Archive for September, 2011

Beach Budget Bingo; The Flim-Flam Man Rick Perry

Thursday, September 29th, 2011

 

So. Just a quick note today to provide further reasons to not trust Rick Perry. OK, also a quick note that is one of those “I told you so” dealies.

Our paper, the Austin American Statesman, printed a story explaining just some of the hocus-pocus the pompous prick Rick Perry and his right-wing Christian Texas legislator buddies used to balance the $27 billion state budget deficit earlier this year. The Prickster promised to find a balance with no new taxes, so here is some of what they did.

Here in Texas we we have a name we call budgetary-disadvantaged persons. When a guy has a hundred dollars in his pocket and thinks he’s flush with cash—even though he hasn’t paid his rent and they cut off his electricity—we call him either “Aggie rich” or “Okie rich”[.] Both names are derogatory in their intent based upon football rivalries, and each is meant to indicate stupidity.

I guess that Squatlo would call the same guy “Bama rich” or “Gator rich” as he supports that other UT, Tennessee.

Our Governor used the Aggie rich philosophy to solve massive chunks of our state’s budget shortfall. He is, after-all, an Aggie, and he is, further-all, dumb as a weathered cedar fencepost after the cows have rubbed all the bark off it.

Just like the dumbass with his hundred-dollar bill, Perry used unspent balances of money appropriated to social services to “trick” the state’s balance sheet into thinking we have enough cash to pay our bills. Our State Comptroller, Susan Combs, has, reluctantly it seems, made public some of this Aggie rich scheme.

The state budget has $851 million previously budgeted to help low income families pay their electric bills. Those funds were gathered from fees we pay as part of our electric bills, and every dollar was purposed to help the unfortunate. And this year, with record numbers of 100-degree days and rising energy costs, the money was withheld from those in need and used to demonstrate the ability to pay for other things. Another $654 million was to be spent to improve the state’s air quality, air quality that has worsened under Perry’s reign as Caesar.

Net results: our balanced budget is actually $5 billion short IF there is no further erosion of tax and fee collections. And let’s get fucking real about that. Forget the loss of property tax base suffered in the fires that have devastated our state. Sales tax revenues—the taxing bell cow for Texas taxation—are down, down and down some more. Things are far worse that they seem.

Fucking asswipe Republican shitball right-wing Christian dumbass greedy pricks.

On last night’s news, I heard that the City of Austin electric utility has something like $30 million in delinquent debt on late utility bills. The City isn’t about to cut utilities off when it’s 102-degrees outside, and that $851 million sits unspent by the State even though it should be used to pay the City.

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

Chelsea Handler Wins Camel Toe Contest; Yoda Wins First Dog Fight

Tuesday, September 27th, 2011

 

So. I needed to take the new puppy for a follow-up visit to the vet to get him another shot. I don’t remember what it was for—was it a parvo or rabies or whatever—just that I had the appointment. Squirt suggested that just the two of us make the trip so that we could do some male bonding.

OK, maybe we did some male/semi-male bonding. Or male-eunuch bonding. Poor Yoda had his little puppy gonads sliced off before he ever got a chance to use them.

So I packed him into his harness and loaded him into the GTO. Which reminds me to tell you that the original subject of today’s bloggie was to have been me telling you about the incredible dream I had last night. I had this absolutely amazing dream. Somehow my subconscious had managed to assemble enough suggestive materials from my other conscious to create the critical mass required of a great dream.

Some of the outside factors gathered by my not-frontal lobes were: Squatlo’s dream story last week; catching a glimpse of Chelsea Handler wearing tight, stretchy Capri pants; the now faint eau de SAC Ellen I can still whiff when I close my eyes and sniff the back of my left elbow; and the internal debate I had with myself over pachyderm versus dromedary.

I had this remarkable camel toe contest dream that was to be the central focus today, but something happened at the vets to disrail my attentions. And don’t even think about telling me I should have said “derail” when I said disrail. Derailing is when your train leaves the tracks. Disrailing is when the train jumps off the tracks.

Yoda and I were already checked-in over to the vets and sitting on the church pew that serves as waiting room chairs. I always sit on the pew when I come to help remind myself of just how much I do not like church. I’d already weighed the little shit and he has gained two ounces, a good sign for my little puppy mill castoff.

He sat at my feet on his leash and wasn’t doing the Chihuahua shaky bones dealie too bad. He’s still scared of other people and dogs but has made much progress. He didn’t freak when the lady sat next to me with a cat in her lap, even when the cat hissed at me. Fucking cats. He managed to handle everything that came our way until the asshole with the Sharpei dog walked in.

First, I don’t give a shit how you spell it, Sharpei, and I’m not looking it up. Second, I don’t like anything about the ugly and mean-tempered shits. This one’s owner was of a similar character as his asshole dog, and walked him into the vet’s office without a leash. Big-ass sign telling him to leash his fucking dog, this asshole ignoring it.

“Would you please leash your dog?” I quite pleasantly asked the man.

“Don’t worry, Emperor Chang won’t hurt your little doggie,” the total dumbass responded.

“Not worried about my dog, sir. This little guy isn’t quite sociable yet and he’ll take a nip if he feels cornered, so you should leash his royal highness,” my second request.

“You take care of your dog, buddy, and I’ll take care of mine.” This got me his rebuke and the shit-eating grin that bullies like to give the weak.

To add intimidation to the mix, the man said, “Emperor, you’re free.”

In this case “Free” meant “free to roam the cabin”[.] The ugly mass of gray wrinkles wandered towards Yoda and me, so I put my foot out to block his path. This got me a snarl and a low rumbled rebuke. “Sir,” I said, “keep this dog away from me and my puppy.”

He pretended to not hear me and acted like he was reading about feline heart disease from a poster on the wall. But I could see him glancing my way and I could see the shitty grin still plastered to his face. “Okay, have it your way,” I tried.

I lowered my foot and Emperor lunged towards Yoda, a ten-pound jumping jack of a dog who has recently been taught several MMA moves by the Squirt. “What you want to do, Yoda, is go for the eyes or the nose,” was the part of the lessons that seem to have stuck in the little guy’s brain.

As the bigger dog lurched his way, Yoda jumped straight up and came down on Emperor’s head, upper front fangs snagged in the Sharpei’s nostrils and bottom sunk into the wrinkled skin at the eyes. I’d never heard dog yelping in Chinese before. It would be very unsettling.

“Release, Yoda,” I said calmly. “Yoda, release.”

He looked at me just for a flash with this “Aw, come on Dad, I’m going for a pin” look, but he let go and jumped beside me on the pew. The bloodied Emperor ran to cower at his owner’s feet.

“Look what he did to my dog, asshole. I’m gonna kick your butt.”

When I’m sitting, I look of average height. I have quite long legs and I like to relax when I sit—slump if you will. My overall height and bulk are disguised. “Oh, alright,” I answered as I stood to most of my original six-feet four. I have shrunk a little as time goes by, but the man was staring at my neck as he approached.

He stopped short and backed away. “You’re not worth it.” And with that he picked his dog up and left the vet’s office.

“That shitball is the preacher over at Bethany Baptist Church, Mooner. He’s always like that when he comes in.” The receptionist and I go way back. “I started to say something but I knew you would handle it.

“Figures,” I answered.

Anyway, last night I had this dream where I was judging camel toes in a contest at the State Fair of Texas. The Fair has started up and I guess that’s responsible for my dream’s venue. This contest was for “Best Painted and Unclothed Camel Toe”[.] You know how an artist will paint a naked lady to look like she’s wearing a tuxedo or a snake or whatever, and it looks all lifelike and shit?

Well, Chelsea Handler was the winner. She was painted to look like she was wearing black Lycra workout shorts and a pale blue top. You know, whoever dresses Chelsea Handler should be shot. She is so pretty and has such a great body, but she always looks as if she were dressed by a color-blind blind man. Thank god that person didn’t paint her for this contest.

Anyway, her camel toe was so plump and juicy that I just knew it was real, and not painted on. The painted on part was the major rule for the contest and one that had already disqualified Michele and her husband Dr. Marcus Bachmann both. She tried to fake a painted-on bikini camel toe with a neon green thong, and Marcus attempted to deceive this judge by wearing pages of a Bible that were papier mache applied with rubber cement.

I almost passed out from the fumes as I tried to read the verses from First Peter and Revelations Number Nine that were all jumbled up on his package. I didn’t need to pick at the loose edges of paper to disqualify Marcus. I was worried he was going to cry. I hate when the weaker sex cries.

As I was declaring Chelsea the winner, Michele Bachmann declared a foul and demanded that I test the winner’s artistic authenticity. I said, “OK,” and bend close to Ms. Handler’s camel tow. I noticed that it glistened in the bright stage lights of the contest pageant. Now, I was dizzy from my proximity to one of the world’s best pocket-meat sandwiches.

I was wavering, worried that I was about to do something so inappropriate as to redefine the word. I looked around for help, but none was there. Michele Bachmann is screaming at me to prove it’s a legal win and the crowd is screaming for the winner. That’s when I feel a tap to the top of my head, and I look up into Chelsea Handler’s quite pretty eyes.

“It’s OK, Mooner, go ahead,” She said.

I must have looked perplexed because she smiled at me and repeated, “I said go ahead, Mooner.”

“Are you certain?” I asked as a final assurance.

“Sure, Mooner, take a taste.”

I awakened licking the leather harness I use to strap Yoda into the car, and I had boot black smudges on my face when I went to brush my teeth. Did you know that Carta Blanca beer will wash the taste of dog sweat out of your mouth?

Manana, y’all.

Rick Perry And Tx Aggies Taste Ass

Sunday, September 25th, 2011

 

So. I’m usually not one to gloat over another man’s losses, but in the name of truth and full-disclosure, please allow me this one moment. How’s that ass taste, Aggies?

In typical Texas A&M fashion, the Aggies are moving from the Big 12 Conference, where they are relevant in a positive way, and running away to the SEC. Regrettable for them, this is akin to Hitler saying, “I think the French are too difficult to fight. Somebody call Japanese Emperor Hirohito and ask him to get us a war with the Americans.”

Not that the Big 12 is such a pussy football league as we have the best non-conference record in college football. But really, Aggies, the fucking SEC?

I wish I could have been sitting with the pompous prick, Rick Perry, to watch his reactions to his Aggie’s second half meltdown in yesterday’s game. Just like his own presidential campaign, the Aggies started fast and built up a huge lead early. Same as Rick Perry, Aggie football broke free for a 17-point lead partway through the contest as they bullied OK State’s Cowboys around.

But after halftime, the stupid took a grip, and dumb play after dumb play ended in an Aggie loss.

Metaphors. Life’s finger pointed at dumbass.

For a special treat, go to my last post and read BJ’s comment. He is a seriously funny shitbird. And we share a love of all things Fire Sign Theater. He posted the entire I Think We’re All Bozos On This Bus album over to his place. He says it’s an MP-3 and so the audio is crystal-clear. My personal copy is vinyl and sounds like it was recorded during a sand storm. Click over there -} to Dumb Perignon and take a listen.

After that, do me a favor and check in with Squatlo over to his Rant. He’s letting his big heart take control of his big brain. Maybe it’s the brain in control of the heart, but who gives a shit. He’s feeling all dooms day’y with his knickers in a wad over the national political climate. I think his real problem is that his beloved Vols lost to fucking Florida.

Which thought returns my ADHD-addled brain back to Rick Perry and the SEC. I see the state of Texas as Rick Perry’s Big 12 Conference and the Presidential race as his SEC. The Prickster has been able to hold his own here in statewide elections. But he’s just too evil and way too fucking stupid to make it on the big stage.

My hope is that the national stage will expose him in such a way as to ruin his chances back to home. We Texans have suffered enough already. Not that I’m stopping my presses to demonstrate what a silly fuckwad Perry is.

As soon as the dust of breakfast settles, we’re headed to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s house to mow the lawn. This will be Yoda’s first lawn mowing experience. He’s very excited. Doesn’t take much to excite the young dog.

Ah, the beauty of naïve youth. I wish I had me some. Manana, y’all.

F-day Ends With A Pffft; A Missing F-word Tragedy

Saturday, September 24th, 2011

 

So. My plans for a fully-fulfilled F-day came up one F short. Not that any of the f-words planned into yesterday were minor in nature, but the one that was dropped was my personal most important. Fishing- great. Fried food- tasty and fresh from the Catfish Parlor. My original plan was to have some fried fowl, but Honor the cat went totally batshit crazy when we passed the Catfish Parlor on US 183.

It was Squirt’s fault. My diminutive translator was doing a tour guide patter as I drove her, Honor and Yoda down US 183 on our way to find a fried chicken joint. As we passed the catfish place, Squirt says, “And a la derecha es la Parlor de Pesca Gato. They have tout ce que vous pouvez manager every Freitag.”

“I don’t want all you can eat fried catfish today, guys. I want fried chicken to prime my pumps for when I go to see BJ and Squatlo and the Reckmonster in November,” I informed my GTO full of animals. “Besides, we’re having fish tonight for dinner. You know the rules.”

I make all my pets eat what they catch, and the morning’s fishing trip had been quite successful.

Honor the cat hissed and spit at me, and then she made this yapping noise I’ll call speech. It was disquieting. “Did the cat just say something?” I asked Squirt.

“I think she said, ‘Help me to kill Mooner and we’ll have fried catfish.’” Squirt asked the cat to repeat herself, and then confirmed the original translation. “Yep, only this time she mentioned shredding your nut sack rather than actually killing you.”

See what I mean about cats? Fucking cat.

Since I trust my pets to be true to their words, we had catfish for lunch and then headed to downtown and the national headquarters of the pompous prick, Rick Perry, presidential organization. I ordered children-sized “Fuck Rick Perry!” tee shirts for the guys and a manly-sized pink one for me, and I had three “Fuck Rick Perry!” tote bags filled with the bumper stickers. Each of the dogs and I carried a bag and handed-out the bumper stickers and the cat acted as security.

I really did not want to be arrested because the big f-word finally to F-day was to be a heavy dose of sexing with SAC Ellen. She was due to arrive sometime after her late flight arrived from Cleveland. An arrest might have spawned an extended stay over to Sheriff Wozniak’s jail and I needed the sex. With that in mind, we quietly went about the task of bumper sticker distribution.

Except for the one nice lady who slapped my face, and the cat-shredded white sock on her left foot, that f-word was completed without serious indecent. Next time we go down to fuck with Rick Perry we want him to be in town. Then we’ll try for some serious airtime and anti-Perry publicity.

So we handed out $200 worth of stickers in just an hour and I loaded the guys back into the GTO to head home. We decided on fish tacos for dinner and needed some tortillas and avocados for that. It was as I stood in the check-out line over to the flagship Whole Foods store in downtown Austin that I got the call. “Hey, baby,” I answered the call ID’d as SAC Ellen. “Have I got something planned for you!”

There was one of those pregnant fucking pauses on her end of the line, then, “Oh man, Mooner, I’m really sorry.”

“Fuck, fuck fucking-fuck!” I might have said a little too loud. The people around me put space between us.

“I’ve been held over to Sunday, sweetie. They want me to evaluate a threat from one of the militia groups up here in Ohio. I won’t make back to Austin for two more weeks.”

“Fuck, fucking-fuck.” This time I almost whispered. “Call me when you have time.”

I got out of line and walked over to the personal care section and got a twelve-pack of Ivory soap bars. I’m going to need to start alternating hands when masturbating or my right arm will be twice the size of my left. I’ve always preferred using my right hand, which my chiropractor says explains my strange skeletal twist.

Now it’s Saturday- Carta Blanca beer and BBQ day. I’m taking Gram’s Ferrari over to the race course to see if I can aggressive-driving my frustrations away. Manana, y’all.

F-Day Friday; Mooner All F’d Up

Friday, September 23rd, 2011

 

So. It’s F-Day, and I’m very excited to get it going. Don’t get ahead of yourself, or mine for that matter, and think I meant that today is Friday when I said, “It’s F-day.” True, it is Friday, but several additional f-words are on today’s agenda, the f-words which make it F-day. That make it F-day?

First, and see there- another f-word for the day, we’re going fishing. The whole lumpy bunch of us. I agreed to take Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry with the dogs and cat on our fishing trip. I agreed to do so because our garden lays fallow at this time, and using the literal definition for the word fallow. The garden bounty is fully harvested and the soil has been composted and very-slightly turned. Not a full plowing because that’s not a modern method. Just a light skim with a thick-tined rake.

Why the fallow garden part is needed at this time is because of Rush Limbaugh. My pig goes all wild boar on me every time I take him to dig worms for fishing. The smell of rich earth, as I turn shovel fulls to expose the fishing worms, sparks some primordial need for him to root. Silly fucker can root up a hundred-foot row of okra plants in the time it takes to corral him.

Maybe I meant “primeval”[.] Maybe.

When I said I plan to take my “lumpy” bunch on the fishing trip, I mean just that. Remember when I told you about having a wooden deer statue removed from Rick Perry’s ass and then took my gay ostrich sex toy shopping? Well, things got heated up in the closet day-before-yesterday, and Ricky got excited and was swinging his head around like a mace. He and Rush both in the heat of passion and the big bird banged giant bumps and knots on the pig’s head and back.

Silly pig looks like he’s got the body mumps.

Then, I’ve decided to have fried food today. Deep-fried food, and two more f-words to collect for the day. I have started limiting myself on fried food. But BJ over to the Dumb Perignon is taking me for a fried chicken dinner when I go up to visit Tennessee in November, and that sparked a primordial need in me for fried fowl. See how I just manipulated the English language for another f-word?

And f is also for fucking. Fucking with Rick Perry, fucking up, and just plain fucking. I’m headed down to Congress Avenue later today with a box of my “Fuck Rick Perry” bumper stickers. I’mma stand on the sidewalk in front of his national headquarters and give them away. I already made the call to my attorney, Jeff, and put him on standby. I’ll need him to get me out of jail in time to fulfill my final f-word of the day. SAC Ellen called to say she’s popping by Austin on a 10 pm flight before she heads to the west coast.

At least I hope sexing my sweetie pie is the last of my f-words of the day. Hopefully all of my fucking-up is out of my system before ten tonight.

So let’s drink a big swig from our frosty Carta Blanca beer to F-day. F it, y’all.

Rick Perry’s Job Legacy- One Of Five Texans Lives In Poverty

Thursday, September 22nd, 2011

 

So. When I got up at 5 am this morning to take Yoda out to do his business, I intended to spend today’s time with you telling you about the amazing progress he has made. Marilyn Nichols with Happy Puppy Tutoring calls taking a pee and a dump “doing business”[.] OK, maybe it wasn’t Marilyn who said that, but it is Marilyn who is responsible for this little dog’s progress.

Which brings up an important point. My entire life—until recently—I have only had Golden Retrievers as pets. Big, smart and frisky dogs like my current beauty, Dixie. I mean I might have adopted a snake or a lizard or a skunk when I was a kid, but none of those adoptions lasted long enough for the papers to clear processing before the animal ran away, died or was shot by my grandmother.

And why doesn’t the word lizard have two Z letters? I get that lazy has the single Z, but lizard really should be lizzard. Same dealie as the word really, right. Really comes from real, with the extra L and a Y. Lizard has it’s origins in Liz, so it really needs to be lizzard.

All of my best friends have been big dogs until now. As Dixie sinks deeper into her retirement and withdrawal from my presence, my life has become infested with a menagerie of pet animals that at best must be called strange. At worst—hell, what’s the worst you can say about a man whose pets include a ten-pound half Mini-Dachshund-Chihuahua, a half Chihuahua-Terrier and also ten pounds, and a now-550-pound American Domesticated Pig and his gay lover, the 350-pound African Ostrich named Rick Perry.

Oh, yea. And a fucking cat. Can’t forget the fucking cat. Many of my blogger buddies have cats, and they are constantly writing about how their cats do this or that stupid thing. Then they say stupid shit like, “What’s up with my cat,” or “Why did she do that?”

Look, guys. I’ve only been a cat holder for a few months but I can answer every one of your cat questions using the same five words. All you cat owners write this down. Ready:

“It’s a fucking cat, dumbass!”

Should I have said six words since it’s is a contraction? Maybe I’ll print little friggie magnets and bumper stickers that say, “It’s a fucking cat, dumbass!”

OK, I’m waaaay off the reservation. When I read the newspaper this morning, a front-page story pissed me off. That’s what I’m trying to tell you about that interrupted what I originally intended to tell you about when I got up with Yoda to do his business.

You have all heard the pompous prick, Rick Perry, brag about all of the wonderful jobs he has “originated” for Texas as our governor. I will tell you that the city of Austin, my personal hometown, is the star recipient of all of Mr. Perry’s job-creating largess. We lost fewer jobs and we obtained more of the jobs that our governor stole—oopsie—I mean originated for our state.

Austin has the state’s most robust economy, strongest housing markets and supposedly best business climate. We would be the shining star of Prick Perry’s bragging on his job creationism.

However, just like Rick Perry’s preaching about Biblical Creationism as compared to Evolution, the boy’s job creationism has a few holes in it. Today’s paper printed a story with a little demographic information from the latest US Census. This information centered on populations and poverty. In Texas, the income line for poverty in a family of four is about $22,000 per year.

Last week, the paper printed a blurb that the average price in Austin to rent a two bedroom apartment is $900+ per month plus utilities. For those of you who might be math-deficient, that means that a person making less than $22,000 per year can’t afford electricity if they house their family in an average two bedroom apartment. Can’t afford to eat either. How the hell they able to watch those giant screen TV they buy with food stamps if they have no electricity?

But here’s my Rick Perry point. The recent census shows that one in every five adults in Austin is living UNDER the poverty level. That’s right, twenty-percent of the people in our state’s best economically conditioned city are paupers. Now don’t get me wrong because College Station, home to Rick Perry’s beloved Texas A & M University, has the state’s worst poverty numbers. In College Station, their numbers exceed thirty-seven percent. Thirty-seven fucking percent!

So wake the up America. Rick Perry is coming to fuck your state too.

I’m cracking a Carta Blanca beer and watching the Tivo of Dancing With The Stars. Maybe I need more than one to stomach the entire thing. I had the entire family voting for Chaz Bono, but none of us has watched it. I swore I’d watch every minute that Chaz survived the stupid fucking contest and I’m a man of my word. Manana, y’all.

Rick Perry Screws Pooch; Southern Baptists Too

Wednesday, September 21st, 2011

 

So. I hadn’t planned anything else for today but that changed when I read this morning’s paper. The first thing that hit me was the prick Rick Perry’s blasting our President as being, “Naive, arrogant misguided and dangerous,” with our nation’s policies towards Israel.

Really? Attempting to mediate peace in the Middle East is naive, arrogant and dangerous? I’ll agree that it might be misguided because those silly shitballs in the Middle East have resisted peace with each other since before they started recording their semi-histories in the New Testament and the Koran.

But for the Prickster to say that Obama is naive, arrogant and dangerous is—in this case—naive, arrogant and dangerous. That silly shitball thinks international foreign policy can be manhandled with the same posturing, praying and and PAC money laundrying as he uses here to his home state. I know laundrying isn’t a word, but I simply don’t give a shit.

Hello, America. Rick Perry is knocking on the door at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Please don’t answer the doooorrr.

The second thing that rankled my shackles was the story out of Nashville that the Southern Baptist Convention wants to change their name. That’s right, the Southern Baptists feel that their reach now extends far above the Mason-Dixon Line. I have always believed that Dixie is a name/term derived from that famous line of demarcation, but right or wrong, it was the issue of slavery that followed the Mason-Dixon line that segregated the Southern Baptists from their brethren.

You see, the only reason there is a Southern Baptist Convention is because those Southern Baptists wanted slavery and the rest of the Baptists did not. That’s right, the Southern Baptist Convention has it’s roots firmly planted in the same rich, red dirt as the KKK. And don’t even try to tell me I’m overstating the status of their bigotry. I attended Southern Baptist churches that did not accept blacks.

In my fucking lifetime, blacks and Hispanics—hell, people of any skin color not Lilly-fucking white—were turned away at the doors of our Baptist churches. Hell, look at all of the major Southern Baptist churches and check the skin color of their preachers.

Rotten motherfucking Baptist Republican asswipes.

I’ve got a couple suggestions for your new name. How about “First Assholes in Christ”[,] or maybe “Church of God’s Fuckwads”[.]

I wish I was a black man right now. If I was, I’d say to the Southern Baptist Convention, I’d say, “Why don’t you suck my big black dick, you punk-ass honky mother fuckers.”

Holy shit that felt good. Why don’t you click to Thundercat’s place over on the Bloggie Roller and grab a quick change of pace.

@Thundercat832 Makes Honor Roll; Who Loves You, Baby?

Wednesday, September 21st, 2011

 

So. Yesterday was a pretty good day. Most of it was spent with me basking in the glory of the memory of a really good sexing. A recent memory at that. SAC Ellen had made a pit stop here to Austin to grab herself a little poontang, and took advantage and filled my tank as well.

Sex is a weird ball of wax—one that I will never fully understand. Sexual desire is even waxier. OK, wait a minute, I can hear you now, what with all your, “Didn’t you mean that your ball of wax is weirder, and not that your weird ball is waxier?”

My answer to you is, “No, silly rabbits, my metaphoric analogy is an ear wax dealie.”

Have you ever taken the time to study the entire ear wax conundrum? I have. I mean first of all doctors fill our heads with silly shit about our ears. “Don’t stick anything smaller than a basketball inside you ear, Mooner.” That was old Doc Ashburn’s best medical advice after he removed the rubber eraser from the end of a Number 2 pencil from my left ear.

I’d had a little ear infection that was finally clearing up, and my ear itched like a sonnofabitch. I knew better than to scratch it, but I figured the blunt, rubber end of a thick pencil would be a safe instrument. What I hadn’t factored into my thinkings was that I was what my first grade teacher, Mrs. Browningwell’s sister Mabel Purdy, described as, “Mooner scrubs his eraser as if he is removing blood stains from his memory.”

Fucking duh.

I made many errors when putting pen to paper as all ADHD and ADD kids do, and scrubbing-off my inaccuracies with the eraser of a Number 2 pencil seemed a never-ending task. I’d rub so many holes in my full-page test papers that they looked like well-used shotgun targets. I’d get frustrated with all my answer changing and start bearing down on my pencil, like the harder I pressed the more accurate and complete my erasure would be. I’d rub these big, black smears and crenelated tears all over my nifty lined school paper.

I often worked the rubber eraser free from it’s metal pencil end clasp, and even broke pencils with my vigor. This one time I broke a pencil and half of it stabbed into that fleshy flap of my hand between thumb and pointer finger. You know, the little bat wing part of your hand.

OK, stop the presses. My ADHD is fritzing us into near oblivion. If I don’t derail this train it’s going completely off tracks. What I was trying to tell you is that I had an ear infection, it was healing and itching as it did so, I stuck my pencil in my ear to scratch the itch and the eraser popped off with the sucking back-pressure caused by the ball of wax in my ear canal.

Eraser was glued to two sides of my inner ear and was touching my ear drum. That’s the waxier analogy I was making about sex.

I guess you had to be there.

Like I was saying, I felt pretty good about myself yesterday because a woman had gone out of her way—and half across the country—to spend a little conjugal time with me. Should I have said, “… with myself.”? Was that one of those “myself” thingies?

I was feeling so good that I decided to take a spin over to a particular website to see if one of my favorites was back on the air. This favorite simply dropped off the map one day several months ago and left me high, and dry. It was like somebody unplugged my morphine drip.

I was clicking over there sometimes fifty times a day to see if she had posted anything new only to come home empty hearted. I have missed her more than I’ve missed one of my ex-wives. I’m not saying which ex that reference was referencing, and only one of them would fit the not-missed category. But I missed my little ebony skinned I-net mistress.

So, I was feeling good as I basked in the warmth that only poontang can give a man. And ladies, allow me to say this one thing about men and sex. If you think it’s a myth that men savor the musty scent of your sexual core after a sexing event—you are totally fucking delusional. Like I said, I was sitting in my desk chair having just written yesterday’s posting when I caught a light poontang scent wafting in the air.

I have a great sense of smell, which is why I’m a good cook (I think), and I closed my eyes to savor it. Then, I wondered where the origins of scent were located, and I sniffed it out. It didn’t take long to realize that I smelled like SAC Ellen from my wrist to as far up my arm as my nose can reach. I must have spaced things out and washed my hands.

That’s when I decided to go check to see if the T-cat was back in service. And she was! I alerted everyone that she had posted, and then the debate started. “Do I name her to my Bloggie Roller now and risk chasing her back into darkness, or do I wait to be sure this is a permanent repair?”

Short debate. This lady is so fucking funny and insightful that if she’s made her last post it’s worth a place of honor here to my home. So, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the next of my favorite bloggers: http://www.thundercat832.blogspot.com/

Falen is the T-cat and she will rock your socks off. Some of my best belly laughs come from reading her shit. Every time I go over there I turn just a little black, and ghetto. Sometimes I morph into a gansta. Find myself pulling an M&M and start sounding like Huggy Bear from Starsky and Hutch. Her stuff is that contagious.

And let me tell you this. You have never met a woman more comfortable with her body and its many functions. All I’m saying.

So raise your Carta Blanca high and join me in a salute to Thundercat832, my sistah the T-cat. I love your black ass, baby.

Click over there -} and check her out. Manana, y’all.

Mooner’s Prayer For Reason; Rick Perry Still A Prick

Tuesday, September 20th, 2011

 

So. Here we go again. Just when I think that the national stage has drawn Texas Governor Perry like a moth to the flames, his right-wing cohorts here to home beckon him back. I keep thinking he’ll get burned in the bright lights of the national press and ride off into the sunset. Just about the time I think he won’t be fucking around with my home state—just when it seems that the memory of him slicing the heart out of Texas’ civilization was starting to fade—some shitball issue gets raised to draw him back.

The hook to drag him home this time is the issue of Safe Havens. In Texas, some cities, like my own Austin, are safe havens for immigrants. The police and other authorities agree to a live-and-let-live philosophy towards a person’s heritage and immigration status. We don’t waste our resources hunting people down for deportation just because they aren’t paper trained.

Since our resources have been ravaged and scavenged by our prick governor and his me-first cronies, not wasting resouces to arrest hard working people seems a wise move.

But little Ricky wants to send President Obama and those nasty liberals over to Washington a message. When our last legislative session began, ridding Texas of its safe havens was one of Ricky’s Emergency Bills. Like his now-proven unconstitutional pre-abortion bonding law, the one that required a woman to develop a lasting relationship with the blob of cells in her belly before she can abort it, this Safe Haven Bill was so very fucking important that it went to the head of the line.

And remember folks, this was when Texas was facing a $27 billion state deficit (still not resolved, but rather shit-smeared and covered with the dirt of partisan politics and stinking to high heaven). Rather than focus the early days of the session with solving our state debt crisis and saving real, existing state jobs, the pompous, pious and pompadoured prick we call Governor Perry instead pandered to his right-wing Christian fan base.

He got his abortion of an abortion bill passed but not the Safe Haven Bill. Now his fuckball supporters want to help him better define his stand on immigration policy, so they are “beckoning” him back to call a special legislative session to pass it. I think the entire thing is a campaign publicity stunt, but the result is the same—Pricky Perry is coming home to screw with my life once more.

I have a prayer. “Dear Jesus, supposed Lord and Saviour, what in the fuck are you up to? When I read your book, I get the impression that you are all about peace and love, understanding and grace. But living with your followers is all about their hate and exclusion, intolerance and aggression. Please tell me, dear Redeemer and granter of everlasting life, were you lying then or are your followers lying now. There is no fucking way that any of this shit jives. If your word was the truth, would you please do something to fix this shit and shut these people up? If not, and they are actually doing what you wish them to do, then FUCK YOU AND RICK PERRY TOO! I ask this as a humble servant of all that is fair and just. Amen.”

I got some surprise sexing last night. SAC Ellen was flying from the Midwest on her way to Arizona, and stopped for a booty call. Turns out she was needing her a little Mooner, which is all I’ve got to give, and she showed up, unannounced, on my doorstep at 6:30 pm. We were just sitting for dinner, so I got her a plate and silver and placed her between Gram and Mother.

She was put there as a buffer. Mother had said something tacky about Gram’s current boyfriend—a man who must go nameless (book fodder)–and Gram took offense. “Take back wacha said, Mother. Poor Henry is rearranged, he ain’t a regular loony bird.”

My mother, a retired school teacher with a master’s degree and seemingly high intellect, can often act not bright. “He’s a lunatic and a murderer too, Gram. I simply don’t know why you have to embarrass the entire family with your shenanigans. Your sexual peccadilloes are.. are… well, they’re embarrassing.”

It was as I was holding my grandmother—both hands gripped into the back of her hemp fabric men’s dress shirt to keep her from strangling Mother—that the SACster’s knock sounded from the kitchen door. Thank goodness hemp fibers are strong. Holding on to my grandmother is like hanging on to a ninety-pound greased barbell.

“Come on in, sweetie,” I answered her knock, “will you fetch me a Carta Blanca out of the fridge. I need some bait to get unhooked from Gram and keep her from killing Mother.”

“Well, well, well,” SAC Ellen said as she walked to me with the bottle of beer. “Isn’t this where I left off on my last visit?”

The last time my Special Agent in Charge, US Department of Homeland Security was here to dinner, Gram was ready to stick a carving knife into my Mother. “No, that was a dispute about Dancing With The Stars, my little cupcake. Remember, Mother said something tacky about that guy Bruno and Gram took offense,” I reminded her. “But since Bruno looks a lot like Henry, maybe this is the same fight as before.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Mooner,” my mother said. “All I said was that Bruno seems a little fatuous, and…”

Gram almost pulled herself free of my grasp. “Don’t you go a callin’ little Bruno a fatso. Imma stick my twelve-gager up yer ass and pull both triggers.”

You know, it’s a wonder I’m not a stark-raving lunatic. Anyway, SAC Ellen told us about the seminars she gave to the fine people of Nebraska, Iowa and the Dakotas as to how to identify a terrorist and thwart an attack. When I told her that she should tell those fine folks to encourage the terrorists to go ahead and blow themselves up, you know, explode shit up there with few inhabitants and save the heavily-populated areas, she said to me, she said, “Do you want sex, or not?”

I think she suffers a loss of sense of humor when she travels. So I changed the subject and got some poontang last night. Isn’t poontang a great word? Manana, y’all.

Pi Aren’t Squared; Pi Are Yoda

Monday, September 19th, 2011

 

So. Another glorious near-fall weekend has closed and things are better in Austin, Texas. It rained over much of Central Texas, my beloved Longhorns won a big game, and both pro football teams logged a W. As for the rain, it missed the ranch but hit most everywhere else, so that’s a win too.

I’m not a true fan of our pro teams because Jerry Jones is an asshole more concerned with his ego than great football. I’m not a true Houston fan because I grew up a Cowboy fan. I was born shitting burnt orange and pissing white, so it was only natural that I be a University of Texas man.

It took old Doc Ashburn a couple of months to determine that the UT-colored discharges of my infancy were due to my Gram’s potions, and not any serious medical condition. He was worried that I had bad kidneys or a fried liver causing the vivid-hued poops and peeps. Or that I might possibly be the devil’s spawn.

“Aw that’s jist tha persimmon inna one potion anna chalk in tha other,” Gram explained to the doctor during my third monthly visit. “Had ta stop with tha alfalfa an skunk juice, though. Bright green shit what smells lik a skunk’s ass was unsettlin’.”

Maybe that explains my fascination with my bowel movements. I have a suspicion that most folks spend far less time examining their poops than do I. Did you like the way I said, “Than do I…,” as opposed to saying, “Than I do…”[?] I was talking to this woman at the bookstore yesterday, a snooty younger lady wearing Birkenstock sandals, hiker’s shorts and a man’s cotton button-down shirt.

She was medium height (and why not “heighted”[,] since we say “weighted”), wore her auburn hair long and clasped neatly in a tortoise shell keeper, and everything about her seemed to scream, “I know better than you will ever know.”

I was looking at the murder mystery books to find something that might occupy my fevered brain. My ADHD has been on the fritz something crazy—appropriate for a crazy man yet not a constant state—and I was thinking that a nice murder would help me calm my mental storms.

Let me stop here to say that this particular brain fritz, while intense, has not been unsettling. This fritz’s influences on my system is more akin to a splinter under my right index fingernail rather than to have the soft skin of my pecker caught in the rusty zipper of a pair of my daddy’s old coveralls. I can’t tell you the zipper story as it is in the book, but you shouldn’t require any additional information to understand that this current brain fritz is one of minor consternations.

So the young lady was looking at me looking at the murder mysteries. She was staring, actually, and with a haughty stare at that. I’d check a book jacket, decide against it and place it back to the shelf. I’d check the woman’s stare, un-shelf another prospect, reject it and re-shelf, and check the stare.

“Are you looking for inspiration for your own selections, or do you find me sexy?” I asked the studious starer. “You’ll find I have quite good taste in murder mysteries, and the ladies find me quite tasty.”

I find myself quite clever in close encounter social settings, a belief not always shared. “Actually, I was just waiting to see if my instant evaluation of your personality is accurate,” she answered. “To respond to your classless and inappropriate comment, good taste in murder mysteries is akin to having a preference as to choice of cigarette brand. Only individuals of low class and self esteem ever develop that taste.”

Huh?

“As for your tasteless sexual innuendo, I can only guess that your class of women have far lower standards than do I.”

I bought the new Mitch Rapp novel, American Assassin, and I’ve already forgotten the author’s name even though he is a favorite. It’ll come to me. I finished the book just before midnight and tried to sleep. The two dogs, Squirt and soon-to-not-be-named- Pi, have started to compete for bed space with each other. Each wants to be either between my legs, with their head nestled beside my pecker when I’m on my back, or in the crook of my knees—with the top of their head pressed against my ass—when I shift to my side.

They prefer me to sleep on my back. That way they can be staring holes in my face at 5 am when they awaken me to eat. OK, got it. Vince Flynn is the author of the Mitch Rapp novels. Great reads one, and all. And it’s alright to start with this last one because it’s a prequel sort of dealie.

Anyway, I didn’t get much rest last night because the two dogs kept nudging each other to jockey positions, and Honor the cat parked her carcass on my pillow at my neck. It was like trying to sleep on the rubber sheets in the holding tank over to the loony bin. Nerve wracking and hot as hell.

So we’re all sitting for breakfast an hour ago. I placed Pi on a chair beside me because I’m teaching him take it/leave it—the dog trick where the dog either does or doesn’t eat or go to something. I’m putting different food items on the table in front of him and telling him to take the things he can eat, and to leave the rest.

Gram is staring at the bug-eyed little shit with the same look I got from the lady in the bookstore. “Yodel,” Gram said. “He looks lik Yodel.”

Huh? Yodel?

Then I got it. “You are correct sir,” I told my grandmother. “He’s the splitting image of that Star Wars guy, Yoda.”

After I finish this bloggie dealie, I’m taking the Squirt and Yoda back to the bookstore so I can get another book to read, and then we’re going grocery shopping at the farmers’ market. Then we’ll go home, load the wheeled cooler with Carta Blanca and head to the lake. Manana, y’all.

Haven At Downwardspiralintothevortex: Mooner’s Hero

Saturday, September 17th, 2011

 

So. I was up early this incredible Saturday morning because the newest addition to the Mooner Johnson Pet Emporium And Nut House awakened me a dozen times before three am. The soon-not-to-be-called Pi, a cute little shitball dressed in basic white fur with big splashes of multi-hued spots, needed to go outside every half-hour. Since he shits each time he pees, I can’t train him to go pee in the sink. That means a trip to the outside grass with each awakening.

I’d like to be bitchy about this predicament, but I can’t. The little guy… wait a minute, he needs to go out again….

As I was saying, this precious little bundle of Chihuahua blended with Jack Russell terrier was born a captive in a puppy mill up to Oklahoma. Fucking asswipe Baptist shitballs kept him locked in a filthy cage for his entire first year.

I just noticed how similar the word terrier is to terror, not a coincidence, I’m starting to think.

After maybe the eighth trip outside with the dog, I first decided to start cuting him off the Carta Blanca beer at 8:00 pm, and second to sit at my computer and troll the Webber and see what was going on in Bloggie World. I cruised around until I got over to Brandini’s place at My Own Private Idaho—a spot you can acquire by clicking over there -} on my Bloggie Roller.

While there, I read his funny take on his laptop, the one where he thinks it has a clitoris, and then I read through the comments. One was from Haven, and reading her comment gave me a sort of kinetic jolt. Actually, I had no reason to know Haven was a she (her?) except for the jolt. So I clicked onto her name and visited her site.

Have you ever noticed what an incredible array of magnificent creatures lay at your feet with the simple clicking of a mouse button? I fought computers for twenty years, treating them as nothing more than pet rocks with TV screens. Hell, I didn’t even learn how to use a keyboard until I started writing my book three years ago.

Now, with a little push of button that clicks its approval of your actions, you can find an entire world of interesting people. Like Haven.

Haven appears to be afflicted with Borderline Personality Disorder—the psycho therapy industry’s holy grail. OK, that might be the absolute worst analogy I have ever made. Let me try again by quoting Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my psycho therapist and first-of-ten ex-wives. I am quoting her to you from a session I had when I was in preparations to marry my sixth wife, a borderline woman.

“Mooner, have you thought this all the way through?” Sam asked.

“Oh, you know me, Sammie, I give all important decisions the same thoughtful considerations,” I answered.

“That’s exactly what concerns me, Mooner. Do you understand the we psychotherapy professionals—psychiatrists, social workers and psychologists all three—consider persons with Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) to be our third-degree burn patients. They are the hardest to reach and help.”

“I think I can grasp that concept,” I told my personal therapist. “But with my ADHD and obsessive compulsions, won’t we have a yin-yang dealie going on?”

“Clueless,” Sammie said. “Mooner, you are totally fucking clueless.”

But we were a good match half the time. I have never had such a wonderfully terrifying time in my life. Sufferers of BPD often have difficulty relating to the world around them, and depression and self-harming habits are common. Our divorce was a forgone conclusion before we even met. I was working on my crazinesses in therapy but she couldn’t stand to look in her mirrors. Literally or figuratively.

I’ve gotten better, somewhat. She simply spent more time with BPD. I won’t tell you anything more about her or our time together except to say it was unfortunate.

But to read Haven’s bloggie was a wonderful experience. She is looking in her mirrors with both eyes wide open and telling the world what she sees. I am in awe of her. Go check her out at:

http://www.downwardspiralintothevortex.blogspot.com/ and visit the incredibly strong woman there.

Speaking of awe, the awful football team that was the 2010 Texas Longhorns seems to have morphed into something more recognizable in the rich colors of orange and white. Our trip to LA to play UCLA will go a long way to confirm that notion.

Or not.

The other UT, the one with white and that ugly-ass orange color, is seemingly making the same kind of turn-around. They have a tougher test today than do my beloved Longhorns, but I’m rooting for Squatlo’s Vols as if they were my own. I’m just going to be required to adjust the color on my TV to watch.

Hopefully both UT’s will come home with big wins. Manana, y’all.

Mooner Plans Road Trip; Rick Perry Still A Prick

Friday, September 16th, 2011

 

So. It’s Friday and I should be so fritzed with my ADHD that I can’t sit to write. I have so much shit going on—much of which is totally out of my control—that my mind should be spinning like a turbo-charged top.

For starters, in addition to my ADHD, ADD and Obsessive-Compulsive Disorders previously disclosed on these pages, after yesterday’s intense psycho therapy sessions, I am forced to further enlighten you to the fact that I have a full-blown case of Dissociative Identity Disorder. I disagree with the diagnosis and would normally feel compelled to wax poetically and lament my ass off to you in an effort to demonstrate that my psycho therapist is wrong.

Not gonna do it. I know that my mental boarder, Don Legacy, is under my controls and that I won’t let him become a problem for any of us.

It’s also been way in excess of three weeks since I had any second-party sex. My Ivory soap bar and I are ready to set a date for my eleventh marriage, but I’m finding myself struggling to remember what a woman feels like. This alone is usually enough to send me into full panic mode. I believe that the sex you don’t have is sex you have lost. You can’t make up for lost sex when you don’t have it, it is simply gone. Poof, disappeared. I hate losing stuff, but I’m not losing my mind resultantly.

Then there would be the new puppy that I was swindled into accepting as my charge. He’s a seriously cute little shitbird, but he’s also a seriously needy person. He can’t talk to me and has so far chosen to not speak to the Squirt, so we’re forced to try to read his mind. Since he was locked in a cage for the first year of his life, he has trouble expressing himself in meaningful ways. He shits every time he pees, so I can’t yet teach him to use the sink. That means that every time he gets up in the middle of the night, I have to get up and take him outside.

And don’t tell me to get a doggy door so he can let himself out. Have you ever seen a small domesticated pet that’s been eviscerated by a coyote? Anyway, I’m going sleep-disturbed with the interruptions to my slumbers, and sleep disturbations usually make me crankier than a Model-T. And don’t try to tell me that disturbations isn’t a word. Should be, therefore, is.

But the puppy-soon-to-not-be-known as Pi is adjusting in other ways, integrating himself into my little family unit of pets. Thank god he isn’t homosexual. If he was gay I don’t know what I’d do. Rush Limbaugh is a severely jealous pig, and Rick Perry is a preening cock. I don’t have the patience to referee a gay love triangle.

But none of my pet problems is bothering me either.

Then there’s the whole political thingie with the giant tear in the fabric of American government. Anger and hate seem to be the special of the day, and I feel it ripping us apart at the seams. The right-wing Christians are trying to destroy the civilized parts of our civilization, and our President is getting criticized by many of his own supporters for not destroying back. I agree that he might have taken stronger stands on some things, but the high road is always the smart road.

The pompous prick that is Texas Governor Rick Perry continues to lead his party’s prez race even though he has been shown to be a two-faced liar, a special interest pandering crook, and as dumb as he wishes to make all Texas school kids. Even that isn’t making me crazy today.

Nope, I’m feeling chipper as Nero when Mrs. O’Leary’s cow spilled the milk. Rome might be burning at my feet, but I simply do not give a shit today. Tomorrow I might be ready to slit my own throat, but today I’m happy as a lark. Today I am starting serious work planning a road trip. Just me and some luggage in the car. No animals, no other Johnsons and no sweetie. Just me.

The trip will be from Austin, Texas up through Louisiana and Mississippi and into Tennessee. Why doesn’t Louisiana have a second “n” there to its end? I’m going to visit poker rooms in a few casinos and play my way across America on my way to visit some blogger buddies. My final destination is Murfreesboro, Tn., home of Squatlo, the Reckmonster and near to The Dumb Perignon.

The three of them are three of my favorite I-net people and I want to meet them. I also hope to make connections with others. I know Thank-Q is in Mississippi somewhere and maybe other bloggers are within the scope of my wanderings. I want to meet as many of you guys as possible while I’m out rambling, so let me know if you want to meet while I’m near you.

I’m excited about this trip. For some reason it has the senses of what I imagine a mail-order bride feels when heading out to meet her groom for the first time.

Of course, it also looks like it may rain here for the first time since mid-May.

Anyway, let me know if you are in or near my path and you want to take the time to have a beer and a chat. I’m working the I-net to find drinking establishments who offer Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

Dissociative Identiy Disorder Creates Problems; Mooner Loses Camel Toe Dream To Mental Boarder

Wednesday, September 14th, 2011

 

So. After performing another community service yesterday, fully disclosing to you—and fully exposing more of the inner-workings of my fevered brain—I find myself in quite the quandary. I exposed another part of my mental maladies to you only because it was what I SHOULD do. I didn’t tell you about the other man who resides inside my skull for personal enhancements, rather, I exposed that sordid part of me because I felt it was the right thing to do.

Why does life punish us for willingly doing the right thing? How come I didn’t have a life of roses and honey for at least one fucking day as a reward for good behaviors?

Why is life so very fucking mean?

Don Legacy, my personal Dissociative Identity for which I’m considered Disordered, has been but a very small part of me ever since I saved him from a terrible drugged drowning when I was a boy. I pulled him from the deepest part of our creek out of a sense of doing the right thing, and even then with some trepidations. I didn’t want to get caught and I didn’t save him for personal gains. But I knew he was more than just my “imaginary” friend. (So that everyone understands how fucked up I am, I just self-edited that last sentence to avoid the punctuation quandary I have with non-quotes placed inside quotation marks. I first typed “imaginary friend”[.]. So as to avoid doing the “[.]” dealie, my personal sign of protest to the grammar police for allowing such a confusing fucking rule, I changed it. But I feel somehow less a man for having done it. I sacrificed my integrity as an author to avoid an uncomfortable moment. Ugh.)

Even at that young age I knew Don Legacy was more than imaginary. He was tangible. But not tangible in the ways that most crazy people see their real “imaginary” friends. Wait. Maybe I should have said that crazy people’s imaginary friends are real people to them and that isn’t how I view Don Legacy. I see him as a real person only as far as some stuff goes. Like he has a brain—my brain—which is a partial brain usually and a near-complete when I allow him to use it.

How fucking confusing is this? Let me try again. My form of ADHD is the one where a person, me, has many simultaneous lines of thoughts going on at the same time. Usually not the fevered, racing thoughts of bi-polarized or schizophrenic persons, but multiple, random and mostly intelligible, and distinct thoughts each fighting for attention.

Don Legacy is one of those thought streams. He’s always there, mostly unheard except as a feint echo, and occasionally he’ll burst through and take control of the frontal lobes. He lives his own life separate from mine and until yesterday, he stayed closeted from the world until I brought him out.

Now, I fear I’ve unleashed the beast. Last night I had another of my wonderful camel toe contest dreams. Most of the usual contestants were there—Sarah Palin, Dr. Marcus and Michele Bachmann, Oprah, Queen Elizabeth, Kathy Griffin and Chelsea Handler—and each was showing spectacular camel toes. I’m always the judge in these contests. Sometimes I’m judging which is best displayed by clothing, sometimes with jewelry and bling, sometimes I judge for shape and contours.

But it is always me judging. Until last night when Don Legacy had the dream. It was so fucking weird, guys. Like an out-of-body experience.

I might be more messed up than I thought. I need to get this Jack back in his box. SAC Ellen called me from Omaha, Nebraska last night to tell me she was concerned with my latest revelation. Why is Homeland Security worried about Nebraska enough to send my sweetie there for meetings? What in hell a terrorist would want to blow up in Nebraska is a conceptual problem for me.

“We have hard intelligence that a terrorist cell of three was smuggled across the Canadian border to blow up cows. All farmers with herds of more than ten cows need to be on the lookout for suspicious persons.”

Did you know that the plural of cows is “kine”[?] I know it’s considered archaic and all of that, but I like the word kine. I also like the word vagina. I mean I like vagina and vaginas when they are attached to a woman, but I also like the actual word. And whyinthefuck is Microsoft Word giving me the squiggly red line dealie on the word vaginas? What the hell would you call two or more vagina(s)? Vagini? Nope. How about vaginos? Uh-unh.

I like the word vagina. It’s one of those words that fits what it is. Like stop! And fuck and ostrich. And kine.

Holy-fucking ugh! I am a seriously fucked-up vagina-loving crazy man. I need some extra psycho therapy sessions. And I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

More Mooner Disclosure; Who’s The Dissociative In Your Identity Disorder?

Tuesday, September 13th, 2011

 

So. I’ve been hiding a basic flaw in my mental chemistries from you and it seems that the time is right for me to disclose a little more to you. The circus of brain cells that is my mental state is quite the hodge-podge. Not necessarily advanced brain cells nor brain cells with any intellectual enhancements, just multiple and varied problematic disorders.

You all know about the significant ADHD—the only case of Contagious ADHD ever diagnosed and approved by the American Psychiatric Council. I have also told you of my mild case of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder and how I use that one to help control the ADHD. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson thinks I might have caught that one on purpose as a young teenager when my attentions were so deficited that I couldn’t tie my shoes for awhile. I needed something to help me focus, and since this was before the invention of ADHD and it’s little sister ADD, I was simply a disruptive little shit, and who knew that speed would slow down an ADHD sufferer’s thoughts?

Now is the time to enlighten you a bit further (farther?) in both the lengths and breadths of my mental illnesses. I wasn’t planning to ever share this little tidbit with you, but my own stupidity has forced my hand. Here’s what happened.

Remember when I got the Proof Copy of my book for me to review before final printing? Remember how it was all fucked up? Well, I fixed all of that, made some adjustments inside and out, and now I have the Final—the actual original copy number one of my new book, Full Rising Mooner.

As I did with the proof copy, I unveiled this final version at the breakfast table this morning. I wonder why so many of my life’s highest and lowest moments occur at that table and during those hours?

I passed the book around and got many oohs and ahhs. Everyone was mightily impressed until it got to Gram. My grandmother clenched the evidence of three years of my life in her vice-like claws and silently examined the cover. She’d read then stop at a part, stare for a minute and then direct and refocus the stare at me. Then she went back to staring at the book and then at me—a repeated action, and several times.

She held the book, front cover out, and pointed a bony finger to a spot at the top. “Who tha fuck is Dam Leggerly?” Then she gave me the evil eye.

“It says “Don Legacy”[,] Gram,” my mother replied. “You remember, Mooner’s imaginary friend from when he was just a little tyke?”

Now the evil-eyed stare lasers to Mother. The air hissed and crackled. “Ya mean tha little shit I over-dosed with a potion an’ we gunny-sacked him back to tha creek?”

I had been blaming Don Legacy for every bad decision I made as a kid and the family got tired of it when I was ten. Actually, it was just before my tenth birthday. We had a ceremonial drugging with one of Gram’s hallucinogenic potions and the unconscious body was bagged in a gunny sack, weighted with limestone rocks from the creek bank, and then the heavy bag containing Don Legacy was pitched out into the deepest part of the creek.

“That’s the one, Gram,” Mother told her. “I haven’t heard that name in decades.”

Now the book and evil eye make a ninety-degree turn to my end of the table. The heat of my Gram’s evil eye is palpable even at the ten feet distance. “Why inna fuck is his name onna cover a yer bookie, Mooner?”

Oops, and ugh. Fucking oops and a really big fucking ugh.

“Well, er, ah, I.”

Think quick and think smart, Mooner. I stumbled and mumbled a minute and then I thought, fuck it. I might as well fully disclose my childhood actions. “After you guys walked away from the drowning, I jumped in and pulled him to safety and gave Don Legacy mouth-to-mouth. He coughed-up a bunch of water and came to. All he could say for quite a while was, ‘Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow.’”

“Son-of-a bitcher!” Gram almost shouted. “I knew I shoulda blasted that little shitball with my 12-gager.”

Now Mother took a turn at me. “Mooner, I don’t think I have ever been so disappointed in you. This is the most underhanded thing you have ever done to me.”

“Wait,” I said, “you mean this is worse than when I flushed the cherry bombs in the church commodes to get out of Vacation Bible School?” Mother, and actual school teacher, was my class’ Bible School teacher that summer.

“Don’t get smart with me, mister,” Mother chastised. “This is a serious breech of my trust in you.”

Anyway, once I had been scolded as only a houseful of Johnson women can do it, I took the animals on a fishing trip to the self-same dock on the self-same creek where we attempted to drown Don Legacy.

Squirt was the first to bring the subject back into focus. “Jesus Christi, Senor Mooner. What the fuck is a Don Legacy?”

“That’s a tough one, Squirtie,” I started. “Dr. Sam I. Am says its called Dissociative Identity Disorder, or DID. But she’s wrong because that would mean that I am psychotic and delusional, like what a schizophrenic is. Don Legacy isn’t an illusion or some silly voice in my head, I guess the best way to put it is that he is a resident inside my head. A brain squatter, if you will.”

“Well,” Squirt advised, “you better find a way to tell your blog readers about this. If they get a-hold of your book before you disclose this shit to them, they’ll be confused. And pissed at you.”

“You’re right, little lady. And thanks for using English for all of that. I’m too brain fritzed to even attempt a translation.”

“De nada, and mucho gusto,” she replied.

Much pleasure, indeed. Ugh, you guys. Why did I decide to use Don Legacy as the ghost writer for my book? I thought it would be clever to write the book like I, Mooner Johnson, was an inhabitant inside Don Legacy’s skull. You know, juxtaposition as a literary device.

But look, I’m really not all that crazy, I simply have another man living with me. All the time. In my head.

I’m just glad we get along.

And I need to get along as well. Drink Carta Blanca beer and come back manana, y’all.

Pious Pompadored Prick Rick Perry; The Idiocy Of Faith

Monday, September 12th, 2011

 

So. The pious pompadoured prick we Texans call our governor has made another numskull move. Little Ricky Perry announced Saturday that he was going to cancel a visit to the fire-ravaged areas of Central Texas that have been scorched by wildfires over the last ten days.

These fires have left thousands homeless and have destroyed tens-of-thousands of acres in the process. Much of the habitat for several endangered species of quite unique creatures has been desiccated. Decimated, maybe. Whateverthefuck, these poor creatures’ habitats have been laid to waste by fires.

When I tell you why little Pricky canceled his appearances, you won’t believe me. Some of you will insist on checking the stories to obtain an independent observation. That’s OK by me, you silly shitballs. Go ahead and check if you find me lacking voracity. I don’t give a shit.

The reason Rick Perry canceled his tour to meet with the thousands of people who have been displaced by the wildfires is because he couldn’t get adequate press coverage. That’s right folks, look it up. Our governor decided to stay at home rather than waste his precious time visiting displaced citizens because it was not convenient for the press to cover his little trip.

I guess that since he’s a presidential candidate, his presence requires more media on site than when he was simply our governor. Before he tossed his name into that ring, the Prickster was happy to make an appearance as long as somebody showed up with at least a camera phone. It seems he now requires representation from the entirety of the world’s press corps to warrant his pretty face.

Which reminds me of something. I might have invented a catch phrase or whateveverthe fuck you call those dealies. We were sitting at breakfast this morning as usual on a Monday during football season. Mother is a Dallas Cowboys devotee, bless her martyred little heart, and the rest of us are University of Texas fans. Except for Mother’s, “Oh dear, what’s wrong with my Cowboys?” Monday morning conversation centers on the Longhorns team and the former Texas players in the NFL.

We were discussing the Cincinnati and Cleveland game from yesterday as both teams feature high-profile former Longhorns. Our favorites performed well both in victory and defeat. I was trying to explain to Squirt and Honor the cat what it means to be a fan and how that word—fan—comes from the larger word fanatic. “But isn’t that the same as terroristic?” the miniature dog asked me.

“I guess that would be true in extreme cases,” I told Squirt.

Gram was chewing a mouth full of homemade granola, her cheeks puffing like a chipmonk’s. “Ith layth thim futhin light phwin thisthan futhwaths,” were the words that managed to escape Gram’s lips around the dry cereal.

“You’re right, Gram. It’s just like the right-wing Christians who accuse Islamics of terrorism for the same ideologies as they themselves practice,” I replied. “It’s like an idiocy of faith.”

My mother gave me a stern look before saying, “Mooner Einstein Johnson! You take that back and right… now! How DARE you compare a Christian’s devotion to Christ to those evil heathens devil worship.”

Gram had managed to swallow her granola and cleared her throat loudly. “You lissen here, Mother. Mooner’s right. It don’t matter the juxtaposition, it’s the same melody.”

Huh?

Oh, I got it. “That’s what I was trying to say Gram. It doesn’t matter what your justification might be. If the net result is that you act like your belief system is the only acceptable one—and if you force it on others—you are a terrorist. You exhibit the idiocy of faith.”

Faith is a wonderful and scary emotion. The same faith that drove Mother Theresa to devote her life to the underprivileged fueled the Inquisition. One definition of the word faith is, “The strong belief in a God or a doctrine of a religion based upon spiritual apprehension rather than fact.”

Since apprehension is, “A fearful anticipation of the future,” then faith is, effectively, a fear-based emotion. What that means is that faith is a two-edged sword. When a person becomes consumed with the ideologies of their faith, fear of non-believers can become hatred. And hatred breeds violence and threatening behavior.

Threats and violence? That is what defines terror. My point with all of this is that faith, just like love, can make you an idiot. Right now I think the world is suffering from the idiocy of faith.

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

Dum Perignon Newest Bloggie Roller Inductee: BJ Says Stay Away

Friday, September 9th, 2011

 

So. It’s now time for me to announce the newest addition to my Bloggie Roller, and this one has been a tough one to pin down. It seems that to be under consideration for this award is the kiss of death. Wait, that’s quite an overstatement. To be considered by me to be placed on the list over there to the right =} is something akin to the kiss of fucked up blogger.

Did you know it took me thirty minutes to figure the best way to draw an arrow on this keyboard? You know, that =} arrow I just used to point over there. I’ve got arrow signs all over this fucking keyboard and not a single one of them types an actual fucking arrow. When I catch a minute I’m going to invent a new keyboard and incorporate all of the new stuff modern computer users need.

Like a “Fuck!” button and a “WTF” button. And actual arrows.

What I’m trying to say is that I was considering Colorful Rants of a Fed-up Sista for Bloggie Roller induction, and she took an extended vacation. I was ready to name A Daft Scott’s Lass and she changed her format from neighbor-lady-mommy-I-want-to-sex-up, and became a mommy bloggie.

Having named Squatlo Rant as the first inductee, he is now feeling a touch burned out. I’m starting to feel like I have too much influence in other peoples’ lives. I’m calling it the Mooner Effect. If I can shut down a blog just by liking it…

Hey wait. Maybe I can make myself start liking some of the right-wing Christian bloggies and name them. Get ’em shut down.

But I can just hear Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson on that one. “Mooner. Put your chin in my hand and look into my eyes. I said look me in the eyes, Mooner.”

Psycho therapy has done much to help me adjust to life as a crazy man. But sometimes it’s just too constricting. Restricting, maybe. Anyway, I’ll just stick to fucking up the lives of the people I really like and let the fuckwads ruin their own.

Having said all of that, my next inductee is a man who doesn’t want you to read his bloggie. If you do insist on reading it, he for certain doesn’t want you to leave a comment. And the last thing he would ever want is to be inducted to my Bloggie Roller hall of fame.

That’s why I’m naming him—because he doesn’t care if I ruin his life, he’s almost asking for it. He’s also smart, has a keen eye for the absurd and most importantly of all—he’s a fellow disciple of Fire Sign Theater.

I love Fire Sign Theater and I quote them all the time. I have to be careful here because I’m not supposed to use the same quotes here to my bloggie that I used in my book. But how about this one, “Put down that pickle!”

BJ, over to Dumb Perignon, is my newest named inductee. Click on his name over there to the right, =} , and go torment him. Try to make silly comments on his stuff and drive him out of business. It’s what he wants. Maybe that will have the inverse of the Mooner Effect and keep him going.

So crack open an icy-cold Carta Blanca beer and join me in saluting BJ. And leave him your favorite Fire Sign Theater quote. “I’m Artie Choke and we’re just a joke!”

Manana, y’all.

Dog Training Success; Mooner Still Nuts

Thursday, September 8th, 2011

 

So. I told you guys about the new puppy named Pi and that Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson said he was a “touch skittish” after spending his first year of life locked in a cage. This little guy is a tad bit more than a touch skittish, and the people who run puppy mills need to be caged. Or castrated with dull pruning shears.

We had our first session with Marilyn Nichols yesterday afternoon and she has already worked wonders with the little guy. Marilyn runs Happy Puppy Tutoring, where her motto is “We train people and teach dogs”[.] Her basic philosophy is that the dog isn’t the problem but rather it’s the human who gets the dog all fucked up. She worked with the Squirt when Sammie first got the little love lump because Squirt had some stubborn aggressiveness.

Anyway, the little dog soon to not be named Pi is a wreck. Before Marilyn came over, unless he was cowering inside a cage, he was so freaked you couldn’t get within ten feet of him. You couldn’t touch him or even approach him without him giving you the high-tail act. He was a mess.

Marilyn uses a method of training/teaching she calls the submissive technique. Sometimes SAC Ellen and I use the submissive technique with our sexing but with dogs it’s a slightly different dealie. I’m going to screw up this description of her methods pretty seriously, but I’ve got the basic crux of matters and if you have a dog with emotional or behavioral problems, you need to call Marilyn.

OK, the theory is that unless your dog is intrinsically loony and incapable of training, all dog problems are emotional. Dogs are pack animals and packs have strong social systems that provide the emotional support required for dogs to be able to act right. If a dog lacks a strongly socialized pack—one in which he knows who is the leader and that the leader will protect him—then he will be incapable of acting sociably.

The only other way to get good dog behavior is to beat it into them.

Which reminds me. I didn’t watch the Republican debate, I haven’t read anything about it and I don’t give a shit about it. I could care less about anything they have to say.

So, here’s what Marilyn does to help teach dogs to be fruitful members of a family pack. She “submits” your dog. Just like the alpha dog in an all-dog pack, she puts the new dog on it’s side and she imitates exactly the actions the alpha dog would take. She pokes her fingernails into the muscle on the back of its neck and holds her hand on the dog’s rear flank—effectively imitating the alpha dogs teeth in the dominant grip and a body pin on the flanks.

What she wants to see when placing the dog in the submissive pose is for the puppy to submit. OK, well duh, Mooner, the submissive pose id designed to get a submit? What I should have said is that you want the dog to become fully relaxed and calm—like a lump of coal. No shaking, eyes void of that “I’m freaked” look, muscles relaxed. This state of submission is where your dog will find the emotional support it needs to be happy and well adjusted.

Totally fucking true. I remember when they first started working with the Squirt, she was a tough little nut to crack. Since she felt she was the alpha dog, she resisted giving in all the way. Now all I have to do it point to the floor and say, “Drop,” and she’s throws herself to the floor with her adorable little feet sticking out to the side.

Having said that, I think I might be abusing my alpha male privileges with her. I think it’s so cute when she does that that I use it as a parlor trick. A few weeks ago we were over to the La Madeline having breakfast at an outside table. I had a French dip sandwich with a side salad while I read the paper, and Squirt was having a runny egg. This quite cute college-age girl was at the table beside us with her poodle, a micro-mini white fluff ball. She was having him do tricks for little bites of food.

I remarked to the cute girl that her dog was cute and seemed well trained. The girl was wearing a UT Longhorn tee shirt and running shorts without under-garment top, or bottom. I will admit that my pulse quickened at the glimpses of should-be-hidden fleshinesses, but I would never act on the impulses. I will, however, act out on any occasion. I whispered to Squirt that I wanted her to go down into submissive to show off for the girl.

“No fucking way, Mooner,” Squirt told me. “Have you seen how dirty the concrete is? Why don’t you show her your tattoo instead. Or maybe some of your scars.”

Holy shit am I scatter-brained this morning. I’m not walking my pets because of all the wildfire smoke in the air and I think my ADHD might be backing up. But after just the one visit with Marilyn, the new puppy has shown remarkable changes. I can approach him and pet him and he even jumped up on the bed and slept with us last night.

And now I realize that I lied to you and I do care what happened in last night’s fuckball parade of right-wing shitheads. I’m grabbing a Carta Blanca beer and the front section of the paper. Manana, y’all.

Psycho Therapy Sucks; Mooner Gets Community Services

Wednesday, September 7th, 2011

 

So. The winds have calmed and temperatures cooled somewhat, and firefighters have managed to get the Central Texas wildfires under control, somewhat. Police are searching for numerous suspected arsonists and I hope the authorities catch them before our angry citizenry.

We’re normally a peaceful bunch, but “Don’t Mess With Texas” isn’t just an advertising slogan. It’s how we roll.

Except, of course, for our governor and right-wing Christian dominated legislature. Voters have seemed to lack the ability to connect the dots between our state’s eroding environmental qualities and the brain-dead fuckball, Rick Perry. Since Perry became our governor, we have become a top-two state in the air pollution category and we are soon to be the home of the largest nuclear waste dump ever.

But it’s cool this morning and I’m in a pretty decent mood. Brandon, from over to My Own Private Idaho, is designing a second set of anti Rick Perry merchandise. Less offensive to the greater masses, this new slogan should get a better grip on a marketing surge and gain better sales traction. The products should be ready any day now.

Speaking of the fires, we were headed to our psycho therapy session yesterday (I’m down to one per day since I’m doing so well), and I say “our psycho therapy session” because my little dog and cat are attending with me. Since Honor the cat is trade bait for the little puppy, Squirt, in the deal I made months ago, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson wants to monitor our progress. My long-time dog, translator and business partner, Dixie, is older and retiring.

At least she’s tired of me and has chosen to spend her golden years with Streaker Jones where she can concentrate on her love of spoors. Streaker Jones is a mushroom grower and Dixie is now his assistant. I’m happy for both of them and miss Dixie less each day. She and I have been through quite a lot together and she has been the most faithful of dogs. I’m more than happy to give her her freedom.

Anyway, the deal with Dr. Sam is that I can have the good doctor’s dog, Squirt, as my new puppy and translator just as soon as I find and train a replacement kitty to give to Sammy. Honor the cat is the self-selected nominee in the cat category. Dixie has completed the Squirt’s language training so she’s already assumed most of Dixie’s duties for me. As far as training the cat, other than teaching her to pee in the sink, whatthefuck sort of training can you give a cat?

I mean really, what can you teach a cat if it doesn’t CHOOSE to fucking learn? Many of the things I want to train her to do she already does. She has good table manners, she speaks her mind and she doesn’t take crap from anybody. She came pre-programmed with a fierce family loyalty, she loves Carta Blanca beer and fishing has become her favorite non-sleeping activity.

Honor the cat would rather fish than hunt, and she LOVES to hunt.

“OK, everybody,” I told the little cat and dog when we parked the GTO at Sammie’s office. “Please be on your best behavior. If Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson doesn’t sense that I have a good handle on you two I’ll be getting extra assignments and homework, and you’ll be getting a grumpy master.”

We went inside and sat in the waiting room. When the light next to her door turned from red to green, I said, “Come on kiddies, it’s show time.”

Honor the cat led us inside Sam’s office , and before I had a full step inside, she was hissing and spitting like a maniac. “Tell your cat to zip it, Mooner. This little bundle can’t handle the stress.”

“This little bundle” was a small white dog that cowered at my psycho therapist’s feet. For those of you new to these pages, separating the psycho from their therapy is my favorite mental health joke.

“His name is Pi, like Pi-r-squared. He’s a rescue dog who has spent his first year of life locked in a kennel, and he is a tad bit skiddish. He’s your new assignment. All three of you are getting too big for your britches and you need to perform a little community service.”

“Bitch.” I might have mumbled.

“Speak up, Mooner, and he’s a boy. He’s from an Oklahoma puppy mill that got shut down. Call Marilyn Nichols at Happy Puppy Tutoring and get her to help you get him adjusted to a new life with people.”

When I gave her my best “are-you-fucking-kidding-me?” look, my therapist and first ex-wife stared me down. “Look, Mooner. This is a very sweet dog who has been traumatized. Let Marilyn work her submissive magic on him. I want all three of you to take part in his readjustments.”

“Ugh,” was the best I could do at the time. I loaded the now three pets into the GTO—squirt and Honor in their harnesses and Pi in his crate. I called Marilyn on the way back to the ranch and set an appointment for later today. I know she can work wonders, but this little guy is seriously fucked up.

Which gives me an idea. Over to Shoal Creek Loony Bin they use electro-shock therapies on the most severe cases of anti-social behavior. Maybe I can turn-down the volts and amps on a stunner gun and work a little magic here with Pi. Hell, maybe I can develop something useful and Marilyn can market it for me.

But the first thing we’re doing is renaming the little shitball. I’m out in the back lawn area this morning trying to get the little rascal to do his business and I’m saying, “Come on Pi, pee. Come on, pee, Pi. Pee, Pi.”

That shit is not going to work when we start our sink training. He needs a new name. Manana, y’all.

The Dangers Of Fire; Pitch The Smoker Out The Window

Tuesday, September 6th, 2011

 

So. The fires are still burning Central Texas to a crisp, but my iron wood bat has gone unused. I was so angry yesterday about the asshole pitching his lit cigarette out his window that I lost my composure.

I think I’m also mad at myself for blowing the chance at sex with SAC Ellen Friday night, the first since a month ago and last until three more weeks. I’m afraid that my recent purchases of Ivory soap will send prices soaring. Ivory soap, when brought to a frothy lather, is my lubricant of choice for personal sexing. I’ve been taking so many showers that my skin looks like a lizard.

It’s just that fire scares me more than any other disaster. And let’s hang on for a second. Why doesn’t lizard have two z’s? Lizzard and gizzard and wizzard blizzard are each words better off with the second z. Who’s the asshole that decided to take the second z out of lizard and wizard?

Fire scares me like no other danger. I’m sure it was all of those fire-and-brimstone sermons back when I was a kid and still going to the fucking Baptist church. Pastor Browningwell standing on the stage, pacing back and forth, thumping his big Bible and telling us about how terrible the fires of hell would feel if we drank whiskey or danced or fornicated.

I understood the whiskey and dancing parts of those sermons from a very early age. We Johnsons have been drinking whiskey and dancing forever. As a young child, I was danced around from infancy, cradled in some adult’s arms to whatever music was playing. And I started sneaking drinks from the highball glasses and beer cans that sat on the side tables and on the porch as soon as I could walk.

I didn’t quite grasp the full hellish natures of the fornication part until I was raped by one of the Baptist Deacons at that same Baptist church.

But fire scares me.

So does the current state of politics in America. The polarizing rhetoric is frightening and the anger displayed by supporters on both sides seems fire-fed. OK, maybe the politicians are feeding the fires of their supporters, but don’t allow my confusing syntax muddle my point.

Fire exists to keep us warm and cook our food. Like guns, fire in the wrong hands is tragic. Maybe that’s why they’re called firearms—to remind you of their danger.

Like Rizzy said, “We’re in a drought people.”

Manana, y’all.

Grave New Dangers For Smokers; An Important Public Service Message

Monday, September 5th, 2011

 

So. In case you haven’t seen the news, Central Texas is on fire. A half-dozen fires are burning out of control and the wind is whipping the flames at 20 MPH. Thousands of homes have been evacuated and hundreds have already burned. We’re losing a pine forest, housing and tens-of-thousands of acres of Hill Country beauty.

I’m pissed about these fires because it appears that all were caused by inconsiderate behaviors. People have died and others have lost everything because other people are inconsiderate assholes. One fire is thought to have been caused by a campfire. That’s right, in spite of the ban on campfires in all of our parks, shitballs ignore the bans and cause millions of dollars in damages.

And kill people.

The second cause thought to have started the other fires are “improperly disposed smoking materials”[.] Smokers are thought to have started the other fires—fuckhead, nasty-ass smokers who pitch cigarette butts out the windows of their vehicles.

I was driving down US 183 earlier, tooling along in the GTO with the windows open. Squirt and Honor the cat were in their safety harnesses, each with her head stuck out the passenger side window. We were in the far left lane and approaching the Parmer exit when a white Ford F150 pick up truck passed us on the right doing at least 20 over the speed limit. The truck had one of those stickers on the back window that shows an angry little guy pissing on a Chevy sign, a big rusted dent in the driver’s door, and said driver was a mid-thirties skin-headed smoker.

He whizzed passed us, flipped his cigarette out his window and then swerved across three lanes of traffic to exit onto Parmer. The lit cigarette hit the GTO somewhere in its front and showered sparks over the windshield. I was startled and stunned. When my brain settled I realized he had exited. I moved over, took the next exit, and went looking for him, a fruitless 2-hour search.

I am fuming. I went out to the barn and found my iron wood baseball bat. It’s 34-inches long and hits the scales at thirteen pounds. I have the handle wrapped with padded bat tape so that I both get a good grip, and also pad my hands from the shock of iron wood bat striking glass and metal.

I put that bat in the GTO.

I want every smoker in Central Texas to print the following message—cut it off the paper and slip it under the cellophane on your cigarette packs:

WARNING…WARNING…WARNING. CIGARETTE SMOKING HAS NOW BEEN DETERMINED TO HAVE THE FOLLOWING NEW SIDE EFFECTS: SMASHED WINDSHIELDS, LIGHTS, WINDOWS AND AUTO BODY WORKS; BROKEN LEGS, ARMS AND SKULLS; CIGARETTE BURNS IN THE ANAL CANAL.

THESE SIDE EFFECTS MAY BE AVOIDED SO LONG AS YOU NEVER DISCARD ANY OF YOUR SMOKING MATERIALS IMPROPERLY. PAY SPECIAL HEED TO THE LARGE MAN IN THE CLASSIC PONTIAC GTO—THE ONE WITH THE SMALL DOG AND CAT IN LEATHER HARNESSES RIDING SHOTGUN. HE WILL FUCK YOU UP.

I’m going to go start cooking the meats for tonight’s big celebration. We have a dozen extra mouths to feed tonight because we have friends who were forced to evacuate their homes and we have room in ours.

If anyone who reads this trash is a smoker who throws cigarettes out his car window, please stop. Or go the fuck away. Stop coming here.

And remember, grilled meats’ best friend is Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.