Archive for October, 2011

Mooner’s Last Supper; A Halloween Drama

Monday, October 31st, 2011


So. Today is Halloween and it’s to be a really big day here to Loonyland. I have been staying away from the Planned Parenthood for the last week, or so, because of today’s Johnson Family Playhouse performance titled, “The Last Supper Goes Anti-Anti-Abortion Re-protesting”[.]

The asshole Christians have ratcheted-up their anti-abortion protestings recently. They are doing this “bow our heads in saddened silence” thingie where the turn their backs to traffic and face the clinic.


I’ve got my crew dressing as Jesus and his Disciples having that last dinner. OK, not all of the D’s will be represented as Mother refuses to play, and SAC Ellen is in Costa Rica, again. Can somebody tell me what possible business a Special Agent In Charge for the US Department of Homeland Security would have in Costa Rica?

Me, I love Costa Rica and I really love Costa Rican coffee. But you’d need a long-range tactical bomber to attack America from Costa Rica, and they don’t even have an air force down there.

We had quite the skirmish when deciding roles for today’s Halloween skit. First, everyone wanted to be Jesus, and then nobody wanted that role. I have refused it from the start as it just doesn’t seem fitting. In a final compromise with Gram and the ostrich Rick Perry, I cast Dubbie-J in the Jesus, Lord and Saviour, role. Dubbie-J is Woodrow Wilson Jones, Aunt Hilda’s shrunken head-in-a-box. And don’t even ask because that story is, of course, in the fucking book. A book that you can buy, coincidentally enough, by clicking to this linkster:

The little presumed to be African native man has already got long hair and a beard, and he looks terrific in the made from hemp fabric robe the guys over to the factory made for him. Gram said it best when she said, “Why tha little guy is cute enough ta date.”

Then Gram and Yoda started haggling over who got to be Judas. Gram wanted to be Judas because, as she again so eloquently put it, “He’s tha one what got tha gold. There is real gold, right, Mooner?”

Yoda wanted that role because Judas and Jesus sound alike and are almost spelled alike, which is a conundrum for another dichotomy. I love dealies like that. Like how Mormon and moron are a simple “m” apart.

When all of the fighting was over, we decided to go with Matthew, Mark, Luke, John and Judas, plus Sleepy and Dopey. Rush Limbaugh is the perfect Sleepy, as hogs tend to be a tad sluggish by nature. And Rick Perry as Dopey… Enough said.

My role is head administrator, driver of the family flat bed truck, and director of the play. I’ll be wearing my new sandwich board sign that says, “I’m An Abortion And I’m OK,” on the one side, and, “A Woman’s Right Of Choice Is Sacred,” on the flipper.

Enough. I need to get things going. I was gonna say, “I need to get this show on the road,” but it seemed a tad over-the-top. Manana, y’all.

Bloggie Tour Plans On A Roll; Doughnuts For Breakfast

Saturday, October 29th, 2011


So. I have only one week left before I head out on my road trip to visit Squatlo, BJ, the Reckmonster and TQ—fellow bloggers and buddies of mine. I’m starting the trip with a few days of poker at an Indian casino up to Oklahoma. I hear the poker rooms might be better over to Tunica, Mississippi, but I have an eighth Indian blood from Daddy’s side and I want to keep my action with family.

In my absence, my homie family and associates will provide you with a little entertainment. I have asked each of them to say a little something on any subject they choose. I have also asked them to do this after I’m gone so that they can write unbridled by my comments. OK, why aren’t they unbridled WITH my comments?

We just finished discussing it at breakfast. When I told them of my idea, you’d have thought I asked them to slit their own throats.

“Oh, dear, son,” Mother started. “You are too controversial and totally inappropriate. I cannot have my name associated with you.”


“But you’re my mother, for shitsakes, don’t forget that you’re my mother.”

Mother sighed her deepest martyr sigh and said to me, she said, “Oh, sweet Jesus knows I have tried to forget, Mooner. But God has determined that you and your grandmother are to be my bearfull burdens in this sinful life, and He wants us to remember our responsibilities. Sometimes it’s just too much to bear.”

Bearfull burdens? Whatinthefuck is a bearfull burden?

Before I could form the words in my mouth, Gram piped up. “I’mma bear yer ass full a this hot oatmealie if’n ya start up with that shit agin’.”

There was verbal silence for minutes as my Gram sat and stewed. Every thirty seconds or so she would look up from her oatmeal and snort at Mother, a cold and scary look in her eyes. Gram scraped the last of her oats into the big soup spoon and jammed the over-filled silver utensil into her mouth. “Ah thooda thoth Thigha tha mmathy Emthala Mahthathun.”

Uh-oh. Someone run grab the Kleenex.

It took a second for my mother to translate Gram’s mush-mouthed proclamation, but her cognizance showed as huge tears welled in her eyes. “How can you say that after everything I have done for you? How can you throw Emily Morrison into my face after all these years?”

My Gram had just told Mother that she wished she’d told Chigger, that’s what we called Daddy, that he should have married Emily Morrison. Emily was my Daddy’s high school sweetheart and first love. They separated, unmarried, when Daddy went off to war, and Daddy came home with Mother in tow.

OK, let me stop the presses. You need to go buy my book because the rest of our breakfast talk delved deep into stories contained in the fucking book. I can’t be spoiling book surprises here in the bloggie. So click onto this linkster:

What I can do here is summarize breakfast. Gnat, my personal assistant, will take dictation from each of the contributors after I leave town. Gnat will translate to computer speak, and publish the whole thing on Monday morning, November 7th. You can read one entry each day, or read the whole silly thing at once. I don’t really give a shit which.

Anyway, I’ve got a truckload of Carta Blanca arriving that needs to be unloaded, and I need to go wake SAC Ellen from her slumber. I did me some fine work last night, and she need a little extra time to recover. She’ll blame it on jet lag, but we all know better.

Manana, y’all.

Today’s Posting, Part Dos

Friday, October 28th, 2011


So. I’m a total scatterbrained left-wing liberal dumbass. I’m supposed to be promoting my book at every turn of the corner, or the page, and I can’t even remember to do it here. I’m supposed to post the linkster to the Amazon spot where you can buy it. The book, that is, buy the book. So here it is:

Go over there and take a look even if you don’t buy it. They just got a picture of the cover posted. You might think it “pricey”[,] but it’s 440 pages and it is printed with the larger, readable print.

I wanted to print it like regular books, but all of my advisors had the same advice for me when it came time to make decisions as related to font size. I guess my Editorator said it best when she said, “Look, Mooner. Your prose is difficult enough to read and follow. Print in larger font to assist your readers.”

I did, and I ended with higher printing costs—more paper, more ink and more weight. But it is easy to read, at least from the legibility perspective, and it’s thick enough to stop a 22-caliber slug or the heavy rubber bullets cops shoot at demonstrators. That will help you if you get caught in a stray drive-by. It wouldn’t stop any bullets of larger caliber in my tests, but it will also deter a tazer blast. So take it with you when you go to your Occupy Wall Street demonstrations. It seems the authorities have less patience that demonstrators have grit and determination.

When I finish with this posting, I’ll do some tests to see how it does under a knife attack.

I might need to order some more books.

Another part of the price of Full Rising Mooner would be the charitable donations I will make from each sale. I have my favorite ones, currently the Food Bank and the Texas Paralyzed Vets. But if you provide me proof of purchase—like a photo of you holding the book—then I’ll donate a dollar to any charity of your choice in addition to the donation I make to mine.

Also, the Kindle version should be ready by the 9th of November. And the 30-second commercial dealie will be done soon.

And remember this. I will print any review you have of my book, however negative or positive it might be.

So, FUCK RICK PERRY and buy the damned book for shitsakes.

Double Dose Of Two-Faced Rick Perry; Texas Gov Still An Asshole

Friday, October 28th, 2011


So. Sometimes I hate when I love that I was right. Wait. I love when I wish I was wrong and I wasn’t. How does a person properly provide elucidation to unpleasantness?


I made two predictions about the pompous prick Rick Perry, and my newspaper confirmed my presciences in today’s edition, and I wish I’d been wrong. I hate when people have nasty predictable tendencies. In articles almost side-by-side, the Austin American-Statesman had Pricky Perry stories that should provide coffin nails for his presidential candidacy. Yet I fear that the national right-wing Christian Republican fan base is no smarter than their brethren here to Texas.

The first story was about the new upper-level management salary structure for TxDOT. I was telling you guys about how Perry had appointed a former aide and lobbyist as the new head of TxDOT and had doubled the man’s salary from what his predecessor had earned. Out of one side of his mouth, our governor preaches financial restraint and slaughters our education, social support and environmental services budgets.

Then out of his other mouth, the two-faced former Texas Aggie yell leader showers his one-percenter buddy with a reward at taxpayer’s expenses. That was a month ago. Today’s story quotes that new head of TxDOT as saying that he wants to almost double the salaries of the next-in-line management positions at TxDOT so that he can, “Attract top private industry talent.” Read that to mean “more of the Governor’s ass lickers”[.]

In the several positions mentioned, if those salaries were kept level, and the new Texas Roadway Kingpin was paid as the last, we could hire three professional engineers and a half-dozen base-grade workers with the listed salary increases. To me, this situation says everything you need to know to have a keen understanding of who Rick Perry is, and how he runs his elected offices.

The second article was telling us that little Ricky has decided to take a pass on some/all of the remaining Republican debates. Since he is, as his staff will tell us, “Not a good debater,” he’ll just do what he did in Texas last gubernatorial race, and refuse to debate.

Like the rich kid in the neighborhood who owned the one football, Perry only plays when he feels he has the advantage or he takes his ball and goes home. Too bad the little shithead hasn’t got any balls, and too bad he’s so stupid he doesn’t realize just how dumb he is.

Rick Perry is Forrest Gump without the kind spirit. Wait, that didn’t quite get there. Rick Perry is a mean spirited man. He is one of the misguided Christians who feels that his faith and prayer should make him lord and master of the realm. He thinks that God has ordained him to be President of the United States, and he’ll do ANY-FUCKING-THING to make it be true.

Rick Perry is a two-faced weasel who panders to his financial backers. And he gets elected.

Ugh, ugh, uggga-ugh.

At least it’s Friday. SAC Ellen will be back in town and I’m having me some sex tonight! I’ve got an appointment down to Ingrid’s Hot Wax Emporium to get my ass prepped for tonight’s events. I’ve decided to go with a Halloween theme and get my ass plucked and dyed to look like a Jack-O-Lantern, and I think I’ll get my front side all done up to look like the Grim Reaper. Gram is knitting me a wool scythe blade to put on the end of my pecker.

Squirt and Yoda want to be Harold and Maude. We watched that great old movie last night and it sealed the deal. Anyone have ideas about just how this will work? I can’t think of anything but makeup and clothes to get them into character. When I expressed my concerns, Squirt said to me, she said, “Vous pouvez nous acheter un Jaguar XK twelve banger.”

I looked at her like she was crazy. “Are you crazy? That’s a $75,000 car. I’m not spending $75,000 on your Halloween costumes. You, little lady, are out of your mind.”

That was at breakfast, and at 8:30 am, a terrific breakfast time of day. A time previously negotiated by me in exchange for doing anything the dogs want to do one day a week.

After we finish at Ingrid’s, we’re going bone shopping.

It’s Friday, so drink your Carta Blanca beer cold, and responsibly. Manana, y’all.

Camel Toes Give Mooner Woes; Buy Mooner’s Book

Thursday, October 27th, 2011


So. My webber and bloggie sites are running amok, again. I guess I just need to get used to these periodic interruptions. I should swallow the lump of bile stuck in my throat, take a mood stabilizer and get over it. I should be an adult and admit that this shit just happens, get it fixed and move on with my life. Every obstacle in life doesn’t require full Mooner meltdown. I need to accept these website problems as a part of successful bloggerating on the I-net.

Instead, I want to smash my computer, kick the fucking cat, and set my hair on fire.

I might actually kick the fucking cat. As you all well know, I have been working with the dogs to get them on a later morning breakfast schedule. I have been negotiating with Yoda and the Squirt for a week, and last night we reached an agreement. I sent Jeff the basic terms for him to draft into a contract. Jeff is my attorney for all of my “legal” activities.

Basically, in return for them eating breakfast at a time of my choosing—but under no circumstances at any time later than 9 am Central time—I agree to do whatever the dogs want to do one day each week. I was wary about this agreement at first but now I see it as win-win-chicken-chins.

We agreed to these terms, shook hands and slapped backs all around, and I even popped a bottle of bubbly. We each drank a toast and then gave the bottle of silly wine to Gram and Aunt Hilda. Gram brought home two young cowboys from the Broken Spoke night-before-last, and the girls were still riding the trail last evening. I’m not crazy about champagne, but I am crazy enough to aid my randy old grandmother with her conquests.

Anyway, as I lay my head on my pillow last night, the dogs settled into their regular spots and I said to them, I said, “OK, guys. I’ll agree to get up at 6:30 today and you agree to let me sleep.”

“No problemo, Bwana Mooner. No problemo at all,” Squirt replied.

I reached up to scratch the cat before drifting off, but she wasn’t there. I realized I hadn’t seen her since after we reached our landmark agreement earlier. But Honor is after all, a cat, so I didn’t worry. I went to sleep.

Am I the only person in the world who has camel toe dreams? Really? I was having another of my celebrity camel toe dreams where I’m the judge of a contest. In this one, the ladies were competing for “Best in Show” ribbons and the theme was “Walt Disney Cartoon Characters”[.] Queen Elizabeth had her pocket meat dressed like Cinderella, a classic preparation if ever I saw one. In homage to her loyal subjects, the Queenster had Cindy dressed as she was in the Disney movie when she was on hands and knees before the fireplace and scrubbing the floor.

Chelsea Handler was a big disappointment this dream. She chose Dumpy the dwarf and it was poorly done at that. Wait, maybe it was Dopey the dwarf. Marcus Bachmann was stellar, as always, with his Daisey Duck. It was really cute the way he could make Donald Duck’s girlfriend wiggle her tail, just like in the cartoon.

And Michele Bachmann was a mess, and a consternation as well. When she unveiled to the audience, her Mickey Mouse camel toe looked like a big, bloody rat. I got closer, as judges do, to get a better look.

“Ick,” my first impulse. “That is disgusting. And what is that smell?”

I stuck my nose to the rat-camel to take a bigger whiff… And I awakened to find myself eye-to-eye with an actual bloody rat. The rat sat on my chin and the fucking cat sat on my chest. The rat was fresh kill, a detail I gathered from its still-glistening eyes, but it stunk anyway. All rats stink.

“Get this thing off of me, Honor, and right now!”

She did, reluctantly, but only to lay it beside my pillow. “Oh for shitsakes, take it outside.”

She didn’t. Wouldn’t. I looked at the clock—it read 5:02 am. Squirt and Yoda started giggling, and the cat got this shit-eating grin to her face.

“Son… of… a… BITCH!” I looked at each of them individually.

“Oh, now I get it. You think I need to negotiate with you now, right?”

“Cheh, cheh, cheh,” was the fucking cat’s answer. I’d never heard a cat laugh before, and that’s my best spelling of the noise.

The rat is still on the bed, and I’m not moving it. And I am definitely NOT negotiating with a fucking cat that I didn’t even want.

Any of you guys need a cat?


Oh, How Can You Be In Two Places At Once When You’re Not Anywhere At Aaalll?

Wednesday, October 26th, 2011


So. I’m sitting around waiting for the electrician to show up. We’re having trouble with several outside circuits and I think a couple of my anti-deer floodlights need to be replaced. I love deer meat but absolutely despise deer. Deer, my Bambi-loving readers, are nasty cloven-footed rats that relish the idea that you feed and protect them by day, while they destroy your gardens at night.

Evil Devil’s-spawn, crop-ravaging tick-infested Baptist furbags.

I have these big floodlights with remote sensors staged around my property anywhere I have things needing protection from the fucking deer. The lights are backed-up with motion sensor cameras that follow any animal encroaching on family flora. If a camera stays locked onto a target for thirty seconds, the gunfire starts.

OK, not actual guns firing but the sounds of guns firing. The digital loop has ten second bursts for a minute. If whatever it is doesn’t hightail it from our property, the following are sounds of gunfire and dogs. The last line of defense is the recording of my Gram saying, “Iffn ya value yer life you’ll skee-daddle,” and that is followed by the sound of her racking the breech of her twelve gage.

I bet that the term “high tailing it” comes from the way a deer’s tail points straight to the sky when they run from danger. Fucking deer.

Anyway, several of the lights aren’t working, and the digital recording has started running amok. Gunfire and dogs and Gram, all three, can be heard 24-hours every day. It’s a tad unsettling.

So I called the electrician to make repairs and he has the same fluid schedule of all service providers. So I wait for the electrician, which reminds me of my very first exposure to Fire Sign Theater. I was just starting college and my friend Lloyd—Lloyd is my gay buddy who is the finest man I have ever known—Lloyd had a buddy who had a great stereo system. We got all wonkered and went to this guy’s house. I think his name was Mark and he lived with his brother and another guy.

We took a couple albums to play on the great stereo, a fat doobie rolled from some of Streaker Jones’ latest variant, and a bottle of Gram’s potion she called Young Love. I remember that the album I took was Disraeli Gears by Cream. I think Lloyd had the new Simon and Garfunkel album.

When we got there, Mark (or whoeverthefuck he was) had this strange shit on his speakers. It sounded like an audio acid trip. “What’s that?” Lloyd and I both asked at the same time.

“Oh wow, man, that’s Firesign Theater, dudes.” I think it was Mark’s brother who answered.

Turns out it was the first FST’s first album, Waiting for the Electrician or Someone Like Him. I was hooked in five minutes. I was a FST junkie. For the longest time I had every line of dialog from every album memorized. OK, as memorized as an ADHD-sufferer’s brain can do. My memory for memorized dialog most resembles a CD player that has gone on the fritz, jumping and skipping and backtracking through snippets of text. I guess the same thing as is wrong with our anti-deer recording.

For some reason I best remember this one line from that first album: “Would you like to send a letter?”

Still cracks my ass up.

Which reminds me. I just remembered who wrote that stupid fucking Bambi book. Some Austrian named Felix Salten. Or was it Salty Flaxen? He fled Austria when the Nazi’s took over and wrote a sequel while in exile in Switzerland. And the fucking Swiss, playing all nice-nice with the Nazi’s during the war and then stealing all of the booty plundered from the Jews and stored in their banks after the Nazi’s were defeated.

But what was the point of writing that stupid book, Bambi? I think it was actually titled Bambi—A Life in the Woods. Should have been titled Scrambi—The Life and Death of a Cloven-Hooved Wood Rat. What in hell was old Felix thinking?

Anyway, the electrician is here, and I just remembered to remind you that my book is out and for sale. Click onto the link in yesterday’s posting to get the book. OK, wait. Don’t buy the book before reading yesterday’s posting and disclaimer.

Manana, y’all.

FullRisingMooner Finally Out!: Proud Author Repeatedly Shits Pants

Tuesday, October 25th, 2011


So. OK, drum roll: “Ttrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…”; cymbal crash: “Crashshshshshsh!”

My book is out! That’s right folks, my book is finally out. (Sound of Mooner so excited he shits his pants)(Twice already). When I got a copy of the press announcement late yesterday afternoon, I started jumping up and down and squealing like a little girl.

Then I paraded around the house singing “My Book is Ow-out” and “I’m A Published Au-thor” songs. My entire menagerie of mostly-domesticated animals were part of my parade band. Squirt and Yoda danced around my feet and Rush Limbaugh snorted a decent rendition of a rap DJ. I’ll admit that his grunting and squealing closely resembles the sexing noises I hear coming from my closet at all hours of the day. I just hadn’t made the connection with rap music DJ background sounds before.

My big pig’s gay lover, the ostrich Rick Perry, “sang” along with me. Eerie sounds, that. Maybe it will take those ostrich breeders among my readers to fully understand what I mean when I say “Eerie sounds, that”[,] but the rest of you need to trust me on this one. Maybe I should have said, “Eerie sounds, those.”

We marched around, moving from wing-to-wing of the house. It was when we got over to Gram and Aunt Hilda’s place that I shit my pants the first time. That one was not fully my fault. When I told my fraternal women elders the good news, Gram squeezed me so tight a little accident squirted into my undies.

I always marvel at the strength of that old broad. She can’t weigh a hundred pounds, and you can see the outline of every bone in her body. A testament I can personally make, and embarrassingly so. She went fishing with us one day last week and got bored with my catching so many fish. I am the luckiest fisherman you have ever met. I have near zero technical skills as a fisherman, but I load the stringer or fill the live well anytime I go.

I’m told I talk too much, fidget too much, move my bait and equipment too much, and I’m often told that I aggravate my fishing partners waaay to fucking much. But I always catch fish even when I’m the only one catching them.

“Yer pissin’ me off, Mooner. Ever’ time I try ta sling my popper ta tha right spottie, yer jumpin’ all over tha fuckin’ place.” And with that my Gram laid her spin cast reel on the dock. “I’m takin’ me a walk,” and she turned on her heels and walked off.

She walked off to hike along the banks of our creek where the vegetation has turned fresh and green with the recent rain. Fresh, tall grasses and full of fresh-hatched chiggers. I watched her as she made her way around the deepest part of the fishing hole and lost sight of her behind a big cypress tree.

I put my empty bottle in the cooler and grabbed a fresh and icy-cold Carta Blanca replacement, and shut the cooler lid. After popping the cap, I leaned back in my chair and took that first, big swig of my fresh beer. I always start a fresh beer with a big swig. I’m not a head man when it comes to my beer, I like it best when fully carbonated. That first swig is always the best of the bottle.

I heard cussing and turned to where Gram had disappeared. She was doing her rendition of running with her pants on fire. I couldn’t understand what she was yelling but I got the idea.

“Did you sit in some fire ants, Gram? Do you need some Benedril?” I yelled.

I didn’t get an answer right away, but she started shedding her clothes before she even got to the dock. “I’m covered in chiggers, Mooner. You gotta git ’em off’n me!”

By the time she had gotten to where I sat on the dock, she was buck-ass naked and scratching like a maniacal monkey—all bony arms and legs akimbo. I was dumbstruck. I hadn’t seen her naked for decades, and the last time was when Granddad was still alive. I don’t remember that she shaved herself to bald as a baby’s ass back then, and I know she didn’t have the tattoos.

“Pick ’em off’n me, dammit, pick ’em off!”

I swallowed hard, and started trying to pinch the pesky critters from my grandmother’s leathery carcass. I was having images of the word “payback” flashing in my brain. Many was the time Gram would pluck me free of fleas and chiggers and ticks as a kid.

I had cleaned off most everything not considered my Gram’s private parts, and I gulped and took a deep breath. I closed my eyes and gulped another deep lung full of air, and prepared to finish the job. When I opened my eyes, it was to a very curious site. My big flightless bird was preening my grandmother with his shovel sized beak. He was gentle and careful in a way that I thought impossible. His beak made a “click” as he nibbled each tiny bug from her skin.

I studied this process for just a minute and said, “Be very careful, Ricky. You don’t want to pinch that little thing that looks like a…”

OK, stop the fucking presses. I’m wanting to tell you that you can finally buy my book. Let me set up the link for you.

I hope I did that right. Anyway, go check it out and let me know what you think. Buy it if you would like but don’t bitch at me if you don’t like it. I don’t need your money but I’m keeping it after I get it. But I do want you to give your reviews, whether good or bad. I promise I’ll post every one of them. Make a comment and I’ll post it.

Maybe I’ll get my shit together pretty soon and get stuff organized to make a more professional presentation here. But when I called Dustin, my webber and bloggie technical guru, to set it up, I got that “Oh, I’m sorry, Mooner, I’m tied up for the next twenty years” crap.

Just tell me that you can’t work with me anymore and that I don’t have enough money to pay you to put up with me. I get that.

At least he’s willing to give me a referral to somebody he knows. Then again, I’ll need to determine which of us Dustin wants to punish—the new guy, or me.

So. Everybody please raise your glasses and drink a toast to Mooner Johnson, published fucking author! Manana, ya’ll.

Not All Change Is For The Good; A Semi-Baseball Story

Monday, October 24th, 2011


So. I was sitting at the big table in the kitchen reading the newspaper, and I started thinking about change. What sparked this line of thought was the thinness of today’s paper. It wasn’t ten years ago that even a Monday newspaper was a couple-pound bundle of newsprint paper and ink. Today’s paper hit the scales at less than a half-pound, and that was with the fat, tan rubber band that bound it into a loose log.

Which reminds me of when I was a kid and got a paper route, responsible for delivering newspapers for both morning and evening additions. I loved that job for the first three months I had it, which were June, July and August. After that, I know I felt like one of those eleven-year-old sweat shop slaves making sneakers fourteen hours a day over to Bimbolu Land, or whereverthefuck all of those sweat factories are.

I’d get up at 4:30 am so Granddad and Daddy could take me to town. They’d drop me and my bicycle at the corner in the neighborhood of my route where the bundles of papers were dropped. We lived in the country so I had to get a paper route in town. My paternal family men would drive over to Cisco’s for a huevos rancheros breakfast, and then pick me up for the trip back to the ranch. After school restarted, I went straight from pitching papers to the school house.

Then after school, Mother would drop me and the bike back to my corner where the evening addition awaited. I’d finish about 6:30 pm, when Gram would be waiting in her spiffy Hudson Hornet hot rod. My grandmother has always liked fast cars, a trait I managed to contract. She’d race me home to supper, then homework and then bed. The only time I had to myself was after throwing the morning-only editions on Saturday and Sunday. And even then I had chores on Saturdays and Baptist church on Sundays.

Newspaper rubber bands used to be red, and thin. Newspaper boys had to buy them from the newspaper publisher, and that was the subject of the first labor dispute with a non-family member I ever had. In fact, it’s how I managed to get fired so that I wouldn’t have to quit, because, as my Gram drilled into my head, “Johnson’s never quit shit.”

I remember how hard I worked to get the fat papers rolled tight enough to get the red rubber band double-looped on each day but Sunday. I’d get my papers tight as a baseball bat so I could first get them stuffed into the double handle bar bags, and second so that I could throw them effectively. And Sunday’s papers were sometimes so full of ads that it was tough getting the the entire paper inside the rubber fastener at all. And that ink. I think that I ingested and wore so much of that ink on my skin that when I do die, it will be from cancer caused by that fucking ink. It was nasty shit.

Having said that, I have been catching tremendous heat lately for my language. This morning, as I was bitching about the Republican fuckball who wrote the right-wing editorial in today’s paper was the latest. “Mooner, honey, you really do need to clean your potty mouth,” Mother said to me. “Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is for me when people ask if it really is you writing that Internet thing?”

Even after ten years of retirement, my mother still has that “school teacher” voice that makes me want to stuff a box of chalk up my ass one stick at a time. I spent a full dozen years of my life listening to teachers attempt to correct my behaviors with that fucking condescending voice. I blame all of that on the Baptist church.

I was in college at UT before I had the first fucking teacher, OK he was a professor, who wasn’t a church-trained Baptist evangelical shitball. Every time I did something not fully-approved under the tenants of the Baptist church, I’d get that fucking voice. Many times the chastisements had nothing to do with school policies. Like the time in Seventh Grade when Gloria Muckleroy’s bosom blossomed.

“Mister Johnson,” started Mrs. Leticia Browningwell, my Spanish teacher and wife to Pastor Browningwell. “What are you finding so very interesting that you are distracted from our conjugation of the Spanish verb aprendar?”

“Well, Mrs. Browningwell, Gloria has got some interesting lumps in her dress and I’m trying to aprendamos what they are,” my clever response.

“What are you speaking of, Mooner?” She had to ask. Mrs. Browningwell had to fucking ask.

I poked my pointy finger at Gloria’s right breast and said, “This right here, Teacher.” And with that poke, I ended up further exploring Gloria’s lush new bosom with both hands.

“That feels nice, Mrs. Browningwell, I like when Mooner does that,” Gloria said. “They just showed up all of a sudden. You want to see them?”

First time I ever got to second base. Found out later that Gloria’s daddy beat me there. Beat us all to home plate as well. Just like the asshole that raped me as a kid, Gloria’s daddy was a Deacon at our Baptist church. The same Baptist church attended by my family and as where Mrs. Browningwell’s hubby was the pastor. Still is the pastor.

It’s a wonder I don’t hate the fucking Baptists.

Anyway, it was re-brought to my attention that more people would read my shit if I cussed less. This was re-brought by Mother and also at breakfast this morning. I had my mouth full of food when Mother admonished me, so I couldn’t immediately respond. The pause allowed my grandmother to speak for me, and I think quite eloquently at that.

“Oh who gives a shit, Mother. If’in cuss words hurts yer delicate fuckin’ feelings, then go fuck yerself, and the shithead what brung ya too. Now pass me them biscuits an summa that blackberry jelly. That jelly tastes better an a college freshman’s honey-dipped pecker.”

Mother got this disgusted look—her disgusted martyr look—and opened her mouth but couldn’t get any words to come out. Gram winked at me and broke her biscuit in half to butter it.

I love my grandmother and in spite of myself. One minute I want to stick her with a butcher knife and the next I want to hug her to death. “I love you, Gram,” I told her, and I moved her way to give her a hug.

She shrugged away from me and said, “Don’t you touch me with them dirty fuckin’ hands, Mooner. Don’t ya know that newsie ink will give ya tha cancer?”

I think I had a point about change and how quickly the world is changing, but my brain has gone into full ADHD fritz mode. It was a smart observation about how maybe things are changing too fast for us to assimilate the realities of modern life. Now. All I can think about is how wonderful Gloria’s new titties felt all those years ago. OK, and the other fifteen lines of thought swirling around inside my skull.

It’s got to be Five O’clock some fucking where. I’m cracking a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

Breakfast Special: “I’ll Have The Sausage Rare.”

Sunday, October 23rd, 2011


So. Yesterday was an interesting day here to Loony Land and today has the beginnings to be loony-more. I have been working hard to get the two miniature puppies who share my bed, and control my life, to eat their breakfast at a reasonable time. To me, 5 am is not reasonable, and will be even more unreasonable two weeks from today when 5 am becomes 4 am.

A reasonable breakfast hour would be wheneverthefuck I get up for my breakfast.

I have been ignoring all of the shenanigans pulled by the two half-Chihuahua dogs for the better part of a week. I have been delaying their breakfast schedule by 15 minutes each day in my efforts to get them eating at what will be 7 am when the regular time hits. That’s when the rest of the family sits to eat and I figure, “Why not the entire family?”

The sleeping arrangements in my personal bedroom make this rescheduling difficult. With the Squirt nestled between my legs, she starts with the deep sighs at a quarter to five and then begins resettling herself after five minutes. The resettling is gentle shuffling from one side to the other at first and escalates into her throwing her little sausage body from side-to-side. If you sleep with a snorer you have done some of this frustrated body repositioning yourself.

Historically, I have put up with that shit until 5 am, then get up and feed them. The three of us have been discussing this for several weeks. I have told them that the early breakfast is screwing my internal clock and making me crazier than I need be, and it needs to change. I’m not getting any younger.

On the first morning of rescheduling, I endured the usual pre-five-am bullshit and then the grumbling and growling and cover tugging of the following fifteen minutes. At the moment I decided to give in and feed them, Squirt worked her way from between my legs to stand on my chest. Somehow she managed to put her entire eleven pounds behind each paw as she purposefully stomped rhythmic steps to my face.

This where she usually comes when she wants what she calls “loving” from me. Whether I’m sitting or laying down, she comes sit on my chest with her head nuzzled under my chin. But this time it wasn’t loving on her mind.

“Oh for shit sakes, Squirtie, it’s just fifteen minutes,” I told her as she slammed her head to a rest ON my chin. “And all your stomping has made my kidneys ache.”

“You, Bwana Mooner, are an asshole.”

I laughed at the drama and then told her, I said, “Look, you’ll hardly feel a thing and you might as well get used to it. I’ve made up my mind and that’s that.”

Squirt laughed back at me and said, “We will break you, motherfucker.”

I laughed again because all of that intimidation from a pint-sized puppy is, well, funny.

“Go ahead and laugh, you giant hairy asswipe dog-starving shitheaded ADHD-addled goat fucker. We’ll see who gets used to what.”

How crazy am I that I was so proud of my puppy’s descriptive inventions that I missed the inherent threats in the words? I should have been on high alert when she spoke to me in English only. OK, except for Bwana, but she calls me Bwana all the time.

The tortures and torments have been quite inventive. They’ve played Tug a War with the covers, they stage fake dog fights and Yoda even pretended he was going to shit on my head. I think he was pretending. Yesterday, they dragged their duckies into bed. I get them these Mallard duck squeak toys that are as big as the dogs. They love the “quack” of the ducks and they race around the house playing with them. Yoda likes to bite to his make it quack, but Squirt likes to pound hers on the floor as she runs making it, “Quack, quack and quack,” as she races around.

All the dog slobber has them smelling like dirty ass after a week. And Friday, I was awakened to a smelly duck quacking serenade at 3:15 am.

“It’s not going to work, kiddies,” I told them, so they moved from the foot of the bed to my face.

“Quack, quack, quack….” was the racket, sounding like a flock of crazed ducks taking flight.

Yoda pushed his smelly duck right in my face, I guess in frustration. Since I had sleepy mouth-guard mouth, a taste not dissimilar to smelly Mallard duck toy, I decided to compound their frustration, and I took the proffered toy between my teeth and gave it a “Quack”[.]

OK, first, I will NEVER do that again. Second, I ended up feeding them at 4 am, just after the nausea and vomiting was under control.

Yesterday was somewhat uneventful until they started barking maniacally at a quarter of six. “Progress,” I thought to myself. “Take baby steps, Mooner my boy, and we’ll get through this.”

Last night at bedtime, we were discussing our day today when I told the dogs, “Look, guys, if you can wait until 6 am to eat, I’ll take everybody fishing and then we’ll make some liver ice cream.” They love them some liver ice cream.

“No… fucking… way,” was Squirt’s response. “We eat at 5 O’clock, shithead, and not one minute later.”

“We’ll see about that, little lady. No go to the bathroom and suck on the Ivory soap for two minutes. You have gotten quite a potty mouth on you.”

She grumbled angrily, something about just how sorry I was going to be for this, and got up. She returned a short while later smelling of the fresh, clean scent of my favorite soap.

Thinking I had finally gotten through, I fell to sleep like a rock. I was having a dream where Hannibal Lector was teaching me how to butcher a human and he was planning to teach me by carving me up in front of myself. “I always start with the sexual organs, Mister Johnson. I like to grind them into a spicy sausage and enjoy them with Stella Artois beer.”

I started telling him that he needed to switch to Carta Blanca, when he put his hand on my chest, placed his sharpened knife on my pecker, and got right in my face. He said, “I’ll be deciding what time I eat breakfast,” when I awakened to the Squirt, sitting on my chest with her face right in my grill.

“Wha, wha what is it, little lady?” I looked at the clock and it was five minutes to five.

As I turned to read the clock, I felt wetness and pinpricks emanating from my pecker. It reminded me of what I imagined advance-stage gonorrhea would be like when we watched those films in health class back to Seventh Grade.

“Don’t move, Mooner,” Squirt said, her voice sounding like a serial killer to a victim trussed for savaging. “Yoda, wiggle your head.”

He did. Huh?

“Huh,” I said. “Yoda, you spit out my pecker, and right fucking now!”

“Yoda,” Squirt advised, “give it a little squeeze.”

He did.

“OK, guys, this is not even a little bit funny. I said put the pecker down and go back to sleep.”

That’s when Squirt said, “OK, Mooner, you were warned. You have until the countdown from ten to agree to feed us at 5 am. If not, at least Yoda will have a little snack at Five O’clock.” She paused to look deep into my eyes, shook her head when I didn’t agree, and said, “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four…”

I haven’t been able to go back to sleep, but I’m starting to realize how much work I can get done when I get up at 5 am. I’ve fed all the animals, dug the fishing worms and the liver ice cream is in the freezer getting hard.

Maybe I’m the one needing some adjustments. Manana, yall.

Waaaanita Perry Whines Again; World Still Spinning

Saturday, October 22nd, 2011


So. OK, first, please allow me to say that to the best of my knowledge the world did not end yesterday. I pigged-out on pork all day as my family and friends spent out last possible hours enjoying each other as if old Harold were right this time. I stopped drinking at 7 pm, right after my crispy whole piggy dinner, so that I would be fully sobered for the drive to the airport to pick up SAC Ellen.

She and I fumbled and giggled for a couple hours as we made the best sex we could in the back seat of a Sixties Pontiac GTO. I’ve got abrasions on my knees, left hip and my chin, and I think I strained a hamstring. The abrasions to knees and hip are from the GTO’s rough carpet. My chin must be rubbed raw from the regrowth of the SACster’s neder regions.

Before she left Monday morning to head out to California, we spent Sunday night doing personal grooming on each other. I shaved her clean—legs, arm pits, pubis and taint. While I like a hairy woman, there is no other feeling to match the sensation of dragging your tongue over a smooth-shaved adult female. Still fun, whisker burn results when nuzzling stubble.

SAC Ellen thought it would be funny to shave my front to look like Dumbo with Micky Mouse ears, and she shaved my ass to where the unshaved hair spelled “Ellen”[.] When she finished I told her I thought it looked like Goofy, and she poked me for saying something that dumb.

And let’s stop for one minute and cogitate on something. First, why shouldn’t I have said, “… to where the unshavened hair,”? If you are “clean-shaven” then you would have to be unshavened. Also, why not “spellt” or maybe “spellted” instead of spelled?

I know I’ve got grammar police reading my shit because you never fail to try to correct me. But never once have any of you offered me logical reasoning as to my questioned grammatical alterations.


Which reminds me. Have any of you guys noticed that Anita Perry has even started looking like her namesake, Anita Bryant? I swear to god it’s true. If I could Photoshop, or whateverthefuck it is that lets you put two pics side-by-side, I’d show you. Maybe BJ or Squattie will do it for me. Grab a stock black and white of Anita P, and an uncolored on of Mz. Bryant from when she had the same hair style. Look like twins.

Which also reminds me. Message to Rick Perry: “Ricky, do yourself a huge favor. You are plenty stupid for the entire family. Tell Anita to stay to home until she gets her medications stabilized.”

Waaaaanita was in South Carolina and started whining about her poor baby boy having to resign his job because of a federal regulation that prohibits policy advisors from participating in political campaigns. Waaaaaaaanita thinks that’s “unfair” to her little Griffin Perry, the now former employee of Deutche Bank. While Waaaanita was whining about insider influences, hubby was up the coast in DC to woo the insiders on his own behalf. The Prickster was there to raise money and influence from the lobbyists who fuel our greedy political system.

Now folks, please listen to something. Rick Perry has historically chided those politicians who are funded and influenced by the same shitheads he is there to now impress. And he has grown desperate for his sinking polls and will do anything to get back on top.

But I just remembered my point to all of this shit. What I wanted to say is that I want my First Ladies to show that they have the strength to make their husbands behave their fucking selves. Like with Mrs. Obama. Anyone doubt she’d have trouble pulling the trigger on her man? Or Eleanor Roosevelt? Or Barbara Bush?

Presidents are men, for shitsakes, and we men are total fuck-ups without the rudder of a strong woman. Strong women do not fucking whine because her kid has to follow the same rules as everyone else’s kids. Hey, Waaanita. Griffy ain’t in Texas anymore, and we don’t like whiners.

FUCK RICK PERRY and drink Carta Blanca beer as we all root for Tennessee to kick Alabalony’s ass tonight. Manana, y’all.

Mooner Plans Last Day; Can You Say Pig?

Friday, October 21st, 2011


So. Today is, one more once, the end of the world. That’s right, folks, The Right Reverend Harold “6+9=17, Carry the 1” Camping has recalibrated his Biblical renderings, and the new formula was spun on the crazy wheel where it landed on today. Since this is the third date the boy has chosen to be the end of times, I decided to spend it as if he’s correct. Not that I’m superstitious about “third time’s the charm” or any of that shit, but I figured that spending the head time to decide what I would do with the rest of my life if the rest of it was today.

I thought to myself, I thought, “What the hell. Why don’t I do a practice round.”

My life’s favorites are categorically described as “loves”[,] and I loves me some family, friends, food and fucking, and, generally, in that order. I, dear friends, am the immoral equivalent of the Four F Club. OK, maybe I’m the personification of the Four F Club, but only one of my F-word loves fits the original club charter. And OK, again, sometimes food and fucking are number one priorities. My family and friends can drive me bonkers, and Bonkers ain’t one of the five Borroughs of The City.

In my final-day pursuits of my loves, deciding what to do with family and friends was easy. I know who those persons and dogs and cat and hog and ostrich would be on my last day, and they all arrived last night and stayed here to the ranch. I won’t bore you by naming each and every one because you know them all. We played games and told favorite stories about each other all night while Streaker Jones, the animals and I spent time back-and-forth to the fire pit out back.

We spent time out to the pit because when I decided what meals I would want this last day alive, I knew but one thing for certain. Each meal will have some pig on the menu. Maybe that’s why when I was emailing Squatlo, BJ, TQ and the Reckmonster about my quickly-approaching road trip to their places, all I talked about was cooking pig whatever way it is that they cook pig.

I love pig meat. L…O…V…E it! I love to cook it every which-a-way and I love to learn new ways. So we went to our neighbor’s over the South of us and bought his best prospect—a sow that was past her prime as a breeding mare, but hit the prime marks as dinner.

“Treat old Sally right, Mooner. Don’t cut her up for sausage and pork chops, now. You hear?”

“Don’t worry, John,” I told him. “Sally’s gonna be the center of attention as a whole roasted pig.” That brought tears to John’s eyes as he gave Sally a last tug her ears. John treats his animals as do we (we do?), and he’ll miss Sally.

I didn’t tell John that my favorite part of crispy pig is the ears. I have to fight Gram for them and I always try to barter a split, and then we fight over left, or right.

We dry rubbed her with my secret blend of herbs and spices, wrapped her in an olive-oiled cheesecloth dinner jacket, and had hung her in the smokehouse before ten am Thursday morning. We didn’t have time to let the dry rub get deep to work it’s magic, so I decided to let the woodsmoke help things along. We took her out of the smokehouse at five this morning, unwrapped the cloth and put her over the medium cool fire in the pit. By dinnertime, we’ll have a crispy-skinned, juicy-meated whole-hog BBQ that will make a fitting last meal for anyone.

OK, anyone except for most Jews or other silly religious pig-dissenters, and most vegans. I personally know vegans who eat pork.

Breakfast pork will be Virginia smoked ham, Streaker Jones’ hot link sausages and my apple wood smoked bacon. Lunch pork will come in the form of Gram’s “Drabwood sammiches”[,] my loony old grandmother’s interpretation of the Dagwood. Ham and bacon BLT’s if you ask me, but Gram really doesn’t give a shit about my opinions.

Everyone is cooking their favorite dishes for breakfast and supper, but lunch will be light with just the sammiches, some chips and condiments. We don’t want to be still lunch-full when the crispy pig skin hits the table.

I’ve been making Margaritas since yesterday afternoon and all I’ll say about the Carta Blanca beer dealie is that I’m glad I buy it by the truckload. Which reminds me that I’ll need to sober up before 9:30 tonight. SAC Ellen is arriving at 10 O’Clock from out to California. She’s the final F of my final day.

I’m taking the GTO to the airport to get her and then we’re racing over to East Austin to the East Austin Trailer Park and Eatery and Starving Arts. They added a miniature drive-in movie theater, and I’m planning to sex up the SACster in the back seat while a Zombie movie plays on the almost big screen. That way if the world does actually end at midnight, I’ll be in the saddle when I go.

A fitting end to an unfit life.

When I first told the family of my plans for today, Mother told me, she said, “Mooner, God might just strike you down for this act of sacrilege.”

That’s when my Gram piped up. “Then I guess tha Big Guy’s takin’ me, cause I’mma having me some poontanger too.”

I met Gram’s poontang just after supper when one of his frat brothers dropped him off at the ranch. “Tell that other boy he can drive tha Fer Rarie too if’n he wants,” Gram said. “There’s nuff a me ta go around.”

It’ still amazes me what a young man will endure to ride in a fancy car. Enjoy this last day. Guys. But just in case… Manana, y’all.

Gadhfi Duck Dead As A Door Nail; OK, Fine

Thursday, October 20th, 2011


So. Longtime Libyan strong man dictator, and all-around wacky guy, Moammar Gadhfi is dead. Making the same plea to his rebel attackers as the many innocents he slaughtered, the Middle-Eastern strongman was summarily dispatched to Allah in a hail of small arms fire.

He was pleading, “Please don’t shoot me!” as his now rebel captors finally got him cornered. His pleadings of mercy must have sounded ghostly—empty and hollow—to men whose families and friends had likewise pleaded for their lives over the decades as the Allah-ordained Gadhfi ordered their executions.

I’m not a capital punishment sort of guy, but so long as they are sure this was the real McCoy and not one of the actors playing him, I find little fault in this execution. Same thoughts I had with Osama BL. Only when there is absolute certainty as to the identity and the crime can I be OK with killing. Even then, though, I’d rather see them rot in jail. There are some things worse than death.

Trust me.

I’ve had the pleasure of experiencing what life looks like with thick metal stripes running through everything in sight. Mostly my periodic visits have been here at home to the Travis County facilities, where my life-long buddy is the Sheriff. My overnight stays there are now almost like mini vacations since I know everybody and they know that I won’t try to escape.

But allow me to provide you with some elucidations in an effort to clarify my earlier comment about things can be worse than death. Have you ever seen a movie or read a book where some author or reporter spoke to the conditions in some foreign jail? You know, where they talk about the lack of sanitation and poor food and mean guards and vicious inmates. Tip of the iceberg, guys, nothing but the tip.

I spent a short time in a facility in Mexico where the nicest person I encountered was a man, my cell mate, who was locked up for killing his wife and her entire family. Seems someone ate the last of the barbacoa while he slept off his mescal drunk, and the guilty party refused to except responsibility. So, he executed them one-by-one. Once he fully sobered, he remembered that he was the guilty party, as he had taken the beef cheek meat delicacy to bed with him and hidden it under his pillow.

I wonder if his family members pleaded, “Please don’t shoot me!”

Me, I’d have placed Ghadfi Duck and Osama “Been Misinterpreting the Koran” Laden in the same cell. I’d make them spend eight hours each day strung out on speed with their eyes propped open with the same device Stanly Kubrick used in A Clockwork Orange. I’d fasten them tight in an uncomfortable chair and make them watch videos of people telling them what shits they are. Make them watch endless taped loops of people telling them how their lives were damaged from the miscreants’ actions.

I’d also feed them nothing but $.99-cent hamburgers from McDonald’s washed down with green Gator Ade. Rotten mother fuckers.

The world is a-changing, folks, no doubt about it. I’mma drink an icy Carta Blanca beer and contemplate me some shit. Manana, y’all.

Nice Rack…Slap; Mooner’s Still Nuts

Tuesday, October 18th, 2011


So. If I ever, and I mean EVER say that I think I’m getting better, I want someone to kick me in the balls. If I ever try to tell you that I’ve discovered that I’m not quite as crazy as I thought—I want you to ask me to, “Wait right here,” and then I want you to put on your steel-toed work boots and return to kick my balls.

Maybe then I’ll get it. Maybe then, I’ll look before I leap. Or whateverthefuck the metaphor would be. Or the analogy, or, again, whateverthefuck.

At dinner last night, I was feeling pretty good about myself. I found a possible home to play I-net poker, and as I was washing my hands—after peeing in the sink—I realized that I had made it through the first twelve hours of the day without a single fuck up. OK, except for when the young woman slapped me in the produce department over to Whole Foods, but that was a simple matter of miscommunication.

She thought I said, “Those will make a nice rack, Miss,” meaning the adorable pair of creamy-white titties that were half-hanging out of her halter top as she leaned into the refrigerated meat case. I, of course, was speaking of the lamb she was looking at in the butcher case and thinking, Frenched rack of lamb.

Either way, I got slapped and invited to the assistant manager’s office, a cozy room with which I have familiarity.

As I was saying, I was feeling pretty good about myself and thinking that my psycho therapy was working and that I was starting to mature. I bragged about my day to the table full of Johnsons and gathered boy toys, and each agreed that maybe I was improving. Even the twin Texas A&M engineering students my Gram picked up in College Station over the weekend.

“They was already all drunked-up when I caught ’em, Mooner, so don’t start on all a that Mann Action on me.”

More than once I’ve found it necessary to explain the Mann Act to my grandmother.

Anyfuckingway, I felt good at dinner, after dinner and then again as I rose from slumber this morning. I’m not saying I felt sane mind you, but I felt that I’m getting better. So after breakfast, I sat down to write about the big story here about how the Governor’s cronies at our environmental department were acting like shitheads. Again.

I had 400 or so words out and I had a small brain fritz and decided to check on the members of my Bloggie Roller. So first I clicked on Squatlo Rant over there =} and discovered that he had already posted the story, and waaaayyyy better than I could ever do it. Asshole.

I was pissed that he beat me to the punch, but glad someone as smart as him (he?) thought it important enough to write about.

So I decided to play just one game of Spider Solitaire to relax my brain so I could think about what else I could tell you. On game 46, when I had a fifteen-percent win record for the session, I was at that place with two more stacks of cards to distribute and I knew I could win the game. I’m a clever card player and reach this point in about half of the Free Cell games I play.

I leaned back in my chair to evaluate the spread of the cards and said to myself, out loud yet I was the only one there, I said, “Fuck me running. I’ll never make spades the first suit I close out. Moth…er…fuck…er!”

So, I farted around attempting to discover a way to close a set of spades first and gave up.

“Oh, my God, Mooner. You are even more obsessive-compulsive than I thought. Other than the spade fixation, what other extra rules do you have for that game?”

That’s when I discovered that I wasn’t alone. It was evil Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my first ex-wife and still psycho therapist. “Oh hey, brain killer, what’s up?” I asked her.

“Looks like what’s up are your extra therapy sessions, big boy. You’re a mess.”

“I didn’t even tell you about how the first set, spades, has to close from the far left space and then hearts from the far right one. Or any of the other stuff. You’re jumping conclusions on me.”

“Nope,” she said. “I could tell by the look on your face that you, my dear ex-husband, are a raving lunatic.”

“Bitch,” the best I had.

“Yes, I am, and you need to call Sherry and make a couple extra appointments for the week.”

She kissed the top of my head and left. I sometimes still miss marriage to Dr. Sam, but not right then. Bitch.

I started to wonder about my obsessions and compulsions. “I don’t have that many, do I,” I thought to myself, so I listed them.

OK, I count stuff like cell phone towers on a road trip. I tap my toes in the blank spaces between the white stripes in the road. I have to clap even numbers of claps for the Longhorn football and basketball teams or I bring them bad luck. I also have to say, “Come on D,” when the defense needs a big stop. Can’t say defense, or use any other words, just, “Come on D.”

I have to get out of the bed a particular way every morning and then follow my “72-steps for starting each day” routine. I miss, or misplace, a step and my whole day is fucked up.

Oh, my god, when I cook I’m a total fucking mess. Everything has a procedure and a place and a method. And I am crazy about cleanliness.

I, dear friends, am a crazy fucking lunatic. So fuck it. I’m having a Carta Blanca beer and I’mma toast to all the crazy lunatic fuckballs in the world.

“Cheers, you crazy mothers!”

Manana. Y’all.

Clean-Up Fix-Up;

Monday, October 17th, 2011


So. Brandini from My Own Private Idaho has just finished stocking the Mooner Store with some new merchandise. In addition to all of the FUCK RICK PERRY stuff, you can now get shirts and hats and stickers that say “Fight Litracy—Vote Fer Rick Perry”[.] This dealie has a stack of burning books as its background. Click over there =} to the “Mooner’s Merchandise Store” button and check stuff out.

And remember that part of the proceeds of each sale goes to the Capital Area Food Bank.

The conservative commenter known as Stan-Ann has promised to get a bloggie up and running so that he can post his original ideas rather than only responding to we heathens here on the left. While Stan-Ann seems to have some cogent thoughts and can string his words together, he’s become as boring as a boxing match between two counter-punchers.

That and his cloak of anonymous invisibility hides him from the full view of scrutiny. I have high hopes that he will fulfill his promise and open soon.

On the wet pecker issue from yesterday, please allow me to say that while I appreciate all of your inputs, not a single one of you fuckers had a legitimate explanation for why it is that I dribble long after shooting.

I have been informed that there is a safe place for me to play online poker and I’m dying to try it out. So I grabbing a handful of icy-cold Carta Blanca beers and heading to my poker computer. Manana. Y’all.

Pee Wee And The Squirts

Sunday, October 16th, 2011


So. My team lost, Squat’s team lost, the Reckmonster and TQ’s team lost. Brandon from over to Idaho was the only fan with a winning college football team yesterday, with Boise State. Of the three losses, I have to say that Michigan’s loss to Michi-fuggin State was the worst.

Tennessee lost to number one LSU and my beloved Texas Longhorns dropped one to the sixth-ranked Okie State Cowboys. Each of our teams is filled with freshmen and first-year starters who play hard and show promise to be good.

Michigan lost ugly.

Reck, if you’re listening, if I were there I would poor-sweet-baby you. As a true college football fanatic, I know what it feels like to take a terrible beating and, also, what it takes to ease that pain. I won’t go into all of it here, but think foot rubs, your favorite meals, and…

The little dog formerly-known-as Pi has started to adapt to the Johnson family way of life. The bug-eyed shitbird now called Yoda has started acting more like my dog every day. He doesn’t flinch when Gram shoots him the evil eye, he’s learned to dry his little hooded pecker on the wash cloth after peeing in the sink, and he stood up to the cat for the first time yesterday.

One of the things that drives me the most crazy about myself is (are?) those last few drops of urine that hang around in your pecker after you think you have finished a pee event. You pee and shake, wiggle and pee some more, massage and wiggle and shake and pee another tiny stream. You think you’re finished and then wring the last of it off the tip, wipe on the damp wash rag, and then you wash your hands/flush the sink and move on.

Next thing you know, your sitting at your computer to check all your buddies’ bloggies and you reach your hand into your shorts to hold your pecker. I like my pecker and I hold it every chance I get. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson has, at various times, told me that it is: a substitute pacifier; a protective gesture; a reactive gesture to having been raped as a kid; foreplay.

It seems that many primates play with their gentiles and for those many reasons. While I have never flashed my pecker in public on purpose, I have accidentally loosed it before a crowd when my ass show malfunctioned. I wasn’t bothered any of those times. As I said, I like my pecker and enough to take it everywhere I go.

When I was younger, I worried that I would be a flasher if my pecker were one of those giant things. Since it is what was told to me to be “typical for a man of your race and size”[,] I think of it as special to only me and those with whom I wish to share it. But if I had one of those twelve-inch jobbies with the girth of an old fashioned glass…

Well, I’d get a ruler tattooed along its length and a measuring tape around its fattest part, and I’d share.

Anyway, I was sitting at the computer to read with my hand stuffed in my pants, when I sensed a dampness against my fingers as I did that idle-minded pecker-petting we men do. Then, as men do, I removed my hand from my pants and stuck the dampened fingers to my nose for a sniff.

“Ugh,” I said aloud. “My pecker smells like stale pee.”

OK, now everyone calm down. If you didn’t know this about the men in your life, you don’t have fully-intimate relationships. Any of you men who will deny these habits can go fuck your self-denying shithead selves. We ALL do it.

Anyway, at dinner last night I brought the subject into the conversation, wondering if anyone had any ideas as to how to get the last drops of pee to settle anywhere other than my underwear. Mother said, “Oh sweet Jesus, Mooner, is the dinner table an appropriate place for that?” which was a totally predictable response from my mother.

“Quit yer whinin’, Mother. This sounds serious,” Gram started. “What’s it smell like?”

“Well,” I told her, “it smells like urine but a touch stale.”

“Thank God. I was worried you was smelling like head cheese. I hate when a man has that smell a head cheese commin’ outta his hoodie.”

I started to remind my grandmother that I was circumcised at a quite tender age but decided I didn’t want to hear the story of Mother latching my pecker in the steel zipper of a pair of Daddy’s old coveralls. That story is in the book, and the memory too painful to fully relive at this juncture.

OK, what.. in the fuck… was my point?

I guess it doesn’t really make a shit. I’m taking the whole crew fishing. The Carta Blanca beer is loaded and we’re heading out. Manana, y’all.

Squatlo And Reckmonster Root For Teams; You Should Too

Saturday, October 15th, 2011


So. It’s another Fall Saturday and football is on our minds. I’m all jacked-up with the hope that my Texas Longhorns can bounce back from the severe ass-kicking one Oklahoma team gave us to beat the other highly-ranked school from the land rush state in today’s big game. Okie State is ranked number six, and my young Longhorn team might get their asses handed to them again.

Squatlo will spend his day wearing the orange color of the other UT—an orange color that I can only politely describe as “interesting”[.] It’s the orange colored equivalent to puce—you know, that color of purple mixed with baby shit brown. Or maybe chartreuse—the sickly color of soon-to-rot limes or already rotten lemons.

Reckmonster will be all decked out in maize and blue. Her Michigan Wolverines are in their big cross-state game with Michigan State. Let’s hope Michigan coach Andy Divine can get his favored team to the winner’s circle this year. Recent past coaches have left the proud Michigan football traditions in the locker room for this big rivalry.

I don’t know who TQ roots for.  Is it Mississippi or Mississippi State.  OK, maybe it’s neither and he’s a traitor to his state and roots for Alabaloney.

I love the sense of pride and tradition and ownership a human gets from sports fandom. Having a favorite team provides a unique sense of belonging to something bigger than self. Sports fans have been around for as long as we’ve had sports, and that, dear friends, is a very long time.

Historians, of course, argue about who was the first civilization to play a sport. The Chinese say they were the first, of course, when they played a game that loosely translates to “kick the ball”[.] I’m still struggling with this whole quotation marks without a quote between them. Until one of you grammar mavens can give me an expectable reasoning to do otherwise, I’m putting the attendant punctuations inside brackets that I’ll hang on the ass-end of the not-containing quote marks. Like there when I said …to “kick the ball”[.]

My problem with the China claim is they didn’t state what a ball was and there were no rules mentioned or if anyone was watching. See, the very definition of sport requires more than one person to play. Playing games with yourself is not a sport. Sport requires competition. Except, of course, when you have multiple personalities or you dissociate a touch and you play games with your self and other selves of yourself.

I don’t remember playing any games with my imaginary friend, Don Legacy. I do remember him getting my righteous ass into massive loads of trouble. “Go ahead, light the fuse,” was what he said to me this one time. And his favorite way to get me in trouble was to say, “Nobody will find out. I promise.”

Isn’t it amazing how you just can’t trust people when they say, “I promise.” It’s the same dealie as when they say, “Well, to be honest with you…” Somebody starts a sentence with that, and I’m on alert to hear what the lying motherfucker has to say next.

And the worst of all that shit is when a businessman stands on his Christian principles as the foundation of his/her business philosophy. Worst crooks I ever met had big bibles on their desk as a display of their “Christian” ethics. Ask my opinion, Christian ethics means, “Jesus came to me in a vision and said I should lie and cheat and steal all your money.”

I walk into a man’s office and he’s got a Bible on display, and I’m walking right back out. That’s the same silly-assed logic used for the Crusades and the Inquisition. Fucking Inquisitors. Brutal shitballs, those guys. I mean, think about the crazy Jesus speak they used for the rules of their games.

“OK, Jaime of Cordoba, heres the rules for your game of Beat The Reaper. We’re gonna tie your left arm and leg to that 2,500-pound plow horse over there (Priest points to Mar el Pan, the dapple-gray beast on Jaime’s left), and your right extremities will be chained to the rock wall of the church. You must demonstrate your faith in God and not gets ripped in half when Mar el Pan strolls over to the basket of carrots held by Father Barnabas, over there.” (Priest points to basket of carrots)

The Mayans had a game like soccer that was played with a ball made either from a goat’s stomach or an enemy’s head. They had arenas with seats and concessions and shit. To me, this represents the first historical sport because it had rules and some specificities.

I wonder what kind of shoes they had. Can you imagine the shoe wars between Nike and Adidas in trying to sign the biggest names in the sport.

OK, I might be digressing whatever point I might have had. Here’s the deal. Today is a very good day to be an American. Let’s put our political differences aside and focus solely on our football rivals. Let’s put away our donkey and elephant signs for a day and wear our school colors instead. Let me be the first to do it.

Today, I’m not saying “FUCK RICK PERRY”[,] I’m saying instead, “Beat the Oklahoma State Cowboys, the best football team that T. Boone Picken’s money can buy!”

Now let’s get the Carta Blanca beer on ice, and go root for somebody! Manana, y’all.

A One-Percent Solution; James Burke Connects

Thursday, October 13th, 2011


So. I was over to BJ’s place at the Dumb Perignon early this morning and watched a short film he’s posted that draws some startling comparisons between the Occupy Wall Street protests and the recent uprisings in the Middle East. Click on his button over there =} on my Bloggie Roller to see what I’m talking about. It’ll take you just a few minutes to catch the drift, but watch the entire thing.

As I watched the film, I started drawing comparisons in my own mind. Somewhere in my ADHD-addled brain is the memory of an article I read in our local newspaper sometime in the last ten years. The article was discussing how many Middle Eastern countries are ruled and controlled by only one percent of their populations. Iraq, Iran, Libya, and Saudi Arabia were but several named in the piece.

These one-percent micro-minorities controlled the governments, military, churches, the industry and also the wealth of each of these nations. The great majority of these countries populations lived lives many standards below the one-percenters, and many were living in poverty. The one-percent enjoyed unimagined wealth, living in palaces and enjoying lavish lifestyles while the rest struggled to make livable wages.

President George W. Bush was quoted to say something along the lines of, “Anytime the minority ruling class of a nation abuses its people, those people will rise up and seek democracy.” He then went on to say that his war plans in Iraq and Afghanistan were basically his kick-starts to that democratization process.

Yes, I know that I liberally misquoted the Bushkin, but I surely caught his driftings. For the W, Kick-starting Democracy was his middle name. Old George W surely wanted all of the peoples of the world to enjoy, as he liked to call it, true democracy. Except, I guess, America.

If Georgie Porgie wanted Americans to enjoy true democracy he wouldn’t have assisted Wall Street with their high-jacking of our economy. He did other stupid shit that endangered our freedoms as well, but hopefully my point is made.

So I’m thinking about all of these connections between today’s Middle Eastern uprisings and the Wall Street protests, and I thought about the BBC TV series that I think was named Connections. Am I the only one who was riveted by the historian James Burke’s ability to connect the dots of history? One of my favorites of the late Seventies program was when he connected the invention of the clock spring to the mechanical heart. Or was it he connected the spring to pornography? Lot of Carta Blanca beer and my Gram’s magic mushroom potions between 1978 and today.

Another favorite was when he connected the invention of the plow to a super computer. OK, wait. Maybe it was the plow to untangling the DNA strand. But, like my Gram always says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Plow yer ass over to tha friggie an fetch me a cold one.”

Me, I don’t lay 100% of the blame for America’s current One-Percent tyranny at the feet of the One Percent. Much of the blame should be born by those of us who dissent, but do so quietly. I’m speaking here of the great non-voting American. Those of you who know the difference between right and correct, yet you have chosen to avoid getting your lazy asses off the couch because you’ve been just too fucking comfortable to concern yourself.

The One Percent has spent the last twenty years slowly killing the fabrics of our democracy by theft. They have stolen the state houses, US Congress, the banks and our wealth. Our relative standard of living has gone from middle class prosperous to unemployed. Many of us were sold homes we couldn’t afford (with mortgages supplied by the One Percent), and then the One Percent kicked us out when the payments went late.

Effectively, the One Percent is foreclosing their way across America.

Regrettably, like all of History’s gluttons, our One Percent have appetites of the bottomless-pit variety. Since they can never get enough to appease their need for greed, they won’t stop themselves. But they will be stopped, and hopefully soon.

And, hopefully, without bloodshed.

Occupy Wall Street has been so far only marred by the violence of the authorities. Maybe the One Percent will pay attention and back off. Maybe not.

I just thought of an old business joke about a backwoods traveling salesman who had a product that cost him a dollar. He was getting rich, selling thousands a month for $2.00. When he was asked the secret to his success, he answered, “It’s that one-percent profit that’s making me rich.”

Maybe I need to go fishing. Manana, ya’ll.

Rugs Vs Carpets; Who Gives A Shit?

Wednesday, October 12th, 2011


So. I decided to take the kids down to the Occupy Wall Street protest site at City Hall. Our visit to anti-anti-abortion protest was such a dud that I wanted to give my pets a better experience. I had the designers over to our hemp clothing factory make everybody “I’m mad as hell and I’m not gonna take it anymore” tee shirts.

We have almost perfected imitating the soft cotton fabric of tee shirts fame, but almost is the operative word. I still wear a wife-beater undershirt with my tees to keep from getting rock-hard nipples that then chafe as they rub against the shirt. I hate sore nipples.

The Squirt told me she likes the feel of the semi-rough cloth as it rubs her eight little nubbins. “Closest thing I get to sex since you cut my goodie box out of me. Mooner, you are an asshole.” The Squirt forgets that it was Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson who ordered the female castration. I merely delivered her to the vet for the mutilation.

At breakfast this morning, we got into this big debate about “It’s a carpet—no, it’s a rug, no, Gram, it’s a carpet, it’s a fuckin’ rug, Mother” between Gram and Mother. I suggested that we get several of our “rugs” cleaned, and would Mother please take care of it so that I would have time to teach the guys how to protest. Peaceable protesting is an art, and one best taught to our young while they still are. Young, that is. When people are passionate about shit, those passions can often boil into non-peaceable protestings. Protestations?

Not that I think the occasional non-peaceable event has no place in American society. Civil rights would still be at the “painted rock” street sign stage if some protests hadn’t gotten violent. We Americans have really hard heads about some issues. It’s just a shame that it’s usually the downtrodden whose heads get hammered and not the downtrodders. And fuck Spellcheck. If downtrodders isn’t a word it should be.

I always attempt peaceful protestings and usually reach that goal. I never instigate any aggressive behaviors, but I do seem to have a propensity to start them. If you really don’t want to hear what I have to say about something, then maybe how about you don’t fucking ask.

We have many rugs spread on the floors of our ranch house. All kinds and shapes and sizes. The ones needing to be cleaned are the ones inside the entry doors. Seems it’s been so long since we had rain that everyone forgot that wiping your feet was a function performed best on the outside mats.

So I say, “Mother, would you take the rugs by the outside doors in for cleaning for me. I’m taking the guys downtown for a little protesting and I don’t have time.”

“They are carpets, Mooner,” my mother informed me.

“They’s rugs, Mother,” Gram said through a mouthful of oatmeal. It actually sounded like, “Thphs phugks, Mumthr.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Gram, don’t speak with your mouth full,” the woman who is my actual mother, named Mother, advised.

Gram swallowed her mush, washed it down with the glass of whole milk laced with a shot of corn whiskey she gets in trade for her potions. She drinks a glass at every breakfast to “get her innerds all stirred up”[.] “They’re fucking rugs, Mother”

I thought that I would whip out my Webster’s unabridged and settle the dispute, but since a carpet is a rug, and a rug is a carpet—and both by definition—I was unable to settle anything.

Then the phone rang and it was Dr. Sam and she asked me to bring the guys over to her house to mow. Seems the weekend’s rain made the grass grow and I have been the lawn man over there ever since our divorce. We had fun mowing except for the incident with the squirrel, but I got the blood cleaned off the white stone of the house before it dried.

How was I to know that some squirrels have death wishes?

Anyway, it’s Carta Blanca beer time, so manana, y’all.

Teach Your Kids To Protest; Not A Camel Toe Story

Tuesday, October 11th, 2011


So. It’s been an interesting week and it’s only Tuesday. The commenter not named Theo has been commenting like crazy on my and several of my buddies’ blogs, and he has actually started making some points. Stan-Ann says he’s going to fire-up his own site and post some of his sentiments and let us take shots at him.

Doing that is the only way to convince me he/she isn’t Theo.

Then there’s my buddy BJ from over to the Dumb Perignon. BJ might be one of the smartest guys I know. And just like almost every other friend I put on my Bloggie Roller, he’s already changing his shit around. He’s talking cryptic language about changing formats and shit, but then he says he’ll give us a link. I have no fucking idea what he’s saying and I’m glad I’m visiting up to Tennessee next month so I can get him to explain this stuff to me.

And yesterday I got to feeling frisky, so I loaded up the Squirt, Yoda and Honor the cat and we headed over to the Planned Parenthood place on Anderson Mill. It’s just off US 183, which is called Research Blvd. through there. It was named Research Blvd. because IBM and 3M had big research facilities there. But those facilities are gone—moved out years ago—so I’m calling it US 183.

Like I said, I was feeling frisky and felt like fucking with Catholic anti-abortion lady. I’ve had anti-anti-abortion sandwich boards for several years and I like to wear them as I mingle among the single anti’s in attendance at Planned Parenthood. My current favorite says”I’m an abortion and I’m OK” on the front, and on the back it says “FUCK RICK PERRY!”[.]

I had little halters made for the dogs that advertise Carta Blanca beer in four languages—English, Spanish, French and Chinese. The fucking cat won’t wear one. And answer me this. Why does advertise not have a z in it, like this “advertize”[?] That, dear friends, is a z-word if ever there was one.

When we got to our destination, Catholic anti-abortion lady wasn’t there, but there was a blond lady with her two kids, an older guy who I think might have escaped from the Alzheimer’s Home a couple miles away, and this solitary woman who simply stood there. This lady stood, facing the road, and stared.

She was maybe 5′ 7” tall, she was quite thin and had long, stringy black hair and an ashen skin tone. She didn’t hold a sign or say anything, she just stood there and stared blankly at traffic. When we first walked up to the protesters, I thought somebody had propped-up a cadaver or a wax figure. But when I got close I could see that she was breathing and twitching. Tiny muscle spasms that raked her body in little waves.

Twitches moved across her face—up and down and sideways and in circles. I wish I could do that. There was a man I met over to the loony bin during one of my incarcerations there who could do the same thing. Semi-comatose Carl was his name, and Thorazine was his game. Old SCC, we called him SCC, was a hoot. He liked us to dress him up like a manikin for holidays and sporting events and shit.

At least I think he liked it. He never complained.

Anyway, so without Catholic anti-abortion lady there, I had nobody to engage in angry banter. CAB lady hates my guts and gets angry at the thought of me. This I know as she has told me so, and often. Our encounters always draw crowds and often attract officers of the law. But yesterday, I couldn’t get any of the others to engage me. The mother would turn her back each time I approached, huddling her children close at her feet. The old geezer kept asking if I was Bob.

And the cadaver lady just stared.

“I’m an abortion and I’m OK!” I shouted as I passed the animals.

“Questa mucca morde merda, Senor Mooner,” Squirt remarked to me as we passed each other on the next circular pass. I like to have the animals walk in clockwise circles and I walk counter-wise and we like to chant each time we meet. “Ou’ diable est Catholique dame anti-avortement?” Squirt added.

“I don’t know where the Catholic lady is, kiddo, and you’re right. This does suck cow patties.”

I loaded us up after less than an hour’s protesting and headed to the house. Everybody was grumbling about the wasted protesting efforts. “Look, guys, protesting is all about the effort,” I told them. “If your heart is in the right place, any effort goes un-wasted. Maybe we’ll go down to march with the Take Back folks later this week.”

I think one of the important things I can do as a parent is teach responsible protesting. Which reminds me. My very first protest was when Mother tried to get me to wear white buck leather shoes to school in third grade. She found a pair of those ugly marching band shoes on sale at the Payless or some fucking place, and tried to get me to wear them.

“I’d rather go to school dressed as a girl,” I instructed Mother and Gram as the former tried to put those ugly-ass shoes on my feet while the latter tried to hold me down.

I liked the way the wind blew up and under my dress, and dressing like a girl made it really easy to shoot a moon. Right thumb in the waistband of my frilly lace panties, back hem of my size ten, A-line halter dress quickly hoisted with the left hand. No buttons or belts to screw with, and no jeans slipping to your ankles and tripping you.

I wonder what my dress size is now?

Like I say, it’s already been an interesting week. Manana, y’all.

Social System Abuse; It’s All Eve’s Fault

Monday, October 10th, 2011


So. The weekend past is one of sweet sadness for the Johnson family of Austin, Texas. Our beloved Texas Longhorns were brutalized by a far superior Oklahoma Sooner football team, and that makes me want to slit my wrists. And this ass whipping was just that—they kicked our butts all over the field. Congratulations, you maroon-clad bastards. Well done.

But I find myself far less than devastated in the face of this most terrible loss, because it rained. That’s right, it rained. For the first time sine early May, it rained. At the ranch, we got just under an inch-and-a-half of good, strong rainfall. It was perfect as it started slow to adjust the surface tensions of our drought hardened soils, and then soaked in like water to a sponge. Very little runoff.

This rain didn’t do much for our lakes and drinking water supplies, but it will save what vegetation didn’t already die from drought.

Then there would be the joy I receive from watching the Republican Presidential hopefuls self destruct. When I see Rick Perry accept the accolade that he is a “true Christian, and therefore worthy to be President” while the same right-wing religious fuckballs call Mitt Romney a “cultist”… well, that just warms my heart. Wait a minute, I thought all religions are cults.

I just went to my handy-dandy dictionary to assure that my memory of the definition of the actual word “cult” means: “A system of religious veneration and devotion directed toward a particular figure or object.” “Veneration” means respect, and I would guess profound respect or maybe a mindless devotion sort of respect, like these silly fucking charismatic Christians.

Does anyone doubt who is pulling the strings of the Republican Party now? And have you guys seen the prayer posture Pricky Perry assumes at these Christian confabs? Look up some of the old art works of King David at prayer. Like the one by that Solomon guy. Put a $3,000 suit and pompadour haircut on old Davey boy in the painting, and you can see how the Prickster has patterned his prayers.

All hail King Ricky.

Which reminds me. Another commenter who says he/she isn’t Theo showed up over the last few days. I still think it’s Theo in spite of the protestations otherwise, but I really don’t give a shit. If he can make counterpoints to my ignorant ramblings, he’s welcome. If all that comes out is ridicule, “Adios, motherfucker.”

But the commenter known as Stanly Ann did manage to raise a point of interest with me. He was bitching about the Veteran’s Administration and how many vets abuse their support system. He claims that many vets are “coached” by care providers on how to fake the symptoms PTSD. Now me, I agree with the Reckmonster when she says that just going to war is enough trauma to spark PTSD, and I think any vet who desires treatment should get it.

But I think Stan-Ann managed to isolate one of the main differences between the people who think as I think, and the typical Republican and Tea Party folks.

I acknowledge that every social system ever created has a basic design flaw—every human system will be worked by the humans. Your Christian hardliners can blame Eve for starting the trend. The first social system in recorded semi-history would be when God told Adam and Eve that everything would be supplied for them so long as they don’t screw with the apple tree.

Interesting also, that God’s original intent, as taught by Christians worldwide, was to create a society of pure socialism. Everything was to be shared by everybody equally and as needed. Creationism is, by its very nature, socialism by benefactor. Or in this case, Benefactor.

But Eve was just like Stan-Ann’s greedy vet who wants PTSD treatment without actually suffering. She wasn’t satisfied with all of the other benefits her government (that would be God’s role in the first social system, He was the government), so Evie broke the one law of government and got everybody kicked out of the Garden.


In imitation of that first sin, we humans have worked the system any time there is a system to work. And did you realize that to this day, many cultures consider rules breakers to be sinners? Lawbreakers as sinners is as cultist as it gets. But I’m digressing the shit out of things.

My point was to be pointing out a difference between the left and the right. We lefties see the world as shades of gray, where as in this case, the few that cheat a system don’t warrant killing the system. Just because the baby pees in the bathwater, don’t flush baby and bathwater both. Granted, some lefties want to over-fund programs to cover the losses due to abuse, but most of us seek to have enough funding to create successful programs and tight controls on the spending.

Righties seem to be more black or white when evaluating social systems. It either works—or it is a dismal failure to be eleminated. Not an always unreasonable position to take, but if you take it, take it on every fucking issue. Don’t be selective.

If you want to eliminate social security because of corruption, eliminate Congress as well. Self-serving and self interest groups working through the Federal Government have stolen many times more money that the greedy doctors and old folks have taken from the SS system. Let’s close Washington and try something else.

If our public school systems have failed so miserably because we have bad teachers, then how about we outlaw organized religion. How many children must be raped and abused by the leaders of churches to turn their white robes to black in your eyes. How many innocents needed to be murdered in Christian crusades to make it a failure under the black-or-white evaluation system? I say shut the churches and turn them into gas stations. That makes more sense than cutting the Social Security payments to people who were promised the money would be there.

Oh yeah, those people also paid their entire fucking lives to have the bennies as retirement funds. We on the left don’t pretend that systems are not abused. We simply prefer to repair them, not kill them.

Speaking of which, The Reckmonster has just published something you might want to read. Click on her name over there =} and check it out.

Drink Carta Blanca, the world’s best brew, and come back manana, y’all.