Archive for November, 2011

Charles F. Dupuis Of Presque Isle, Maine- Please Contact Me

Monday, November 28th, 2011


So. Charles F. Dupuis of Presque Isle, Maine bought my book and was shipped the wrong type size. I specifically chose the large type size to be sold by Amazon so that it would have LARGE SIZE FUCKING PRINT! The price of the fucking book was determined to be at the higher price because I decided it was worth killing an extra tree to enable folks the ability to read the fucking book without magnification.

Charles, I am terribly sorry and want to make this up to you. I have spent an hour on the phone and Internet trying to obtain contact info for you and cannot. Please let me know if Amazon has fixed this for you. If they do not, I will.

I have somehow managed to convince myself that Amazon is not one of those giant companies run by one-percenter assholes. How they handle this dealie will shed light thereon.

Please contact me, or if you know him, contact him with my request. I hate few things and unhappy customers are one of them.

OK, wait. I have managed to piss off quite a few customers in my time, so when I say “customers” I mean that customers is both a singular item in the short list of things I hate, and a class containing multiple members.

I also hate people who don’t keep their promises routinely. Let’s hope Amazon isn’t attending that class.

Squirt Dislikes Florida- Refuses To Make Trip

Monday, November 28th, 2011

 So. Unless I find myself with more time on my hands later today, this is the last you will hear from me until next Monday. First, please allow me to say that this pisses me off, and for several reasons. It isn’t that I don’t love and adore the family with whom I’m heading to visit in Florida, it’s Florida.

Simply put, I do not like Florida. The only thing in, or about, Florida that I give a shit about is my family. And I also have much to tell you that I’ll forget to say while exiled in the swampy hell of central Florida.

Ick. (Ich?) Even the stupid state’s name turns my stomach. Should be Floriduh.

Second, and the last of my numerically-phased and organized thoughts for today’s post, is the three-way infections update on the Squirt’s health dealie. When first telling you about her issues, I neglected to say that her anal gland issue was not a surprise. I have long done self expression of anal glands for each of my dogs, the habit and learning both taught me by my Gram.

The first family dog upon whom I learned was Trixie, great grandmother of Dixie—my now and mostly retired Golden Retriever who spends all her time with Streaker Jones. With Trixie, and each of her successors since, I practiced the anal gland expression method known as “finger up the ass”[,] wherein the expresser runs a hopefully-rubber-gloved finger inside the dog’s butt and gently presses each gland to expel the nasty-assed fluid that builds up.

If you were to poll people and ask which animal expels the nastiest-smelling fluid out its ass end, they’ll tell you it’s the skunk. That, dear friends, would be wrong. It’s a dog’s anal gland juice.

With Dixie, I could get my fat finger inside and do a good job of cleaning her out, but the Squirt’s adorable little butt is way too small for the in-situ expression method. With her, I am required to do it from the outside, and while that is a much less invasive method, it is less successful all the way around. The last several expressions have been fruitless and, therefore, potentially problematic, as a little juice she express with semi-regularity.

And now I’m wondering if this might be why Dixie has chosen to spend her time with Streaker Jones. I’m also wondering if maybe I’ve figured how to air-out my mental passageways while I’m gone. Whenever I get a chance, I’ll find a computer and make a comment to this posting. That way I won’t forget as much stuff as otherwise I would.

OK, wait. How will you know that it’s me? And How will I get my comments posted from remote locations when each new commenter has to have their first comment approved through the Admin functionaries over to Moonerville? And what about the frauds and fakers who might pretend to be me just to fuck with you? What if all of those Catholic fuckballs start mass commenting and screw things all to hell, and back?


I’m not taking the animals with me to Floriduh because they each refuse to go. Squirt’s actual words were something like, “No voy a Florida, asshole. Ich liebe deine Familie und alles, was La Floride est l’enfer sur terre.”

How could I force her to go when her sentiments are a precise fit with my own?

But I’m excited to see everyone down there even though I can’t tell you anything about them. And one last thing while I’m here. The linkster to Brandon’s book review of Full Rising Mooner, the newly-published novel by soon-to-be best selling author, Mooner Johnson, is:

Take a minute and check it out, and read some of Brandon’s stuff while you’re there. He’s a very nice man. Manana, or sometime soon, y’all.

Triple-Infection Thanksgiving; Squirt’s Tooter A Mess

Sunday, November 27th, 2011


So. I’m back from my short stint up to Dilly-Assed Dallas and I’ll be here to home for but two days. Then, I’m off to Lakeland, Florida to visit a son and family. I’d tell you about this next trip, but I have promised my kids and their mother (the infamous Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson) that I will forever keep the intimacies of my offsprings’ lives off these pages.

So just know that I will be gone again from Tuesday until Monday a week from now. Enjoy your vacation.

The final hours before leaving for Dallas were problematic. I took Squirt and Yoda with me mostly because the three of us had managed to offend Mother so badly that her martyred deep sighing was physically oppressive. Any of you who has a martyr in the house knows exactly what I’m speaking to. For those of you who do not, imagine the same nerve-grinding noise that emits from the raking of well-manicured fingernails on a big chalkboard, with the added attachments of deeply-sad eyes, and a disappointed countenance aimed directly at you, and your actions.

I wish I knew what my mother actually thinks and believes about the serious aspects of life. Really. I have no fucking idea what her true thoughts or feelings are. Since her only comments on any issue are straight from the Southern Baptist party line and official Baptist fucking Hymn Book, the human who is the actual person I call Mother is a mystery to me.

Take the abortion issue, for an example. Baptists are now saying that life begins when an egg first greets a sperm. Sort of like how I was taught by her at age eleven that if I touched a girl’s tooter or allowed her to touch my pecker, she’d get pregnant and my mother’s life would be ruined. It wasn’t long after that I was raped by my Boy Scout Leader, which caused me to wonder what was going to happen to my mother resultantly. Then a year after my first sex with a man, I did me some touching of the infamous female tooter.

OK, now first, please allow me to say a couple things about having been a child who was raped by a man. There might be no experience that will fuck up a person’s life more than to be raped as a child. I didn’t watch as my family was butchered by the Khmer Rouge, so I have no certainty as to which experience would have more far-reaching importance. But I can truly say that rape was a significant negative factor in my own, quite personal life, and in thinking about this further, I guess maybe the rape was less bad than that Cambodian dealie. I guess that if allowed to choose between getting raped or having my family killed in front of me, I’m choosing rape. I’m speaking of having my ENTIRE family butchered and not several as individuals.

Now, I actually feel grateful for my molestation. Thanksgiving is a very confusing holiday for me.

I touched a girl at age fourteen, and with her permission—actually her encouragement—and then I spent months worrying that my mother would die of a heart attack or some fucking thing. When Mother seemed no worse for the wear, I did me some more tooter touching, again with no visible negative effects to my maternal parental unit.

I am glad that I had no actual sex with Gloria Muckleroy as she would have become my first now ex-wife. Gloria married Walley Smally, and that pair play important roles in my book. Except for the professional ladies I met down to Mexico as a kid, I married the first ten women I intercoursed with. I didn’t actually intercourse with Gloria, so we have no ex attached to our relationship.

Holy shit. My AD and HD have grabbed me by the balls and shaken us silly. I wanted to tell you about the Squirt’s trip to the vet. When I was packing the car to leave Friday morning, she was listless and pissy. “Yo no fucking feel too bueno, Bwana Mooner.”

“Want to go see the doc, sweetie?” I asked her. She could only nod her head.

Anyway, when we got there to the vet’s, he looked her over and then ate my ass out. “Oh for Christ sakes, Mooner. She’s got an infected vulva again, her anal gland on the right side is impacted and she’s got two abscessed teeth.”

He left the examining room and quickly returned with a bottle of pills. “Give her one of these twice-a-day, wash her vulva with the medicated pads the receptionist will give you, and schedule her for a teeth cleaning in a few weeks. You disgust me, Mooner. Listen to your pets when they tell you they are in pain.”

Why was he eating my ass out? “Why are you eating my ass out? I asked her if anything was bothering her and her only answer was to say, ‘Just you.’ How am I supposed to translate that into a three-way infection?”

He shook his head and sighed deeply at me as he left the exam room again. Maybe he has a touch of Mother’s martyr shit.

The pill part of Squirt’s medical regimen is easy. “Put it in queso, unt Um take it, Asshole,” were my specific instructions from the furry flower known as Squirt.

Washing a sore tooter—not so easy.

“I’ll tell Yoda to piss in all your shoes if you even come near me with those fucking medicated pads again,” were my sweet puppy’s actual words.

I put all my footwear on the top shelf of the closet and got out a fresh cleansing pad. I then spent an hour chasing her ass around the house as we each hurled curses and other invectives at-will. “Come here so I can do this, you little shit bird,” was likely the nicest thing I said for sixty minutes.

“Comer mierda y morir, asswipe,” were likely the kindest insults hurled at me by my dog. Telling me to eat shit and die might be her favored method to tell me “No”[.]

The final compromise was for me to give her a quarter-cup of Carta Blanca beer before each tooter cleaning, so I loaded an extra sixer into the cooler and we finally headed out to Dallas. Finally.

The goofy thing we call Yoda thought and thinks the Squirt’s medical issues as an adventure. His Whippet blood allowed him to bounce around like a gazelle as Squirt and I ran around knocking shit over. The Chihuahua blood he carries caused him to curse at me in concert with the other half-Chihuahua that infects my life.

Anyway, the three infections are in-treatment, and I’m now growing concerned that I’ll need assistance breaking Squirt’s half-cup-a-day drinking habit. My actual concern is that I’ll be required to deal with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson for the alcohol rehab treatment, and NOT turning her former puppy into an addict was one of the conditions of the trade that makes her my puppy.


Anyway, Brandon over to Lost In Idaho, a funny and interesting man in his own right, has done a review after actually reading my entire book. He’s the Lost In Idaho over there to my Bloggie Roller, over there ===}}} to your right. Since the book review won’t be the first thing to pop up, take some time to read and comment on his site. It’s worth it.

It’s now time for the second cheese-covered pill and medicated pad tooter washing. Have I ever told you how adorable Squirt’s tooter is? For awhile I was worried I might have something wrong with me for finding it endearing. But quite frankly, I really don’t give a shit. Manana, y’all.

Brandon Reviews Full Rising Mooner; One Full Fuckless Page Of Drivel Below

Thursday, November 24th, 2011


So. I’m stuffed to the gills, I’ve got the recently-sexed after-glow that can only be the resultant high color of really good sexing, and my beloved Texas Longhorns just beat the Texas A&M Aggies as time expired.

I’ll be stuffed again, and I’ll for absolute certainty have more sex, but I may never see another Texas/Texas A&M football game again. I’m happy that we beat the favored team in their stadium and extra happy to beat them for the last scheduled game between us.

But this is the end of a 117-year rivalry, and a healthy rivalry at that.

Likewise, I’m still buzzed in several ways both from yesterday’s activities and today’s as well. If I were a pop song from the 1960’s, I’d be Donovan’s “Mellow Yellow”[.]

That’s right, Slick.

And I just discovered that Brandon did a review of my book over to his place. You can click over there ====}}}}}}}}}}}}} on my Bloggie Roller on the Lost In Idaho linkster dealie and read it. It makes me want to cry.

Hell, I am crying.

I’m happy sad about Brandon’s kind words, I’m likewise re: the football game and my family and my having had sex. And I was thinking about my buddy Lloyd, the finest man I have ever known, and an incident that occurred on Thanksgiving many years ago. It was a defining event in my life—one of the positive ones—and Lloyd told me last week that I had misinterpreted the entire situation.

If I had not gotten the wrong impressions of what happened, my life would likely have taken a different course, and for the far worse at that. If I can get his approval, I’ll tell you the story because it’s one of those dealies that is chock full of deep meanings and shit.

Anyway, I’m gone Friday and Saturday and will be out of touch. But I’ll be back and likely have something interesting to tell you. Maybe not, but who really gives a shit?

Enjoy the rest of the holiday season—with a special shout out to Melanie—and I’ll see you manana after de la manana. And think about buying my book. And look, I wrote an entire page without saying fuck once.

Midnight Might As Well Be Here; A Final Installment

Wednesday, November 23rd, 2011


So. It’s now 11:23 and I can’t feel my feet. I’ve still managed to pass enough parts of field sobriety tests to be able to legally challenge a drunk driving arrest, but I’ll tell you here and now that I am unsafe at any speed. I’ve got Don Henley on the stereo and I’m on the brink of crying like a baby even if you don’t love me anymore.

SAC Ellen is ready to take me to bed and zap me with a light dosing from her stunner gun. I think I might be ready as well. I really do think I’d fuck a lamp post if I could find the sweet spot.

Thanksgiving is likely my favorite of all the holidays because the only gifts exchanged are the gifts of love that take the form of cooking and driving or otherwise traveling great distances, and in the simple acts of existing as humans in the same proximate spaces.

I am a grateful man for all that I have. I am grateful for the incredible and fretful family that surrounds me and loves me conditionally, and I’m grateful for the near unconditional love administered to me by the menagerie of semi-domesticated animals which (who?) populate my life. I am one of those humans who does not think that love, real love, can be given without conditions. Actual love requires certain conditions by its very definition.

When I think of all the awful things that have happened to me in my crazy life and the simple fact that I have survived all of these years without significant and major trauma; when I cogitate on all of the stupid things I have done without receiving a life sentence, or worse, I am grateful.

I wish that I could say, “Thank you God, for caring and protecting me,” but I have a crystal clear understanding that God, in whatever format he/she/it might exist, couldn’t really give a rat’s ass that I’m grateful. If God does exist, that supreme being is likely drinking beer, Carta Blanca beer, with his buddies and the conversation is going something like this:

“So. Has anyone read Mooner Johnson’s book, Full Rising Mooner? He’s a crazy son of a bitch, but funny as all hell and back.”

At least that’s what I wish. Happy turkey day kiddies. I’m going to beddie bye.

Midnight Madnesses; Phase Three (Or Is It Four)

Wednesday, November 23rd, 2011


So. It’s nor precisely 9 and 22 in the pm in sunny Austin, Texas. I for got to quantify the Carta Blanca consumptions during my last update, so please allow me to correct those mis-steppings here to the now. I had, wait, I think that maybe I quantified the Carta Blanca consumptions yet neglected to provide the needed information about what my Gram did to me. Let me summarize thus, and suchly. I have consumed three more beers since my last posting and three before that, I decided to smoke a touch more of the killer weedskie as supplied by Streaker Jones, and my grandmother has attempted to bring me to my knees with a potion she calls “Let’s Git Mooner So Screwed He Fergits His Name”[.]

Since I remember that my name is Mooner “Call Me Mister Tibbs” Johnson, I’m certain that I’m not Sidney Poitier. I am, and this is a certainty, stoned to the gills. I have been deeply in love with two black-skinned women in my life and I miss them both right now. If SAC Ellen fucks with me in the least, I’, going looking for Roshandra Washington-Johnson, my fifth ex-wife and one of the finest women in the world.

We just tried to remove the dressing from the oven but it needed another few minutes. So I took all the dogs to the bathroom to pee in the sink, and Dixie—my trusted and loving Dixie—called me a miscvreant.

“You, Mooner Johnson, are a fucking miscreant,” were her exact words. “Why can’t you teach your animals to use the great outdoors like every sane man in America?”

Well fucking duh, was my best thought.

If any of you are schooled in the finer arts of the great Texas psilocybinic mushroom, you already know that anger and animosity are the farthermost emotions from a person’s center core when influenced by their consumptions. You also know that love, tolerance and a basic acceptance of your fellow humans is utmost of those same emotions. Therefore, and hithermore henceforth, please allow me to say that I love everybody except for all of those right-wing Republican Christian fuckballs that populate the world in ignorant masses. I especially love BJ. He knows why and so do I.

Mooner, and out for now. Later dudes and dudettes.

Mooner’s Midnight Madness, Pre-Midnight Session–Issues One and Two

Wednesday, November 23rd, 2011


So. It’s Thanksgiving eve and I have decided to do an experiment. Right this minute it’s 5:24 Central Standard USA Time. I have no fucking idea what that would be in Greenwich Mean Time, and I really don’t know what time it is in Vladivostok or Koala Lampour. I also know that I burchered some of the spellings in that last sentence, but I really don’t give a shit as this particular post is a test.

I’m going to go about my evening cooking and eating and suds drinking and smoking, and then I’m going to report back here to discuss shit with you. I’ve only had four beers and one each one-ounce tincture bottle of Gram’s special Thanksgiving holiday potion. She calls it “Magic Mushrooms Don’t Hafta Make Ya Mush-Mouthie Unless Ya Want It”[.]

Why that particular title fits this specific holiday is beyond my current capacities to conjure, but I also took maybe a half-lungfull of Streaker Jones’ hydroponic chronic, and I’m starting to mellow out a touch. I just cut all of the veggies for my dressing—onion, garlic, sweet red pepper, celery and some chestnuts—and before Gram’s potion takes full effects, I thought I’d provide us a baseline for further evaluations.

I think this is not an original idea and I’m sure that someone has done this before me. But I don’t give a furry flying rat fuck and I’m doing it for fun.

OK, let’s stop the presses. For Mother’s sake, please allow me to say that I’m only joking about the pot. My mother worries that my shenanigans here to Bloggie and Book Lands will embarrass her with the fine folks at her Baptist-fucking church. Look a here. If any members of Mother’s church are reading this I have one of two things to say to you and each for one of two reasons, outlined as follows:

  1. Some of you might not be actual Baptists, you might be persons with minds unbridled by the idiot dogma and brain-numbing edicts required to be administered to actual Baptists. To you I say, “Crack another icy cold bottle of Carta Blanca beer, grab a toke of your favorite smoke, and enjoy life the way any actual real God would want you to do.”
  2. For the rest of you—those actual brain-dead ignorant shit-between-the-ears right-wing kiss-my-polished-ass hypocrites—and you know who you are, I say, “First, fuck you, and second don’t blame my mother, she has never approved of my act since the time of my birth.”


If you buy my silly fucking book you’ll gain some additional insights into that deal. Now, I’m signing off until later.

OK, I’m back. It’s now 7:04 pm and I realize that I’ve already screwed the poochie on this dealie. I needed to post that last writing at the time it was entered so as to provide proof of authorship and all of that. So, therefore and hitherto, I’ll be posting each fragmented sectionalized piece of this serialized writing.

On the imbibment front, my capacities have been further altered by two mas Carta Blanca beers, una mas tolkies and a snifter of brandy from an ex brother-in-law who brews it out to the west coast. I also decided to have one mushroom, as supplied by Streaker Jones from a recently-developed strain that Dixie has been helping him with.

OK, with which Dixie, my recently retired Golden Retriever and translator, has provided assistance.

I still have full control of my faculties and just passed a field sobriety test, as administered by SAC Ellen. She is refusing to have any sex with me until I fail said test, a simple fact that will speed the poisoning of my organs and enhance my artificial intelligence by some factor of Pi.

The dressing is almost ready for the oven and it has but a hint of type O-Negative blood, the resulting aftermath of sliding an extra-sharp knife over the end of my misplaced left index finger. Dixie and Squirt were debating whether the Dingo dialect of mid-African continent speech was more difficult to speak than Swahili.

Since I’ve never heard Dingo spoken, I went ahead and voted for Swahili as more difficult and the distraction of addressing the dogs got me nipped on the end of my finger. I haven’t told anyone about the blood-as-an-ingredient issue and expect to not do so in the future.

I have also decided to intensify the potty training of Yoda, and have spent the time showing him how to shit out in the grass. I learn best when shown, so why should my crazy puppy be any different.

OK, you need to hear this straight from the dog’s mouth. Squirt is standing at my office door and she just said to me, she said, “Vienen en la bola de mierda, der ofen ist bereir fur den Verband.”

Basically, she called me shit for brains and said that the oven has preheated and I need to put the dressing on to cook. So Adios for now. I remain your dedicated reporter, Mooner Johnson

Erectile Enigmas; Mooner’s Book On Sale

Wednesday, November 23rd, 2011


So. After spending most of this week checking BJ’s site at the Dumb Perignon and cussing him for going silent, I remembered that he was heading off to Carolina to see his folks for T’giving. Add to that confusion the fact that I need to make an effort to maintain my editorial accuracies, so allow me to say that BJ’s site is now called Un-Original Thoughts—a second misnomeration in, and of, itself—but one of BJ’s making and not my own.

OK, stop the presses. Am I the only one who has no fucking idea what I just said? Since promising to not lodge another complaint until after the holiday passes, my ADHD-possessed brain can think of nothing but my complaints. Like when we’re driving down the highway approaching a bad accident and I tell the Squirt to turn her eyes away. Blood and gore make her weak at the knees and usually causes her to puke her little guts out.

Since these events are happening in my car or truck, or on rare occasions inside the little hot-red Ferrari Streaker Jones gifted to my Gram, convincing the mini puppy to turn her head has values—both social and practical.

Yet alike me promising to not bitch or whine is first cousins with telling Squirt to not look, each is difficult to practice. The only real difference is that I don’t usually puke when I bitch and complain.

So, I’ll not whine about stepping my bare foot into a steaming and sticky pile of dog turd at five this morning when I got up to feed both the innocent and guilty dogs. Squirt has the bathroom habits of a lady of the court. Always timely, always in the proper place, and done as daintily as if she were on camera.

Yoda, on the other and off-hand, has the bathroom manners of a fucking dog. He’s nearly house trained but still has “mistakes” wherein he leaves loaves of used dog food in all the wrong places. The Squirt tells me that he chooses his spots carefully so that I can find them before Gram does. Me, I think he chooses his spots with the same care and thoughtfulness as the Viet Cong placed trip wires in the Delta forests back to the 1960’s and 70’s.

Why would anybody cross breed a Whippet with a Chihuahua? Wait, let’s back up. Why would anybody breed a Whippet with anything but extinction in mind? Have you ever been around a Whippet? Imagine an over-wound fifteen-pound rubber band toy with a fresh lobotomy.

On the sexing front, I’m finding myself lucky that I like myself. SAC Ellen is traveling so much that I never see her, and the only time she was here overnight she fell asleep on me. We had a nice dinner—I fixed her favorite pasta dish, a smoked paprika hand-made noodle with under-cooked tomato sauce—and after relaxing with a glass of Sambuca, we retired to the boudoir.

She sexily undressed and lay on the bed, and I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I returned to the not-so-gently snoring Special Agent for Homeland Security. As horny as I was, I revisited the bathroom and my bar of Ivory soap rather than risk startling her awake.

Why didn’t I awaken her? Mooner’s first rule for dating an armed and dangerous woman: “If your lady sleeps with a loaded gun under her pillow…”

Like I say, I’m glad I like my own company. Then there would be all of the silliness surrounding my book. I had lunch yesterday with the man from the literary charity that I want to sponsor with both a book launch party, and also from whatever profits the stupid book might generate. That went quite well if I say so myself. But after lunch I started thing about timing and accuracies of statement.

The book has been on the shelves and for sale for ten days, but the book launch isn’t until January 12th, two month’s later. How can you launch an already-sailed vessel? This seems an inconsistency that promises to sink my Good Ship Honesty. Rip the sails from my mighty mast. It’s like Christening the Titanic two months after it set sail for America.

OK, wait a minute. A post-sailing Christening would have saved the Titanic, so maybe this is a good sign for my silly book.

Why do I suddenly have an erection?

Ugh. I need a Carta Blanca beer and some time alone. Manana, y’all.

Fuck Armageddon; Rick Perry Too

Tuesday, November 22nd, 2011


So. I feel like I’ve been whining and bitching too much, so I might stop. Nobody wants to hear any more of my silly complaints anyway. Like Gram said at breakfast this morning when she said, “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner? Yer problems ain’t mine and ya need ta redo my eggies onna count as ya cooked all tha life out the yellers.”

As do I, my prickly old grandmother likes her eggs just barely over-easy. Turn the sunny yolks pasty and they’re garbage to me. Actually they make pig fodder as Rush Limbaugh likes eggs cooked any whichaway. Which reminds me of the breakfast that BJ cooked for me the morning I left Tennessee to head back home from BlogCon2011.

Sausage, bacon and ham—all three of the porcine varieties—biscuits, and three perfectly-cooked eggies. I remember using my fork to scrape the last of the yolks that had almost dried on my plate. The leftovers were made into pork-stuffed sammies enjoyed by me all the way back to Texas. I spent but a short time with Bill but it was time enough to make a very close friend.

I gave Gram’s over-cooked eggs to my pet pig and went to the friggie to get several more. I dropped the container to the floor and broke them all. “Oh fuck a duck,” was the best I could get out, not a complaint mind you, but an simple explanation of the circumstance.

“You ain’t got no time fer romance, Mooner. Git yer ass to tha neighbor’s an fetch me some more eggies. An get tha turkey from him while yer at it.” We get our eggs from the man next door, and Gram gets a touch cranky without her daily dose. We also buy all of our cooking birds from the same family and he raised a special turkey for us. Great big fucker and mean as my Grandmother. And as stupid as Rick Perry. The Texas governor and not my pet ostrich.

Maybe I should hire a cook to take a few of the pressures off of my back. Cooking for this bunch of family Johnsons and attendant visitors can be taxing.

Maybe I should drown my grandmother and eliminate most of the pressures.

I’m having a book launch party on January the 12th and I’m looking to sponsor a charitable organization while at it. You know, charge a little extra for books sold there and give the profits to the charity. I’m having lunch with the charity of my choice today so they can determine if I’m appropriate for their mission.


Maybe I’ll meet some nice people and the lunch won’t be a total waste of efforts. Until there’s a charity based upon the need of ADHD sufferers the inappropriate actions of a their quite befuddled and crazed members, whatinthefuck organization is going to find me appropriate?

But today—I simply don’t give a rotten Republican’ rat’s smelly ass. Fuck problems and fuck all the fuckers that cause them. I’m thinking that the right-wing Christian wackos have finally managed to bring about their sacred fucking Armageddon and I simply refuse to spend the last days in a bad mood.

The fucking Christians have fucked the political scene into such a mess that I think the end of days is nigh upon us. I hope that I’m wrong and their “my way or the highway” method of government is a temporary aberration, and sanity and human kindness and sensibility will soon return to America’s governments.

But just in case, I’m enjoying what time is left. I’m smiling and drinking Carta Blanca beer, eating whateverthefuck I want, and getting myself all the sex I can stand.

So… fuck Armageddon, and the horse he rides in on. Manana, y’all. Oh, yea. And please buy my book. It will help me stay in a good mood.

ATwit&Twat Vs T-Fucking-Mobile; The Loser’s Bracket

Monday, November 21st, 2011


So. I’ve been home from BlogCon2011 for your basic week and I haven’t gotten a single fucking thing fully completed. This would include—but not be limited to—writing all the stories about my trip, preparing for the holidays, down-winding from the trip, getting some serious sexing, training the animals to behave themselves to my level of desired correctness, and catching up on my psycho therapy sessions.

I’m certain that a sane man would be able to tell you which of the aforementioned unfinished tasks would provide the most frustrations but I can’t even focus enough to determine which bothers me most. OK, having said that, a sane man would neither have that many pieces of unfinished business nor would he allow several of those items to even approach the category titleed “unfinished”[.]

Add to that the fact that my main webber page is out of date, I still don’t have a Bloggie Roller linkster to my book, and I’ve spent so much time with my Ivory soap that last night—in the throws of self-inflicted passions—I proposed to the freshly unwrapped bar of 99-and-44-one-hundredths-percent pure love clenched in my left hand. To provide you some clarity, my pecker was clenched in my right hand at that particular moment of passion. OK, in actuality I had neither Ivory soap bar nor pecker clenched, as I self-love with the same tender endearment as I would a woman.

Today, I need to do all of my T-giving food shopping and get home before one pm because the Amazon guys are calling me to discuss the trailer advertisement for my book. The first thing we’ll be discussing is why they call it a trailer as this doesn’t follow anything. Nobody who sees the trailer will have already read the book and at thirty-seconds of length, whatinthefuck can they say that will get a person’s interest anyway.

It’s like when I was up to Murfreesboro, Tennessee with BJ last week watching football on TV. Bill’s got this nifty dealie on his cable system called NFL Red Zone. At least I think it’s called NFL Red Zone. They flip between games to show every score and scoring opportunity when a team gets to the opposition’s twenty yard-line. Should that have been twenty-yard line, or maybe twenty-yard-line?

Not only did they switch between games, and quickly at that, they would often have multiple games on screen in separate boxes. BJ told me it took awhile to be able to grasp the visuals without confusion. I found myself right to home immediately. From now on, when someone asks me to describe a little bit about how my ADHD-addled brain works, I’ll tell them to turn on the NFL Red Zone, increase the volume to 85% and then invite the family to all speak to you at the same time.

I found NFL Red Zone to be relaxing.

There was a commercial break on TV, and BJ was telling me that commercials can be problematic for him. He thinks about the first commercial and it’s message after the second commercial starts, and people are always interrupting his thoughts when they comment on the second commercial before that one is even finished. I can’t even imagine how a person can focus their attentions through an entire thirty-second advertisement for T-fucking-Mobile, much less how that concentration can remain locked when the next ad is for Hooters.

But as I’ve said before, BJ is one of those rare people who possess extraordinary focus and intelligence. And I hate T-fucking-Mobile. That’s my current cell phone carrier, a contract Gnat negotiated when I got pissed at ATwit&Twat, our last asswipe phone operating system. ATwit&Twat had all of these hidden charges that pissed me off, and T-fucking-Mobile is even worse. I don’t do texting, and I won’t do texting. Fuck texting and texters alike.

Leave me a fucking voice message asshole, or leave me the fuck alone. I am not impressed that you send me a message when you should be doing something else. I don’t give a shit if you’re in a meeting and you need to pee or if you’re driving down the interstate and traffic is terrible. Anything you want to say to me by text is something I don’t want to know.

I… don’t… give… a… rat’s.. fucking… ass!

But guess what. Even though I have no capability to send texts on my T-fucking-Mobile phone plan, people can still send me texts. And when I get the message notice on my phone and accidentally open a text, those mother fuckers at T-fucking-Mobile charge me fifty-cents!

Asshole right-wing Republican rat fucker shitwad T-fucking-Mobile.

That is one of the reasons I cuss so much. Take those last six paragraphs and remove any words you think are cuss words. Then replace the fucks and shits with your own words and see what you have. Convince me that you can replace my cusses and express my intentions with precision.

If I ever get the book ad trailer finished I’ll try to post it here. Meantime, go the the linkster for the book and look at the sales stuff sans trailer. Click to:

Ugh. I need to find a better marketing tool than simply giving you a linkster and then begging you to buy the fucking book.

Which reminds me. Would somebody go over there to Amazon and do a review for me. I don’t care if you’ve read it and I don’t care if you say anything bad or good about it. It just hurts my feelings that nobody has said anything and that temps me to start writing my own reviews.

“I found Full Rising Mooner to be the biggest waste of money and time since they sold tickets on the Titanic,” or, “Full Rising Mooner is the best read of the fucking year,” would make two great reviews. Actually the only thing funnier than nobody reviewing the book would be if nobody bought it.

I’m cracking a Carta Blanca beer before I go shopping. Manana, y’all.


Thank-Q, Quincy; I Got Your Yang Right Here

Saturday, November 19th, 2011


So. When last we left off, I had blown a big chip stack with the second nut flush because I sometimes make seriously stupid decisions, and I was headed to Jackson, Mississippi to meet Quincy, the Thank Q who sits perched over there =} on my Bloggie Roller. And first, maybe I should have said, “When we last left off,” and also I wonder why I cannot spell the word Mississippi without singing the song.

As a child sufferer of the dreaded ADHD, and a quite significant case at that, howinthefuck did I manage to so completely learn that silly song? It took me until the fourth grade to be able to say the alphabet all the way through without a digression—with the Alphabet Song or without—so why did the Mississippi Song resonate with my addled brain? I need to call Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson to see if maybe I’ve discovered something significant, an ADHD breakthrough if you will.

Maybe it’s the repetitive letter dealie matched with the catchy tune that assisted my overworked mental capacities in absorbing and retaining the information. Maybe it might also have been the simple fact that it was funny to me. Funny shit always manages to hold my attentions far better than anything not funny.

Which brings up two points. The first is that when I was at Murfreesboro with the guys up there, they would keep me on track by reminding me of where I was before the fritz hit. Every time I would wander off the mental tracks, and each time I got that vacant-eyed stare on my face, they’d remind me of where the tracks got jumped. I’m thinking that I could hire a special assistant, one who has acute abilities of concentration, and pay them to keep me on track.

Maybe a young Oriental woman with shiny-black bowl-cut bangs and onyx eyes, like the Reckmonster. I’d have her wear Michigan tee shirts and make her learn their fight song. We’d go everywhere together.

The second point is now lost on me, which reminds me that I was telling you about meeting Quincy. I pulled into Jackson around 3 pm and checked into the hotel next to The Bulldog Pub, my meeting place with the Q-man. I had left the casino early, and without a shower, so I took a shower before walking next door to meet Quincy. On the sink counter top were the typical mini containers of shampoo and conditioner and shit, one of which said, “Quince” in big, and quite bold letters.

“Fate,” I said aloud to myself. “This is a good start to my visit.”

OK, and now I remember what the second thing was. I have been re-reminded that I cuss a lot and possibly way too fucking much. “Your cursing will drive people away from your writings, Mooner,” was Mother’s words at breakfast this morning.

Then she said, “But maybe that’s a good thing.”

My sainted and heavily-martyred mother needs a child who heaps shit onto her heavy-hearted soul. Mooner Johnson, shit heaper for the stars, to the rescue. Shit Heaper is my middle name and Martyr Management is my game.

And I just had a glimmer of genius thought because Quincy and I are complete opposites when it comes to cussing. Curse words are part and parcel to my speech and thought patterns—adjectives, verbs, adverbs, nouns and pronouns and every such grammatical invective—is used by me commonly and constantly. For me, if a cuss word says it best then fucking say it. Always.

Not the same with Q. Quincy is, as I said before, the most wholesome man I know. And not that sanctimoniously silly and fake wholesomeness exhibited by right-wing Christian fuckwads. This man’s wholesome comes from his upbringing and his conscious choices. He’s likely the perfect yin to my yang.

OK, stop the presses. Yin is a light, feminine word by definition and yang is dark and masculine. While I’m not a white white man, I’m certainly masculine. Quincy is a black man and a manly black man at that. He’s wholesome but not sissified, and he’s not fussy in the least.

Oh Christ on crutches, I’ve digressed the shit out of all of us and wasted what little time I had to write this silly shit. SAC Ellen and I are headed to a house warming party for two of our friends, Amy and Valerie. They are two of my favorite people and I haven’t known them for very long. I’ve got to dress and grab a bottle of red wine to take with us, so I need to check out.

So, please buy my stupid book—now available as a paperback and on Kindle as well. Manana, y’all.

Mooner’s Mental Mush; An Attempt At Making Sense

Thursday, November 17th, 2011


So. Another day of recovery from my big trip and another set of worries. Every time I think I’ve gathered all my shit into one bucket, I smell a new load that has attached itself to the bottom of my shoe. I was speaking to that issue at breakfast this morning, and Gram says to me, she says, “Ya need yersef a bigger bucket.”

You think?

In addition to my exterior standard-sized shit bucket, the boiling cauldron that is my ADHD-addled brain might need enlargement as well. I was hoping to be able to sit and discuss with you the many experiences and pleasures enjoyed on my recent trip, and I expected to have few distractions from that endeavor. I am, of course, delusional, and since I got home from my trip Monday night, every distraction avoided by my absence was pitched in my mental tent upon my return. And again, of course.

Expanding my mental capacities is somewhat more problematic than that of getting a bigger shit bucket. It isn’t that I’m dumb as I’m actually somewhat smart. Not genius smart like Streaker Jones and BJ, my bloggie buddy, as all of their considerable IQ can be laser-focused onto a single issue. Instead, my intelligence is typically divided—and not equally at that—between fifteen or twenty divergent thoughts.

Again to quote the spindly old gas bag that is my grandmother, “You’d be a right smart little fucker, Mooner, if’n ya could focal point all yer shit at once’t.”

Myself, I don’t feel any smarter than say Newt Gingrich, and I am for certain waaaay smarter than Rick Perry. Why I would choose to assay my smartness with those two shitheads as relevant factors might seem to diminish my reflections thereon. Thereof? OK, maybe thereto.

Can you tell that I’m in full ADHD brain fritz mode?

Look, I left for BlogCon2011 last Monday morning in a light rain that followed me all the way to my first stop, the Choctaw Indian Casino in Durant, Oklahoma. I got there and decided to take a little nappie poo before hitting the poker tables. When I awakened from my slumber I turned on the TV to see what was up in the world, but decided to take my shower first. When I finished, there was a weather alert flashing on TV. “The tornado is approximately two miles from Durant and a mile-and-a-half west of the Choctaw casino,” were the first of the weatherman’s words that sunk into my still sleep-groggy brain.

Since my room was on the 11th floor, west side of the casino, I parted my drapes and looked out the window. “Ho-ly shit!” I said quite aloud. I couldn’t distinguish the actual tornado, but what I saw was a ground to infinity wall cloud of black and angry-gray swill that is the picture-perfect nightmare of anyone who has witnessed a tornado.

“Holy fucking shit!” again aloud and this time quite emphatic.

I raced to get dressed and down to the safety of the poker room located deep inside the thick concrete confines of the building. Pestilence Number One.

Poker was fun and I met some neat folks as I played for a few hours before dinner. After dinner, I returned to play some more and was having a blast. I was playing a pot with a woman—I had Ace and Queen of clubs and an Ace hit the flop—and I was contemplating my move, and it suddenly felt like I had packed a battery-operated dildo up my ass for the trip and someone had turned it on.

“zzzz,” it went for a half-second, and then, “zzZZZZZZzzz,” for a solid three seconds more. The woman said, “Are you going to bet or do I need to call the clock on you?”

Then, suddenly, the entire poker room erupted in shocked expressions of, “Holy shit, that was another earthquake!” Oklahoma had had an earthquake the week before and this was the second act of that drama. Me, I think that these quakes and the ones up to the Cleburne, Texas area are caused from excessive drilling and pumping of underground oil and water reserves. You simply cannot remove huge caverns of liquid from inside the Earth’s crust and not expect it to want to adjust things occasionally.

Pestilence Number Two.

Of course BJ was keeping a close monitor on my progress and this double whammy I brought to Durant, Oklahoma with my visit there sparked some serious concerns. When he told Bob over to Squatlo the news, Bob said, “OK, what’s left that he can bring down on us when he gets here? We already had the locusts fill the sky Pestilence this summer, so it may be the raining frogs for us.”

Me, if I was them, I’d worried more that my visit would bring the lice dealie or maybe the water-to-blood thingie. I was sleeping in two different hotel rooms before arriving and serious quantities of beer were consumed all around. To have contracted a case of the crabs or be pissing blood was not a stretch of anyone’s imagination.

Anyway, I left Oklahoma with less money that I should have had because I couldn’t fold the second nut flush to an all-in bet from Sammy, a casino employee from another casino playing at my table. He was pretty loosey-goosey and managed to suck me into calling off my entire, quite large, stack. I’d like to blame the quake, but can’t. I was a dumbass.

Next morning I arose early and headed to meet Quincy in Jackson, Mississippi. More on that later. I have another psycho therapy session, a “special” session. Sister and Anna the Amazon want to have a baby, and they want me to be the father.

It seems I’m having difficulties dealing with the ambiguity of my roles in that little dealio. So drink your Carta Blanca beer, y’all, and come back manana. And why don’t you go take a look at the book at:

It’s also available on Kindle and cheaper there.

Feeble Attempt At Thanks; Practice For The Holiday

Wednesday, November 16th, 2011


So. I’m a full day in recovery and I’ve managed to only take backward steps. My favorite puppy still harbors resentment that I played the coffee can game with BJ’s dog Ruger; the fucking cat shredded my favorite ash gray knitted shirt; my Mother keeps saying; “I raised you better than that,” and “What will I tell my friends at church?”; I get a stiffie whenever I hear the words pork, pig, hog, sausage, ribs, pulled, bun, vinegar or sauce; my Gram is still “dating” the same college kid as when I left; and I’ve got a stack of paperwork to do out to Mooner’s Compost Plant.

All I want to do is write about everything that happened on my trip to BlogCon2011, but all I seem to be able to do is mend fences and make amends. Stories of my life.

But here’s the deal. I had as good a time as ever I have on this trip. Wait. Maybe I should have said “…as I have ever had…”[?]

Howeverthefuck I might should have said it, I had a remarkably good time. I need to leave to go take care of some business soon, but I insist on telling you a few things:

  1. Quincy was the first of my blogger buddies I met and I have this to say about the Q-man. He might be the most wholesome, well-balance man I have ever met. He has peaceful eyes, a bright smile and the calmness possessed only by men who are certain they know who they are. Thanks, again, for buying dinner at the Bulldog, Q, and thanks for trusting that I was mostly harmless.
  2. Next I met BJ, from Dumb Perignon. He met me at the McDonalds near his home in Murfreesboro and likely just before my arrest. I had gone inside to pee and wash the ride off my face, and when I finished I went outside. And stood beside the kiddie play area to watch the children throw French fries at each other. BJ drove up just as I noticed the manager standing at the window punching three numbers into his cell phone. As for BJ himself, I reserve conversation for a later date other than to say that we became fast friends before we got to the first BBQ joint we visited on the way to his house.
  3. Then Bob from Squatlo—he came over to BJ’s to eat BBQ and drink beer with us. Bob is as nice and smart as you would think from reading his stuff. He talks more than Gram’s best buddy the P-cubed, but just like Penelope Paxton-Parades, he’s got interesting shit to say. His sweet and oh-so-dangerous wife, Cindy, has learned to raise her hand like a school girl about once an hour so that she can hear the sound of her own voice. His pork BBQ made in the spicy vinegar method was KILLER, and I ate three full sandwiches and two halvsies on Friday night at the big wing-ding. Bob is one of the good ones.
  4. I met Michelle, the Reckmonster and my future twelfth wife, on Friday night. My heart is still up-ticking and my sides ache still from laughing at her stories. This woman can move through dialects in mid-word, and she can rip a story like a seasoned comedian. The big heart you see from reading her bloggie is bigger in person. I’m proud to say that I didn’t get slapped a single time for any untoward actions.


Never before have I taken a cross-country trip to spend time with people I have never met, and never have I had such a great time. Seriously. I did have several “Ah-ha” moments, each as I was peeing in the sink. The first was over to Bob’s when we were watching our two UT football teams getting the snot kicked out of them.

Each time I walked into his bathroom I had to move this giant bottle of mouthwash on the floor to close the door. We were drinking icy-cold Carta Blanca beer, or at least I was, and in copious quantities at that. I was in the bathroom for maybe the tenth time when it hit me like a sack of curing salt. I laughed my ass off at myself and almost peed on Bob’s mirror when it dawned on me that the mouthwash was a door stopper, and that Cindy was following behind me to put it back in place each time I returned to my seat.

But I must go now as my first stop of the day is for a psycho therapy appointment—the first in over a week. I hope I can remember how to do therapy. Manana, y’all.

Oh, yea. Go to:

and buy my fucking book. Thanks.

BlogCon2011 Big Success; Must Recover

Tuesday, November 15th, 2011


So. I arrived back to the ranch last night after driving straight through from Murfreesboro, Tennessee. I want to tell you all about the entire trip but I’ve got too much jet lag, and too many chores. Everyone was waiting up for me and met me at the back door as I arrived. Everybody except Mother and the Squirt raced to hug me as I got out of the car, and pinned me to the door frame.

By the time I got myself unhinged and standing in my full upright and locked position, I had dog slobber and ostrich tears staining me from head to toe, Rush Limbaugh the pig had his snout rammed up my ass like he was looking for truffles, and my Gram had locked her bony hand around my wrist and was tugging me down to whisper in my ear. Honor the the cat took one whiff of me and started hissing and spitting.

Gram chased the others away and told me, “You done screwed tha poochie, Mooner. Mother’s got her deli-cat feelers all hurt ta beat tha fuckin’ band, that Don Legacy feller’s done escaped out the basement, and yer little dog’s all pissed about something I got no thoughts about. Tread sharply.”

Huh? “Oh, you mean tread lightly, Gram.”

“Who gives a shit, Mooner. You jist watch yersef cause Mother’s got a shoe in ‘er hand.”

My mother often whacked my ass with an old rubber-soled sandal when I was a kid. You have all seen the cheap shoes from old Mexico. A good whacking will leave little crenelated tread marks on your ass. If memory serves me, sandals made from the old Firestone Passenger tires left the most painful marks.

I crossed the gravel to where Mother stood with Squirt. I kissed Mother on the cheek and reached down to pat my little dog’s head. Mother’s back had stiffened as I approached and the fucking dog snarled and snapped at my hand.

“What in the hell is wrong with the two of you?” I asked.

Mother’s answer was to spin on her heal and head inside. Squirt said, “Ek ruik ‘n hond reuk, shithead. Huelo a perfume de la fucking dog.”

“Oh, you smell another dog. I didn’t adopt anyone else, sweetie pie, that’s just BJ’s dog Ruger.”

My sweet puppy looked me up and down several times and then huffed. “You’re still an asshole.”

It’s good to be missed.

OK, look. In the coming days I will tell you all about my remarkable trip. BJ and Squatty and Reckmonster and Q were the best ever hosts and the wives were most tolerant. We had some huge times and made great memories that I want to share with you.

But that rotten fucker Don Legacy has escaped. For the life of me I don’t understand how imaginary people can “escape”[,] but he’s been missing for a week and I think we best corral him before something terrible happens.

I’d drink a Carta Blanca beer but I need to detoxify first. And I’ll need an auger to take a bowel movement. All I ate while gone was pork and pork side orders. Maybe that explains why Rush Limbaugh won’t leave me alone. Pork is his favorite.

Manana, y’all.

Your Five Day Reader; Mooner’s On Tour

Sunday, November 6th, 2011


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:

  1. I have not reviewed any of the following as it is to be written in my absence.
  2. 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.
  3. 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.
  4. 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.
  5. 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.
  6. 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.

Book Sales Brisk: Not A Bris

Sunday, November 6th, 2011


So. This is the last post before my big trip on the Mooner Johnson Bloggie Posters’ Tour. I’m having trouble naming this well-seasoned road trip because I heading out to visit other bloggie posters, but I’m traveling alone. If other bloggie posters were on the road with me, it would be easy to just call it The Bloggie Posters’ Tour. Of course, if it were the Reckmonster traveling with me, I might be tempted to call it a honeymoon.

I’m really good planning honeymoons.

The first name I named it was Mooner Johnson Takes A Vacation To Visit Other Bloggie Poster Persons After He Stops To Play Some Poker Wherein Mooner Leaves The Dogs And The Fucking Cat Back To The Ranch. This misnomer was fully accurate, so the “mis” part is wrong from the application perspective rather than a miss on the facts.

And one of you asshole grammar shitballs answer me this. If you can have a misnomer, then why not a nomer? Really, whatinthefuck is wrong with a nomer? I think whoever was in charge of some of this grammar crap was a fucking Baptist. The logic irregularities share the same glaring idiocies.

Anyway, I have way much too much to do today because I made a mess of yesterday. I watched the early day crushing of the Texas Tech Red Raiders by my Texas Longhorns, and I drank a few too many icy-cold Carta Blanca beers. I drank too many beers because Streaker Jones and Dixie came by to watch the game with me. For new readers, Dixie is my Golden Retriever—the self-same Dixie who trained the Squirt how to speak—and the two of them wanted my opinion on some new products for the hemp clothing factory we own together.

They have the Spring Line ready to go, and nifty it is. Streaker Jones also has a new mushroom strain he wanted me to Guinea hen for him. This latest cross-pollination of his breeds the Great Texas Psychedelic Cow Patty mushroom with the black truffle. I cut some thick slabs of ciabatta bread and covered them with the mushrooms, bleu cheese, roasted garlic and a light jacket of caramelized onions. before broiling. When the cheese got a light toast on top, I took them out and drizzled some olive oil and sprinkled torn basil leaves on top.

Tops were just a tad crusty, and I got crusty as well. Maybe it was the mushrooms that caused my over-indulging on the beer side, but I didn’t feel like doing anything but beer drinking, eating and waxing philosophically.

Which reminds me. Two things. First, Gnat will post a week’s worth of stuff all written by other persons who are not me. It’ll be one post but it’ll have the days written on it. You can read them as intended and come back once each assigned day as I intend. Or, you can be an asshole and read them all in one sitting. Your choice.

Second, if you need me, go over to my Bloggie Roller and click onto Dumb Perignon or Reckmonster or Squatlo or Thank Q, and leave me a message with one of them. I don’t know how to check on my own shit from remote locations, and quite frankly, I don’t want to learn.

OK, and I lied because there’s one other thing. You really need to go out to Amazon and buy my fucking book. I started all of this bloggie bullshit and went to all of this trouble to promote and market the fucking book. Click on to the linkster at:

It will be available on the Kindle by Monday sometime, and the Kindle version is only $9.99. Or is it $9.90? Doesn’t matter. The book is a real heavyweight in papered format which accounts for its pr iciness. I’m told that Full Rising Mooner is quite readable on the Kindle.

I don’t think I’ll miss anybody while I’m gone, but I promise to think about you each, and every one. Manana de la manana de la manana de la etcetera until about the 16th of Noviembre.

Hoof, Hoof and Hoof; ADHD Kills

Friday, November 4th, 2011


So. It’s Friday and who really gives a shit? I’ve got so many tasks to complete before I can head out of town on Monday that it might as well be Tuesday. Or Wednesday, or even last Monday. I’ve got more stuff to do than usual because I have 2.5 weeks of jobs to complete in one week.

The worst of these tasks is that I need to go over to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s place and mow the lawn, and clean and adjust the chemicals in her pool. Performing those duties is an effort by me to reduce my total mental health care expenditures, from the cash perspective. Gnat, as my bookkeeper, tells me that the actual cost for me to do those chores far exceeds the cost of hiring a lawn and pool service to do them. But it’s the principal of the whole thing to me. Wait, it’s the principle.

I actually like pushing the electric mower around and the kids like to swim as their reward for assisting me. Squirt has the most experience so she’s my best helper. Her new role is to direct Yoda and the fucking cat. Mostly what she does is tell them to stay out of my way.

I didn’t know that cats like to swim, and likely most do not. Honor, however, might not be 100% actual cat. Or maybe she’s spending so much time with the dogs that she’s starting to think like a dog. When Yoda barks, it’s a heart-breaking, but hilarious event. Someone at the puppy mill must have choked him or kicked him in his throat because his bark is quiet and hoarse. What he lacks in volume he more than makes up with his enthusiasm.

Yoda puts his entire being into each “Hoof” he barks. With each hoof he throws his head straight back, like when a wolf howls, and he looks like a cuckoo clock birdie. “Hoof, hoof, hoof,” he goes, and he does so with his bug eyes glaring.

Now the fucking cat has a right close imitation except that she does it from a sitting position, and in a distracted manner as well. Like she’s mocking him. Squirt tells me she isn’t mocking him, it’s her way of being supportive. I say Honor is a fucking cat and can’t yet be trusted.

Oh Christ with a bum knee, my ADHD has driven me waaaaay off course. The reason that mowing and pooling is the worst task this week is because I have to drive by the Planned Parenthood offices, twice, in order to get the tasks completed. And I don’t have time to stop and anti-anti-abortion protest.

And I really don’t have any time for jail. My buddy the Sheriff would keep me over the weekend just to screw with the departure date for my Bloggie Posters’ Tour.

As a matter of fact, I don’t have any time for this shit either, so I’ll see you manana, y’all.

P-fucking-S- please buy my book. The linkster is:

Reckmonster Nails Head; Psycho Therapy Sucks

Thursday, November 3rd, 2011


So. I’m a real mixed bag of tricks today. My psycho therapy has been delving deep into my deep-seated anger and hostility at the man who raped me, and that’s two deeps too many. OK, three deeps if you count the one I used in my effort to explain. Therapy isn’t any fun when you work on shit that makes you uncomfortable.

The yang to my miserable therapy yin is my excitement over my pending trip and also the fact that people are actually buying my silly fucking book. I’m fast discovering that the book all and unto its ownself is a yinner/yangy dealio.

Holy fucking shit, I am all over the damned place and I have yet to hit 125 words on the word counter. OK, wait, that last sentence hit 128 words. I’m totally discombobulated, but I hope you can see the efforts I’m making to maintain my integrity. Clarity, in my mind, is an important part of honesty. It isn’t enough, as an example, to say, “I was down to the Whole Foods Market and ran into Pastor Browningwell,” when what should have been also said was, “… and I didn’t get arrested but you might hear about it Sunday morning.”

What I’m attempting to say is that my mood is dichotomous in nature, and I might need to say “in natures”, plural, because one or more of my dichotomies is dichotomous in, and of, its ownself. My overall mental health is stable and mostly happy, my psycho therapy is driving me nuts, I am totally pumped about my blogger roadie trip, and my book sits on both sides of the fence.

So let’s talk about the book.

I am very happy and excited that my book is finally out and for sale. I am ecstatic that people are actually buying it. And while I’m at it, ecstatic needs an “x” in it. It was a tremendous effort to get from blank pages of paper to a published book and I am proud enough of myself for that, that I might just shit myself. Again.

But there are downsides. What if nobody likes it? I write better now than when I actually wrote the fucking book, so it isn’t my best efforts. And because of my selfish choices, it’s a tad expensive to buy in paper-printed form, and it wastes a bunch of trees. I wanted it to be readable so I had it printed in large font size—almost like a children’s book. If you will click onto this linkster:

and then click the dealie that let’s you read some of it, you’ll see what I mean. Larger print means larger pages and more, larger pages at that. I hate wasting stuff, and my book is a definite waste of stuff.

In this morning’s early session, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson said to me, she said, “Look, Mooner sweetie, we don’t need to talk about your book. Those issues will take care of themselves. Let’s get to the meat of your problems. I appreciate what the Reckmonster said to you. But your therapy isn’t about the man who raped you, it’s about you.”

See what I mean about dichotomousses? Dichotomoussi, maybe? What the Reckster said is that just because someone rapes you doesn’t give you the right to rape another. And she was dead right to have said that. The chain of abused-to-abuser, victim-to-perpetrator will never be broken until victims break it. Breaking that chain is the single thing I am most proud of in my life.

I think what Sammy is saying is that I wouldn’t be forgiving the rapist to make him feel better, I’d be doing it for me, or myself maybe. My initial sense is that I would be throwing the burden back at that asshole, like maybe if I forgive him I’ll feel better and he will feel worse. I know my ex-wife and therapist won’t see that as actual forgiveness, but I say, “Baby steps.”

And have you noticed that Dr. Sam I. Am still calls me “sweetie”[?] She says don’t read anything into it, but I know better. But that underscores my point again about these fucking dichotomusses.

Look. Please buy my book, if nothing else it will make you laugh or it will piss you off. Maybe both, and I can give you a guarantee on at least that much.

Ugh. Self promotion makes me thirsty, so I’m cracking a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

Mooner Farts B Flat; Forgiveness Is A 4-Letter Word

Wednesday, November 2nd, 2011


So. I’ve had something on my mind for quite a while that has been a bother and a concern. I haven’t said anything about it because I thought it was one of those dealies that would work itself out with time, patience and practice. Like sex.

But it’s been way over a year, I’m out of patience, and practice has perfected absolutely nothing. A little background, if you would.

We Johnsons are farters. My family considers farts and burps to be naturally-occurring human conditions no different from laughter, crying or anger. Farts are considered emotional and expressive reflections of a person’s well-being. Farts can be a sign of stress, distress or happiness. You can fart in anger, in support of another, or as a tease.

I have been a near world class farter since the Third Grade. OK, Grammar Police, why is the word “farter” getting the red squiggle line bullshit from Word? There is something wrong in a world where farter isn’t an actual approved word.

I think I was nine years old when my Gram first taught me to fart a song. It was Chop Stix, and she first taught me the left hand part, and then the right. We would practice together for hours as I helped around the place with the chores.

I just noticed that my grandmother’s name is way too close to the word grammar for my comfort. In fact, if old Teddy Kennedy was still alive he’d likely call her “Grammer”[.]

My mother was a school teacher before she retired and she lived her life as a school marm. Still does for that matter. Every night at the supper table we’d get the question: “Well, children, what did you learn today?” Every… fucking… night we’d get that same question.

Have you ever noticed how some people never learn?

I always let Sister go first, and not just because she was a girl. My little sis is smart and has maybe the driest sense of humor west of the Mississippi. She could answer the question and drop a load of shit at Mother’s feet that wouldn’t start stinking until after dinner. We’d be washing and drying the dishes at the sink and Mother would be sitting at the table with her little paperback book of daily prayers.

I always washed and Sister would dry, and the adults would sit there to the table doing adult stuff. We didn’t have the giant table that sits there now, it was a boxy rectangle of cedar planks that Daddy and Granddad made from trees cleared to make a garden. I gave that table to Dr. Sam I.-Am-Johnson when she moved out because she loved it so much.

OK, my ADHD is firing on all cylinders. If I don’t get my brain puppies back in their box we’ll have ourselves a major distraction.

We’d be at the sink, Sister and I, and Mother would be reading her silly daily prayer book. I hated that book, as Mother would read that crap to me and act like it was God’s words written for me, and to make me miserable. Sister would be nudging me in the side with her elbow, and giggling, dishwater dripping off her hands. After a few minutes we’d hear a, “Huh?” then a gasp followed by a deep sigh, and then, “Sister, you go stand in your bathroom with the Ivory soap in your mouth until I tell you to take it out.”

Sister and I both have a thing for Ivory soap. I think that’s why I like menudo so much.

This one night Mother asks what I had learned that day, and so Gram and I farted a Chop Stix duet. It was only slightly out of tune and we kept a pretty good rhythm together. I eventually learned to be a pretty good fart singer. Not nearly as good as those guys on the Howard Stern Show—I can’t do Led Zepplin or The Star Spangled Banner—but I could do a mean Poppa’s Got A Brand New Bag, You Ain’t Nothin’ But A Hound Dog and one of J.P. Sousa’s marches. I don’t remember the name now, but one of the popular ones.

Holy shit am I scattered. What I’m trying to bitch about is that I have lost all of my farting skills. The loss is a side effect of the lower peritoneal infection I had, and the treatments and operations required to rid me of it. Ever since I had my ass operation just over a year ago, my farts all fall flat on their faces. It’s very sad.

When I complained last night, Gram said to me, she said, “Oh quit cher bitchin’, Mooner. At least ya ain’t shittin’ in one a them Costco bags like old Mr. Hancock over to tha church. Tha air never does clear around that man.”

She was, of course, right, I don’t need colostomy bags. But I can’t even fart Mary Had A Little Lamb anymore. I can only fart a single, B-Flat note that’s as interesting as it sounds. And I have to be very careful when I crank one loose because I can usually keep my gas in, but I can’t control the stopping once started. Whatever gas I have will escape when the valve is opened. I’m actually quite distressed over this.

I went to see Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson this afternoon to talk to her about my trip. I started the conversation talking about my farting issues and the next thing I know, she’s got me considering forgiving the man who raped me as a child. My ex-wife and therapist can be such a bitch. She said to me, she said, “How can you forgive the man who murdered your grandmother for what he did and not forgive the man who molested you?”

“Easy,” I said, “the poor guy who killed Mother’s mother was crazy. He couldn’t help himself.”

“So…?” Dr. Strange Cure drawled the question like she was saying the longest word in the English language. What the hell is that word?

“Wait a fucking minute. Are you telling me it’s the same dealie? Are you saying that the Boy Scout leader who raped me couldn’t help it?”

I fucking hate psycho therapy. I’m starting to think that today’s addled brain farts are due to me considering Sammie’s question. Could that asshole have prevented himself from doing what he did to me? Could it be that he was raped himself and therefore had the predisposition to do it to me?

Son.. of… a… BITCH! I don’t WANT TO FOR-FUCKING-GIVE him.

Fuck, fuck and fuckeldy-fuck! I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

If You Buy My Book I Might Stop Promoting It

Tuesday, November 1st, 2011


So. I just got my handsome ass chewed out, and in grand fashion. My editorator just informed me that I’m an asshole for not publishing here to my bloggie, the point-of-sale blurb that describes my book and should entice you to buy the fucking thing. OK, fine, here it is:

“Buckle-up your sanity and step inside the ADHD-addled mind of Butcher Einstein “Mooner” Johnson, a wealthy redneck, liberal-thinking compost manufacturer from Austin, Texas. Mooner has strong political, religious and environmental beliefs and interesting ways to state them, a reference to his infamous “moon shows,” aka performance art statements using his plucked, dyed, and polished bare bottom. As a matter of course, he is quick to drop his pants to his ankles and show you what he thinks on a fairly regular basis. Things are all fun and games until the real trouble starts: a severed arm is discovered in a compost pile at Mooner’s plant. When childhood friend Sheriff Woozie Wozniac arrests him, Mooner is charged with murder and locked away at Shoal Creek Mental Hospital.

Hysterical, thoughtful, and wildly inappropriate, Don Legacy’s debut is a raucous ride into the mind of a true American character, a man so scatological that there must be some sort of brilliance in there somewhere—if you can find it! Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, the first of Mooner’s 10 ex-wives and his psychotherapist, assigns him to write his erratic thoughts in a journal in the aftermath of his latest arrest, and he spends the rest of the book trying to keep a diary as life interrupts and sends his ADHD-addled mind into “brain fritz”. On the outside, a team of eccentric characters, including Mooner’s best friend and mysterious entrepreneurial genius Streaker Jones, his Ferrari-driving and hallucinogen-making grandmother, and his talking and singing golden retriever, work together to solve the murder mystery that keeps Mooner locked away. Inside the hospital, Mooner experiences enlightenment and growth as he spends time living with other crazy people and thinking about life until his group of friends can bring the whole sordid story to a shocking and riotous conclusion.

With his unique brand of wit and humor, Legacy takes the term “stream of consciousness” to new heights as Mooner blasts through the chaos of murder charges, the loony bin, and the most eccentric group of friends imaginable. Daring and provocative, Full Rising Mooner: The Most Inappropriate Man in the World is the most unpredictable and uproarious ride you’ve ever taken!”

Just so you know, I did not write that silly shit. I had the chance to tweak it, but I figured I’d best not mess with something professionally done. I personally think it’s a tad bit overstated, and will someone please explain to me what an “uproarious ride” would feel like.

Would that be like that time when Ingrid and I were on our honeymoon out to the Grand Canyon and I got bucked off the mule and into the cactus? Or would it be like lying in the bed of a pick-up truck—hungover out to here—while Streaker Jones hits every pothole from Nuevo Laredo all the way home to Austin?

I’m wondering if anybody even wants to take a fucking uproarious ride. I get the “raucous ride” thingie, I really do. Raucous can mean boisterous and rough and calloused, and I am, by God, each and all of that.

Anyway, after reviewing the sales blurb I said, “Fuck it, because who really gives a shit?”

So, please click onto the linkster and by my book:

And just so that you know, the Kindle dealie will be available just as soon as I can figure out how to do the Kindle Account application form. I’ve got four hours into that damned thing and I’m still not accepted.