FullRisingMooner Finally Out!: Proud Author Repeatedly Shits Pants

 

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. http://www.amazon.com/Full-Rising-Mooner-Inappropriate-World/dp/1456339869/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1319551191&sr=1-1

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.

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4 Responses to “FullRisingMooner Finally Out!: Proud Author Repeatedly Shits Pants”

  1. Q says:

    Congrats! I think this is really great! Now the world can know everything there is to know about you since no one will take my word for it. LoL!

  2. Squatlo says:

    This is the kind of affirmation that makes mere mortals begin to assume godlike self-esteem. We urge restraint. And never let an ostrich do a job your were hired to do. Already you’re starting to delegate duties… I’m concerned.

    On the other hand, congrats! I’m heading over to see the finished product as soon as I get through your comment maze. I think I speak for all of us when I say, “Hey, maybe there really is a Mooner, after all!”

  3. admin says:

    Squat. Delegate is my middle name. As for the ostrich, since that day Gram has stopped giving him the evil eye when he walks into the room. Maybe they can be friends.

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