Jones and I left without incident, and prepared to leave the building. I needed to pee so I told Streaker Jones, I said, “Why don’t you go grab the goat while I go pee,” and I tossed him the keys to my vintage Pontiac GTO.

We old farts call classic GTO’s “goats”. And here, again, I’m perplexed with that fucking punctuation dealie about where to place the period with quotation marks that aren’t used with an actual quote. That crap makes me nuts.

Usually, I pee in the sink to save water, but I don’t usually pee in public restroom sinks. I have encountered several unreasonable men in public restrooms—ignorant fuckers unable to work their way through the brilliant logic of sink peeing. But like I said, I was already pissed at wasting my time with the cancellation and when I pushed my way through the door to the mens’ room, I headed straight to the long stainless steel counter of sinks.

There were six sinks set into the counter with customers washing their hands in numbers one, and three. I walked to the last in line, unzipped, and peed in the number six bowl. The guy closest to me at number three, a shorter man in his mid-thirties wearing a suit, said, “That’s disgusting, what in the world do you think you’re doing?”

I answered him with, “Pissing in the sink and saving a full gallon of water.”

He mumbled something silly and called me inappropriate and then said, “I’m reporting this to the authorities.”

Under different circumstances a threat of reporting my activities to authority figures gives me reason to pause. Not here. Not at City Council chambers where the authority figure’s figure is etched into my brain with the clarity that can only be had with hands-on experience.

I finished, tucked my pecker away, washed my hands and rinsed the sink with the same water, and then zipped my shorts. I always zip post implementing the wash/rinse cycle for maximum cleanliness. T-Q over to Thank-Q For Common Sense posted a thingie about assholes who don’t wash their hands after using the bathroom yesterday.

Doesn’t that shit drive you crazy? Assholes handle their peckers and wipe their dirty asses and then walk right past the sink. Dirty-assed fuckers.

I dried my hands and checked myself out in the big mirror behind the sinks. I ran a hand through my hair and pushed an errant eyebrow into place with a wet finger. Show Time!

When I walked out the door I was met with a shouted, “That’s him right there. The big guy in shorts.”

The little suited man was pointing at me and speaking to Roshandra. Roshandra is a magnificent woman who almost stands to my 6’4” in spiked heels, and she looks ten feet tall in uniform with a gun at her hip.

“Thank you, sir. You can move along now, sir. I’ll take this from here.” When the man hesitated to leave, Roshandra took me by the arm and said, “You, Mr. Johnson, are coming with me.”

She started walking me out the building and said over her shoulder to the little guy, “You go on back to the meeting, sir. I can handle this man.”

That was definitely a “no shit” statement. Love life with my ex was as good as it gets. Roshandra is the only one of my ex-wives with whom I’ve had sex after we divorced. I can’t talk about that—book plot line stuff. I’ll just say that Roshandra always gives me a buzz.

She walked me outside and released my arm. “For the love a Pete, baby. Why are you peeing in Roshandra’s sink? You lost your mind?”

“Nope,” my response. “It’s part of my new plan to save billions of gallons of water. We’re developing a product—the One-Cup Wonder Flush.”

I stared into her big brown eyes and an idea popped into my head. “Hey,” I told her. “I need a test subject for the womens’ version of the product. How about we get together and you pee in some sinks for me. Nothing sexy, just science.”

The look on her face was all the “No” I needed. She shook her head and said, “Mooner, baby, I love you, but you are total bat shit crazy.”

Streaker Jones and I headed home to do some night fishing and Carta Blanca beer drinking. When we were perched on the edge of the dock, baited hooks in the water, I thought maybe Streaker Jones could help me my developmental problem.

“Here’s my problem with the womens’ version…” I didn’t finish my thought before Streaker Jones interrupted.

“Dammit, Mooner. Zip it.”

I did. Manana, y’all.

Honest Talk About Rape; Where Is Your Voice?

Tuesday, August 9th, 2011

 

So. What makes everybody so uncomfortable about child molestation? Why is it that I get comments on all of my postings except the ones dealing with child rape? Why is it that the only ones of us who talk about child rape are we victims and our loved ones?

Having discussed my own rape the last several days, I wasn’t going to say anything about it today. But I was over to Squatlo’s place (click over to my Blog Roller to read more) and he posted a story about “comfort dogs”–teddy bear substitutes for rape and abuse victims used to comfort in times of stress. Some people want to prevent victims from having their comfort dogs with them in court.

But you wouldn’t prevent a blind person from having their dog in court. Neither should you ban a comfort dog. Exactly the same logic.

Child rape and other abuses are not going to be diminished in numbers without exposure and discussion. Most cases STILL go unreported. And nobody wants to talk about it. It has been estimated that as many as one in every five women have had sex forced upon them at one time in their life. If twenty percent of our population had the flu, we’d call it a fucking epidemic.

And guess what, most of us recover 100% from the fucking flu.

Nobody, and I mean no-fucking-body comes all the way back from rape. Nobody.

Ugh.

I have managed to come a long way recovered, but I could afford the million dollars, or so, that thirty-five years of intense psycho therapy costs. If you carefully examine the populations of prisoners, suicides, prostitutes and drug addicts, you will find a seriously high percentage of victims. It’s a fucking fact.

Yet in these recent rounds of budget cuts, victim support services have taken severe hits. The programs in place to help victims repair their shattered lives have been shredded. Look for increases in suicide and acting out.

I don’t know what else to say. OK, except to say FUCK RICK PERRY and drink Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

I Hate To Hate And Other Illnesses

Monday, August 8th, 2011

 

So. As I have lived my life I have always attempted to take measures of myself and my maturities. I’ve attempted to measure my intellectual growth based upon my grades in school, my ability to converse with people I think might be smart, and my grasp of complex life situations.

Except for my eighth grade and first quarter of ninth grade, I was an excellent student with an overall A average through high school. I’m not all that smart, but I am a great figure-outer. For some reason I can reason shit through and figure it out. Once I got to college, my grades ranged from stellar to barely passing, said range directly correlated to my business enterprise activities with the mysterious redneck genius, Streaker Jones.

Streaker Jones is a certified genius of almost immeasurable IQ. When they attempted to place a number in the Intelligence Quotient blank on his “Special Testing” back in junior high, the behavioral scientists were stumped as to how to measure just how smart Streaker Jones is. After he redesigned their standard test for them and took it, the number they filled-in for Streaker Jones’ IQ was “200-plus”.

He and I started a processed food company we named Magical Mystery Foods using my and my Gram’s recipes and the quite astute business acumen of Streaker Jones. Anybody who doesn’t know that Streaker Jones is my business partner thinks I have the Midas touch and that every time I fall in shit I make a profit. Those who do know have a keen understanding that I might be the idea man, but my partner is the businessman.

Net results, from the intellectual perspectives, I think I have matured as well as can be expected for an ADHD-addled fuckbrain.

Physically, I’ve matured right smartly, thank-you very much. From the time I was two, Mother marked a growth card with my height, weight and all of my clothing sizes twice a year. I reached my full height of 6’4” over the summer after high school. I’ve carried between 220 and 245 pounds of weight ever since. A little of my former muscle has turned to Carta Blanca belly over the years, but I think I’m in decent shape for an old fart.

Starting after I experienced my first ever woodie, I have been measuring my pecker—both in its woodie and resting states, twice a year. Sometimes more than twice a year. I’m quite proud to say that since I was twenty, my woodie pecker has held its full length and girth and my relaxed pecker has actually grown by a full half-inch. I want to be proud of this extra half-inch gained over the past few years, but I just can’t. I have this nagging feeling in the deep recesses of my scattered brain that it might be sag rather than growth.

But I’m an optimistic kind of guy and I see my glass half-full. So. Basically, I feel that from the mental and physical perspectives I have managed to follow expected growth curves for a healthy male Homo Sapiens. It’s the emotional perspective where I seem to veer from the pathways of standard deviations.

Like yesterday, when I started to bitch about Rick Perry’s little prayer group and ended up telling you about the first time I almost committed murder, and the only time it would have been murder of the intentional variety. As the old hymn goes, my distaste for the Baptist church is “Deep, and wide… deep, and wide…” Our newspaper here was full of the stories of some of the silly shitballs who were so very-fucking excited to go down to Houston and get God all charged-up.

One asshole from a Baptist Church outside Austin was quoted to say, “America’s only hope is if we all convert to Christianity and follow in Christ’s footsteps.”

After thinking on that one a minute, if he’ll modify it just a touch, I think he might be on to something. I think that if all American Christians will go over to the middle east and follow Christs footsteps, then those of us remaining might be able to fix some of this mess.

All their prayers for America seemed to have fallen on deaf ears. Should that be Deaf Ears, with caps? The markets are down another 500+ points in response to how the conservative right is holding our government hostage.

Speaking of Christ, holy shit am I digressing. What I want to say is that I’m starting to feel the word “hate” slip into my emotional states. I don’t like to hate, I think hate is a bigot’s emotion. But I’m starting to want to say that I hate some things. I’m feeling the polarity that Brandon mentioned today on his site My Own Private Idaho, a feeling that is enhanced when I read the Reckmonster’s latest impassioned plea for veterans over to her place. My friend Squatlo presents fair and balanced postings that present evidence that my feelings are accurate.

I just don’t want to hate people just because they are stupid. But I’m finding it hard to not hate them when they are pushing their dumb up my ass using politics. I’m starting to feel that I might be de-maturing emotionally.

Ugh.

I’m having a cold Carta Blanca beer and some homemade chips and salsa. Fuck Rick Perry today, and I’ll see y’all manana.

Rick Perry Doomed; Pompous Ass Can’t Give Tickets Away

Sunday, August 7th, 2011

 

So. The pompous fuckball known as Texas governor Rick Perry had his big come-to-Jesus meeting yesterday down to Houston. The logic(?) behind this gathering was to get a critical mass of Jesusites—mostly Texas-bred Baptists, whose combined Christianess would get God’s attention and fix what’s wrong with America.

This critical mass of dumbass was to do the infamous Christian “group prayers” and bowl-over the big guy—oops, Big Guy with the power of their combined voices. The pomp and circumstance of today’s Christian right reminds me of the old Catholic church, except with more radical ideals and less-well thought-out mantras. Modern Christians are just plain fucking stupid.

I was raised and raped Baptist so I think I have both authorizations to be critical and to cast a most jaundiced eye into their behaviors. Mother and Gram still populate their Baptist church weekly and they dragged my ass with them every Sunday and Wednesday until I drew a line in the sand when I was fourteen.

I was a true believer for all of those church years until the last, my fourteenth. After my Baptist Boy Scout leader raped me as I lay comatose in my sleeping blanket on a camping trip when I was thirteen, my final year of church attendance was part of a year of turmoil in my life. I was too afraid to tell anyone about the rape, so I went through all of the guilt and anger and recriminations rape victims endure.

I couldn’t look anyone in the eyes. I started fights for no reason beyond my unreasoned shame. My grades in school went downhill as I talked back to teachers and made brash pronouncements. My best friend, Streaker Jones, stood by me even though I didn’t tell him what was wrong with me. When, at age thirty-five, I told him what happened that made me as I was, he said to me, he said, “I always figgered it was sumthin’ like that.”

I stopped attending church the day I found myself sitting on the aisle in the very back pew, my hand gripping my daddy’s serrated fish boning knife in the pocket of my corduroy jacket. I had spent every Sunday since getting molested sitting in my pew in stunned silence as my rapist, a church deacon, would perform his deacon’s duties. He was in charge of the offerings, so he would supervise the other deacons’ passing of the collection plates. He stood in front as the other deacons passed the plates across the aisles from back-to-front.

When all the plates had made it to the first pew, that bastard would stack them up and haul them to the back, and out of the chapel to the counting room. I had hatched my plan over several months as I endured church services. This haughty asshole would actually smile at me—sometimes demurely, as he performed his duties. He smiled at me and two other boys from the Scout troop who attended the church.

One of those boys committed suicide after he left home for college. The other ended up in jail before graduating. I ended up with ten ex-wives.

I had a plan on the final Sunday in May of my fourteenth year. My plan was to stab the serrated blade of Daddy’s knife in that fucker’s belly and sink it to the hilt. This was the third Sunday that I had secreted the knife from my father’s tackle box and hidden it in my favorite jacket. The jacket was a present for my receiving the rank of Life Scout with seventeen merit badges before reaching age twelve.

My family was so proud that I had accomplished such a rare feat. Little did they know that my honors were purchased with my innocence.

On this Sunday I was certain that I would do it—slice the rotten fucker’s liver to shreds as he exited by way of the church’s center isle, carrying the stack of collection plates in both hands. The two weeks before I had practiced my actions and imagined the actions I would take as I took from him what I felt he had taken from me.

My hand gripped that knife so hard that my entire arm was cramped. I was jittery and shaking as I sat through the first thirty minutes of the service. The prayer of tithing was silly, as always, as poor people were asked to give ever more of their money to the church. As the deacon made his way up the aisle towards me I was ready to kill him. I had done the deed a hundred times in my mind.

But I didn’t. I simply didn’t. I wish I could tell you some incredible story of how I managed to reason and logic a happy ending to this sordid story, but I can’t. I didn’t chicken out, I didn’t have an epiphany. I simply didn’t stick the knife in his rotten ass.

That was the last time I was in a church for any reason not a wedding or funeral.

I have felt both good and bad about myself in the years that have passed since that day. I have often wondered if I would have saved other boys from his evil had I slay him. I often revel in my freedom as well. I feel I am both lesser and greater for not acting.

Rick Perry didn’t rape me, but Rick Fucking Perry is an asshole, and the Christian right are evil. They are worse than Muslim terrorists in my eyes because they claim moral superiority. Same claims of god-granted righteousness. Same insistences of divinity.

Rick Perry isn’t the Baptist deacon who raped me. Rick Perry is, however, the Baptist fuckball who has led the ruination of my great state, and he wants to ruin my country.

Fuck Rick Perry before he fucks America.

Manana, y’all.

Limburger Limbo; Cut The Cheese And Save The Matches

Thursday, August 4th, 2011

 

So. I’m all bollixed-up this morning. My ADHD is in full lock-down and has my mind so fritzed I’ve got brainwaves shooting out my ears. Until an hour ago I had been constipated for almost a week from eating too much Limburger—that’s the very ripe and stinky German cheese that makes blue cheese hold its nose. Constipation makes me fart, and I farted Limburger gas in Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s office yesterday during my therapy session, an event that resulted in more than $20,000 in damages.

As well, I’m going especially nuts with Texas governor Rick (middle name “Devious”) Perry. I keep asking myself how in the world can an ignorant liar go so far in politics. The answer, so cogent and pure in it’s simplicity, is that conservative Christians are really stupid.

There, I said it. I have tried to not say it, but it is now fully said. And I meant what I said. Rick Perry’s voter base is stupid, and getting stupider (stupid-more?) by every day. Little Ricky has this plan to dumb-down public education systems which will further dumb-down the populace. See, it is only with a dumber population that he can attract all of those companies and their minimum-wage jobs.

Wake up America. Wake the fuck up.

I was taking a shower last night before bedtime and since it was Tuesday, I had Honor the cat and Squirt with me in the big tile shower in my bathroom. Tuesday is pet bath day at my house and my little cat and dog like to bathe with me. I had already hosed-down my gay pig and ostrich before dinner. The dog and cat helped wash Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry the ostrich out on the small patch of grass lawn I grow.

It’s so fucking hot that we have started taking our showers before bedtime, so as I was saying, my little dog and cat were in the big shower stall with me…

OK, wait. Truth and full disclosure require me to say, “My almost-my dog and soon-to-not-be my cat and I were in the shower.” The Squirt is technically Dr. Sam’s puppy and the cat is the trade bait for the dog. I’m required to fully train the cat before the trade can be completed. Like one of those “and a player to be named later” deals that are dependent upon a medical examination.

Anyway, the three of us are in the shower with my “Best of The Doors” album blasting on the Bose outdoor speakers in the bathroom. I love to play music and sing when I shower, and it turns out that Honor is a Doors fan. I was lathering the girls with a new bar of Ivory soap I had just unwrapped from its tight, waxy packaging. I love Ivory soap.

Fuck and wait, again—background alert! I had accidentally farted at the dinner table last night—a little thing but deadly just the same. Gram said to me, she said, “Iffn you fart at tha table agin, Mooner, I’mma blast yer ass.”

I explained my constipation dealie with the Limburger cheese farts, and wrecking Dr. Sam’s office, and how I evacuated the produce department in the Whole Foods store over to the Arboretum. She gave me a little tincture bottle of hallucinogenic potion whose label read “Moo Goo, Shoo Yer Poo- a laxative.”

“Huh?” I must have said aloud.

“That one’s got ginger an five spice in it,” Gram offered as an explanation. “It’ll clean ya out by mornin’.”

Meanwhile in the shower last night, I was lathering the girls with Ivory soap because, quite simply, their lack of opposing thumbs makes self-lathering a difficult task. I like doing it anyway and we make it a game. I make Ivory soap lather beards and dresses and big pointy ears on them and we role play stupid shit while we wash. Last night the Doors were singing, “LA Woman,” so the two of them were doing the “Ho strut” as they rinsed themselves under the shower spray.

They were an absolute hoot and I was laughing my ass off. I started soaping my butt to finish my shower and I farted on the Ivory soap. The brand new and nearly-pure bar almost melted in my hand. It looked like one of Salvador Dali’s melting clocks. The cat gagged and puked-up a hair ball and the Squirt was rolling on the shower floor like a dog, trying to get the stink off.

As soon as Squirt could catch her breath she said, “Santa puta mierda, Mooner. Was kroch in den Arsch und died?” The diminutive dog shook her head to clear ir and squeeked, “Holy fucking shit!”

“Yea,” I answered, “Holy fucking shit is right, and it’s Limburger cheese that crawled up my ass and died. That’s what the potion Gram gave me is going to cure.”

We all started laughing again and got out of the shower to towel dry. It’s fun for me to dry the little guys as it reminds me of when I used to shower with my two human boy children, a memory that’s bitter-sweet. And then the Doors started singing “Riders In The Storm” and I lost it—I began boo-hooing like a baby.

I’m finding myself tearing and snot-snuffling with the strangest stimuli lately. My psycho therapist says I’m under a lot of pressure these days. She suggests that I’m way much too much invested in my attempt to FUCK RICK PERRY!

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson tells me that I’m just one man, and a totally inappropriate crazy redneck fuckball man at that. “It’s not about you, Mooner,” she likes to say, “Texas governor Rick Perry isn’t going to be influenced by your lunatic rantings.”

“I’m not trying to change that little Nazi fuck’s behaviors, Sammy. I’m trying to expose him for what he is.”

“America, Mooner, is messed up these days,” she told me. “Our moral compass is broken and people have confused religious ideology for morality.”

“That might be the smartest thing I’ve heard you say in thirty years of therapy, Sammie.”

She thanked me for the praise and told me my time was up.

Anyway, I get weepy because I’m stressed over politics and I shit my brains out awhile ago. I’m hoping they’ll let me back in over to Whole foods so I can buy some of the organic grapefruit they have on sale.

Ugh. Now I’m getting weepy over organic grapefruit and thinking that I need a Carta Blanca beer. I am a seriously disturbed man. So FUCK RICK PERRY anyway, and I’ll see you manana, y’all.

Word Theives And Other Shitballs

Tuesday, August 2nd, 2011

 

So. Answer me this if you will. Who is actually reading this shit? Of the nine hundred or so personages who clicked onto the bloggie yesterday, fully sixty percent were from overseas and most of them were from third world destinations. Why do countries known for unsanitary living conditions and less than second grade educations breed Mooner Johnson readers?

I do know that at least six of those foreign persons steal my content in its entirety, then translate it into Hindi or whateverthefuck language it is that floats natively from their thieving tongues. Then they rebroadcast my words in total. Each of those slimy fuckballs take all the credit and give me none. This one guy over to Indonesia someplace has a website with a blog called “Mooner Johnson by Ndhat Nmbuktu.” Squirt says the N’s are silent.

I’d like to silence his fucking N’s.

This guy’s entire plagiarized story is written in one of those symbol languages. They leave everyone’s names spelled in English except for Gram’s, and to make matters terribler, Squirt says that the name they call Gram roughly translates as “Wise Sex Goddess With Iron Pussy.”

I want to be offended by that name they call my grandmother, but that’s close to what I would call her if she was your grandmother. I’d leave out the Wise and change the Goddess to Predator.

Anyway, what in the hell would Muslim fundamentalists find even remotely interesting about me? Whatinthefuck do I talk about here that attracts those silly shitballs?

Ugh. I need a Carta Blanca beer.

Fuck plagiarismists (plagiarists?) and FUCK PRICK PERRY!

Blog Roller Inductee Numero Quatro; Rick Perry Is A Dumbass

Tuesday, August 2nd, 2011

 

So. Without further adieu I am here today to announce to you inductee Number Four to my Blog Roller. After much debate, hand-wringing and consternation… Wait.

After many debates, lots of hand-wringing and much consternation, I am now fully prepared to install the newest member and move on with my life. It’s been more than a week since I last named Number Three and I’ve managed to make myself constipated with angst. OK, I don’t mean that I’ve got a wad of angst wedged somewhere in my lower intestine, halting my peristaltic motions. What I mean to say is that my angst over naming Blog Roller inductees has upset my regularly-scheduled movements, creating impactions, foul humor and fouler gas.

I was in a therapy session yesterday morning with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and we were discussing my growing dislike for all things conservative. I guess I was unhappy with her line of reasoning that all of my anger at right-wing Christians was bad for me and good for them. She actually said to me, she said, “Look, Mooner. Those people are so brain washed with their indoctrinations you stand very little chance of changing even one of their minds. You are making yourself even more crazy, which pleases them. Why don’t you take up another cause? Do something where you can make a real difference.”

She smiled sweetly at me, which was the straw. “Here’s what I think of that idea,” I said, and I leaned on my left hip and cranked a two-second “Frrrrrrrrippp” of well-aged gas.

Not all ass gas is so much lighter than air that it can stream through a room rapidly. Not all ass gas hits quickly, like a featherweight boxer’s left jab. Unh-uh, some ass gas more resembles a Sumo wrestler. Some ass gas takes a few moments to gather itself, like the pre-fight rituals of the Sumo. Some ass gas—when it does hit—it hits like a five-hundred-pound stink bomb.

After releasing my gas, I smiled back at the good doctor and then I started giggling. “I think… we…….. have… maybe ten seconds…… before evacuation is required,” was all I got out between giggles before it hit.

“Run!”

When I got home after my therapy session, I logged-on to my computer. I checked my emails and found one from Dr. Sam I. Am. Titled “Bill for Damages in the amount of $23,950.00,” I’m getting charged for the cost to remodel her office. Then there was a note at the bottom of the bill that said, “Mooner, you inappropriate redneck fuckball, I had to burn my clothes after your stupid stunt this am—that cost is in the $23K. You need to stop eating so much blue cheese.”

“Limburger cheese,” I said to my computer, “I’ve been eating Limburger cheese, not blue cheese.”

A buddy of mine Fed X’ed me a wheel of Limburger he found over to Germany. I love stinky cheese, and now it dawns on me that maybe my constipation is cheese-induced rather than of the angst-caused variety.

Whatever, I’ve somehow managed to digress myself to full distraction. My next inductee is a blogger and graphic artist with immense skills both ways. He makes smart comments and posts smart graphics over to his place at My Own Private Idaho. Brandon is one of the good guys and unafraid to ask the tough questions. Check out his most recent posting on the Pedobear and you’ll see what I mean.

Brandon did all of the designs for my line of FUCK RICK PERRY merchandise, a handsome assortment of political statements, and I just farted and killed the philodendron plant that sits next to my desk.

So raise a cold Carta Blanca beer with me to make a hearty toast to Brandon, inductee Number Four.

I think I’ve invented an organic method for removing wallpaper. I need to get the research department to do a feasibility study. Manana, y’all.