Google Screws Mooner’s Sexing; Ivory Soap In Short Supply

 

So. Last night was a big night for me—a scheduled sexing night. SAC Ellen has been traveling the country teaching seminars to local law enforcement agencies on how to identify and deal with terroristic threats. Since I’m starting to sense that the worst terroristic threat America now faces comes from the extremely right-minded Christian fuckballs, I suggested that she print a list of all the Baptist churches in each area she visits.

“Tell them to start here,” I suggested over an icy Carta Blanca beer and a steak tacos al carbon plate at Guerros when I last saw her. “Give them the list of Baptist churches and tell them to stake the fuckers out.”

Didn’t get much traction for my idea but it did get me to thinking what an idiotic moron our Texas governor is. I’m starting to wonder if he, Sarah Palin and Michele Bachmann weren’t triplets at birth and in need of brains to fill their empty cranial vaults.

The only donor brain available was that of the old spider monkey who recently died of Alzheimers over to the City Zoo. Each got a third of the already used-up primate gray matter.

SAC Ellen was in town for just the one Friday night after a month-long absence then she’ll be gone again for three more weeks. That said, the planned sexing was to be the highlight of the evening’s activities. First, dinner over to Tataya’s, this nifty little Thai place on North Lamar. They make really good anything on the menu and I love spicy Thai food. She had the spicy eggplant and I had the yellow curry with chicken.

We shared a chicken and coconut milk soup that we each loaded with the trio of pepper condiments you get at Thai places. SAC Ellen gave me a sexy look over the brim of her soup bowl and said to me, she said, “Ummm, this is good Mooner. I meant to tell you—I Googled you yesterday and got something like 70,000 hits.” Another sexy look, batted eyes and a dainty slurp of soup. “You won’t even believe what things pop up when you Google ‘crazy redneck fuckball Austin Texas’”

“You funny lady,” I told her. “Have you charged your stun gun for later?” She had. Since we have just the one night for sexing, we wanted to make the most of it. The rock-hard stiffies I get when tazed are worth the short-term memory loss.

Sticky rice and mango finished a great meal. Except for the lack of Carta Blanca beer—perfect. I snagged to-go orders for Squirt and Honor the cat and we headed to SAC Ellen’s place. When we got there I fed the animals and put their movie on the TV. I’m attempting to broaden their horizons, so I gave them Catch-22 as the evening’s entertainment. Major Minor is still one of my favorite movie character names.

Do you guys have favorite movie names like that? Billy Pilgrim and Montana Wildhack are more of my favorites. I still have sex dreams about Valerie Perrine but for some reason not ever camel toe dreams. I need to ask Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson what’s up with that. Maybe my psycho therapist can shed some light on the subject.

SAC Ellen told me to occupy myself for a few minutes while she took another shower and got ready for action. It’s been really hot here and she perspired some at dinner. “And the answer is, ‘No’,” she said. I assumed the question was, “Can I shower with you?”

Anyway, I thought about the Google dealie and sat to her office computer to Google myself. I typed in “Mooner Johnson”[,] hit the find button and up popped the following: “more than 61,900 hits in 0.19 seconds”.

“Holy shit,” I said out loud. So I started scrolling around and read about my bloggie and my various businesses, and arrests and such, and there were quite a few entries for some guy named Robert Johnson and his Mooner video. Also a few for outboard boat motors. I was scrolling somewhere back in the hundreds when I heard, “Come to bed, baby. I’ve got a little something for you.”

“Just a minute, sweetie. I might have found a word thief.” I had found a word thief—some Indonesian shitwad who was stealing my stuff in the whole cloth and claiming it as his own. Then I found another and then another. Each added something to my name to get an I-net domain name it seemed. This one was “Pashta Mooner Johnson”[.]

“Come on, Mooner, you’re wasting the night.”

“OK, be right there,” I answered.

Then I found this one guy from the Ukraine, Mooner Boris Johnson, and an entry where he stole one of my camel toe dreams. Printed the fucker word-for-word. If that wasn’t bad enough, he had all of these lady commenters who sent him photos of their moose knuckles. “Nobody has ever offered to send me pictures of their camel toes!” I snarked at the screen. I was pissed.

I slammed around the house for a few minutes, bitching and cussing. I went to check on the Squirt and Honor before going to bed. Their movie had finished and they were watching the end of a college football game. Baylor was beating TCU. Fucking Baptists.

“Come on you two, lets go out and do your duties.” We all pee in the sink but shits are still dropped in the grass. We walked out front and I sat on the stoop while the two of them sniffed around for good spots.

“Click. Snap!”

I heard the all-too-familiar sounds of dead bolt and heavy chain locking behind me.

“Ugh,” my only response.

“Do your business and load up in the GTO, kiddies. We’ve manage to fuck up the sexing again tonight.”

Lucky I have Slaughterhouse Five on DVD. Manana, y’all.

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