So. You are reading this because I am not in town—I have started my First Annual Mooner’s Bloggie Posters’ Tour, or as the Reckmonster calls it, Blog-Con 2011. I have loaded my car with Carta Blanca beer and enough clean undies to make it back home without doing laundry, and I am gone. G..O…N…E out of here and totally fucking gone! If you see me in Austin, Texas, you are having yourself a serious fucking flashback.
At a reader’s request, I have allowed my family and friends to post some of their thoughts here to Mooner Land. It was suggested that the writings herein are slanted, prejudiced even. So I figured, “Who gives a shit, so why not?”
So I’m going to let some folks have a say, but please allow me say this, about that:
- I have not reviewed any of the following as it is to be written in my absence.
- I cannot verify any of the facts contained in this shit, but I can tell you that none of the contributors are liars. Except, of course, for Don Legacy. He, is a pathological liar and not even a real person.
- No young college-aged men suffered physical harm in the creation of whateverinthefuck it is you call this thingie. I don’t know if it’s a semi-travelogue as I’m the one traveling and not writing, or if it’s a semi-epilogue. You know, an epilogue to what I have already written, and posted before I write anything else. Maybe it’s a middle-logue.
- I have love in my heart for each of the following writers, except Don Legacy. But that doesn’t mean I won’t extract revenge for grievances upon my return.
- OK, as to Number 3., above, allow me to modify and say that Gram doesn’t leave any physical marks on her young men. I’m dead certain that some have emotional marks that will run deep, and wide.
- Each entry was dictated to Gnat, my able assistant, and she will type and post this after I’m gone.
Again, so please read at your own risk, and go over to Amazon and think about buying my book, Full Rising Mooner. Ciao, y’all, see you in several mananas.
Signed in triplicate by, Butcher Einstein “Mooner” Johnson, Published Author and Rakish Raconteur
*** This is Gnat, Mooner’s Executive Assistant, Head Bookkeeper and the person that keeps Mooner’s shit together for him. What each of the following writers won’t say is that each of our lives is better because Mooner Johnson is in them. But Mooner is a two-edged sword that cuts deeply each side. He’s lucky my 401K doesn’t fully vest for two more years, and that’s all that I’ll say, except to say that the following translations carry no warranty as to accuracy. ***
Monday, November 7, 2011- Mother Johnson
Oh dear, I have to go first. I’ll not speak my birth name on these pages but you already know me as Mother Johnson, Mooner’s mother. I only agreed to do this because Pastor Browningwell tells me repeatedly that we can still save Mooner’s tragic, rotten soul. I tend to think the Pastor overly optimistic, but that’s his job, and mine is to do the Lord’s work and bear the burdens of life.
Mooner wasn’t born the heretical son of an heretical mother. No, he was born into the devoted, loving bosom of a born-again Christian woman, and a Baptist woman at that. My son comes from a long line of Baptist Christians. Real Christians. That he turned out the way he has is the biggest disappointment of my life. I am even more disappointed in Mooner than I am of Sister, and Mooner’s sister is a homosexual. I am uncertain if homosexuals can even get into heaven, but I know that Mooner will not unless he changes his ways.
Sweet Jesus, what did I do to deserve all of this. I did everything right by those two children. I made sure they were fed and clothed, and I took them to church at least twice every week. You have no idea what a burden it is to have a homosexual daughter and a Godless heathen for a son. The looks I get at church after Mooner publishes that Blog nonsense of his are enough to make me cry. I do cry. I’m crying now.
Please don’t be angry with me because of how Mooner turned out. Blame his grandmother, as she was the one who led him astray. She drugged that boy with the first breath.. What? Oh for Pete’s sake, Gnat, I don’t care what he wrote in his book. I will never, and I mean never so much as crack the cover of that smut.
This is too much for me. Let us pray.
“Dear God and his precious son, our Jesus and Lord, Holy Ghost and Redeemer, giver of all good who died on the cross at the hands of the Jews and Romans so that I might have everlasting life, we are here at your feet today to ask that you deliver me from the evil deeds of my children. We ask that you lift this terrible burden from my tired back and set me free of the sins of my offspring. I pray that you will cure my daughter of her Sodom and Gomorrah ways, and please, my dear Sweet Lord and Saviour, make Mooner into the son I always wanted.”
I can’t go on. Goodbye.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011- Gram Johnson
What in Hell am I suppose ta say? This is tha stupidest damn thing I ever done. OK, fuck it, here goes:
I’m Gram an’ I think this is stupid. I got way better things ta do than ta be dicking Gnat’s tape. I got me a Texas Aggie metrical engineer tied to tha bed and he ain’t half wore down yet. I think his name’s Bob, maybe Harry, but who gives a shit? Got him a pecker that still has the jacket on it, an them’s my favorite kind.
Mooner said I could say anything I wanted, so first I wanna give a shout out to my sister Hilda. Hey, Hilda, how’s it a hangin’ sugar?
Everybody’s always gittin’ on Mooner’s ass fer shit, an he don’t always deserve it. Sum a that shit’s shit he can’t help, an tha rest don’t fuckin’ matter anywhose. Hell, Iffn I’d a had Mother as my mother I’d be all fucked up too. That woman worries about every fuckin’ thing, and she’s got tha busy-body somthin’ fierce. I always say, “Who gives a shit anyhows?
Hang on everbody. “Oh fer shitsakes, Mother, jist shut my bedroom door and ya won’t have ta lissen. Tha boy’s a squealer is all, but he’s a sport.” That woman would test drive old Job’s patience.
Mooner’s got him a right cute tushie, always has. I was gonna tell you tha story a when tha little pecker head was borned but Gnattie says I cain’t do it. “It’s in tha fuckin’ book,” she says, “an Mooner don’t want us ta talk about none a that book shit.”
Fuck it. I love my grandson, but I’m startin’ ta think I might shoulda drownt him when he was a young un. A course, he knows how ta make money, an he’s a right funny little shit. First thing he ever done in his entire life, well first after he took a big breath an bitched a little, was ta piss all over ol Doc Ashburn down to tha hospital.
Huh? That’s inna fuckin’ book too? Then fuck it, I’m hysterectomy. I’m grabbin’ a couple Carta Blancas and gittin’ me some pontanger. Adios.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011- Squirt
Bonjour, hej, kumusta, hei, ciao, hallo, hola and hello. Mi nombre es Chorro o Spritzen oder Mlaz Vode Ili, which is Croatian Standard Dialect and my personal favorite for my English name, Squirt. I am forced to estudio langues pour ma chambre at pension, e abusi Mooner me per il suo sport. Please, someone call the ASPCA to report this terrible crime.
I have been asked to speak for each of the other animals, in turn. But first, please allow me to say that Mooner Johnson ay isang ashole, ein Arschloch. He drinks an entire beer and we get one fucking cap full each? Vous palisantez? Ta’ tu’ ag kidding? And Yoda and I must eat when he says?
Cac tarbh; bul kak; okata’ tau’pou; bull dritt. That’s bull shit any way you cut it.
Anyway, Yoda doesn’t have much to tell you other than Mooner may be an asshole and his rules are bull shit, but he’s glad to be living here at the Johnson family ranch as opposed to that puppy mill over in Oklahoma. Yoda asks that none of you purchase a dog from a fucking puppy mill.
I mean, really. Who in the world would breed a Whippet with a fucking Chihuahua. Do you have any idea what the resulting puppy is going to look like? We don’t let Yoda look into mirrors yet. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson feels that he needs at least a year of intensive therapy before he can handle it.
Fuck, and each of its many derivations, is my favorite word. I’m allowed to only use it sparingly, but fuck it, that fucking asshole Mooner is all the fucking way over in Tennessee, so what’s he going to fucking do?. Bite my ass, Mooner, and fuck you.
The fat pig Rush Limbaugh wants everyone to know that he isn’t really gay, that he’s just going through a phase like Dr. Marcus Bachmann. He also wanted me to say, and why don’t we quote him here when he said, “I’m almost as handsome as Doctor Marcus, and my Rick Perry is way prettier than Michele Bachmann, the Doctor’s husband.”
Rush meant the ostrich Rick Perry and not the pompous asshole Texas governor. As Mooner always says, “FUCK RICK PERRY!” And while I’m at it, looks like Ricky has been sneaking into Anita’s medicine cabinet, if you know what I mean.
Like Mooner has a million times, I tried to tell Rushie that Michelle is the wife part of that particular couple, but he said, “Can’t fool my gaydar. I wonder what size bra Marcus wears.”
As for the aforementioned ostrich, Rick Perry, let me first say that I have a terrible time understanding a thing that boy has to say. Can you sing, “If I only had a brain.”? All I can manage to understand is that he, like Yoda, is grateful that Mooner rescued him and placed him in the four loving arms of Rush Limbaugh.
Then, he said something about buying him a bigger dildo and I tuned him out. Mooner will be back in less than a week and he can handle that sort of stuff.
The last of our little troop is Honor the fucking cat. It requires massive quantities of patience and understanding to live with a fucking cat. They don’t eat right, they have terrible sleep/awake patterns, and have you every smelled a cat’s ass up close? Hellig dritt, does a pue le cul du chat!
Hell, I guess my ass would stink too if all I ate was sardines and rats.
Do you think I curse too much? Dr. Sam I. Am tells me that I spend too much time with Mooner and then she tells me that is a dicotomia, a digotomie. I fucking hate dichotomies, don’t you? Same as conundrums, right. I hate those fuckers too.
Since Mooner has been gone, we are all eating like ten times every day. We take turns working night shifts to wake each other up every couple hours. We’re going to surprise Mooner when he gets home. Adios, Aloha and goodbye, everyone. I’m worried I might have caught Mooner’s fucking ADHD.
Thursday, November 10, 2011- Streaker Jones
Buy Mooner’s buk at:
That silly shit fergot to give ya tha link. Mooner’s my best friend an he’s a loyal fucker. He’s funny as shit too.
Now go away.
Friday, November 11, 2011- Don Legacy
Would somebody please listen to me—please? My brain has been taken over by a lunatic madman and I can’t manage to take it back. Mooner Johnson has methodically taken control of my thoughts.
I was just a child when it started, actually at my actual birth. Fleeting interruptions of my normal brain patterns at first, like when your digital TV signal does one of those burps—makes that digital “urp” noise. As I grew and matured, he started taking over my brain control center for minutes at a time, then for longer periods. Things got really bad after I joined the Boy Scouts, and then one night at the Boy Scouts Aquatic Camp near Canadian, Texas, Mooner took full control of my entire brain.
The Boy Scout Leader was doing things, unpleasant things, to me. Whenever those things happened, Mooner took charge of my thoughts until the thing was over. The last I remember on that night was the Leader telling me I was sleeping in the back of his Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser with him. He said it was a reward to sleep on the air mattress instead of the hard ground with the snakes and bugs.
I remember telling him that I wanted to sleep with the other guys and that’s the last I heard. Mooner took over. And Mooner has lorded over me ever since.
I’ve tried to escape and many is the time. But my new place in my own head is to occupy only one of the many thought strings that swirl in my head. I can’t gain any purchase to retake the controls. If I ever do escape I’m going to need a lot of therapy. I don’t even know what I look like as a grown man.
And I want to experience sex. Won’t somebody please set me free?
Did you like the book I wrote? Mooner promised to give me my brain back if I’d write a book for him. I did, I wrote a really nice book. Then he fucked it up and published it. I wonder what the book looks like. I also wonder if I’ll rot in hell with him.