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


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

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3 Responses to “Mooner’s Midnight Madness, Pre-Midnight Session–Issues One and Two”

  1. bj says:

    Well ….. THIS experiment thing should be very interesting …. Tell me More …. Tell me more. BTW Guess who ELSE is O-neg? A hint: his Birthday is two years and four days after yorn. Too much math? Too few ‘Shrooms?

  2. admin says:

    BJ. Well of course it’s O to the minus. Is the belly button an innie or an outie? Innie here.

  3. bj says:

    As you are aware …. DEEPER than the RECESSION we’re in … over here. heh
    and before you ask ….. CUT!!

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