Archive for December, 2011

Mooner’s 2012 Wish List; Fuck Rick Perry

Saturday, December 31st, 2011

 

So. Today’s last posting of the year shall be what I’ll call Mooner’s Wish List For 2012. I’m down to fifteen hours of freely giving of myself and I’m feeling pretty good about stuff here at the end of 2011. I started thinking about my wishes for the New Year, so I thought I’d give you my list. Here it is:

 

  1. I wish that my silly sentimentality will grab a rein on itself. It really is OK with me that I cry at the drop of sincerity, but Tuesday I started leaking tears when Gram put an Air Supply cassette on the stereo and I’m All Out’a Love came on. I’m fine if The Beatles or Don Henley or Classical music, or Simon and Garfunkel bring me to my knees in a weeping mess of tears and snot bubbles. But Air Supply?
  2. I wish that Jesus Christ would return for a few months—not the big End-of-Days return, but rather a short visit—and remind the fucking Christians that He was/is all about love and inclusion. Modern American Christians have become so exclusive about every aspect of thought and life that their practices don’t even resemble Christ’s preachings. Now that I think about it, maybe that’s why the Air Supply song brought tears to my eyes. I was raised in the Baptist church and maybe I’m sad at what it has become, at their love lost.
  3. I wish that everyone could sing and dance and run and throw and make money equally. I wish that the only tangible differences among us were in how we think and act, and that our icons and idols were people who were special to us for what they do rather than what they CAN do.

    I wish that I could have been Mr. Dave when he was twenty years old until he was like maybe thirty-five.

  4. I wish I had a wish that wasn’t so wishy. I’m sounding like Oprah Winfrey for shitsakes.

 

OK, stop the presses. When I started this I thought I had some original thoughts about how to make the New Year a better new year. I don’t. I have nothing new to add to the same tired and trite wishes I’ve had for the last twelve years or so. I want to be happy with the state of politics in America—I really want us to return to be an inclusive society. I want America to mind its own business and mind our stores. Our mice on Wall Street are clearing out the cupboards while the cat is busy playing with other countries’ lives.

I want you to practice any fucking religious beliefs you want to practice just as long as you let me to practice mine. I want you to practice your silly fucking religious beliefs on yourself, and not on me. If you believe life starts when you first think about having sex—lock your kids in the basement until you marry them off to another member of your church. Don’t practice safe sex and don’t terminate any of your fucking pregnancies because that is your choice. But don’t tell others what to do, because a woman’s right to choose her own destiny is what is sacred. A woman’s right to choose is sacred!

If you think that homosexuality is evil and wrong, don’t suck another man’s dick. Don’t play ‘hide the two-headed vibrator’ with another woman. But if my sweet sister wants to marry Anna the Amazon—my ever-so-sexy and likewise sweet ex-wife—then leave them the fuck alone.

Which reminds me. It dawned on me just the other day exactly why Dr. Marcus Bachmann is soooooo very concerned and dedicated to turning gay men into husbands of women. I feel a little dumb for not getting it sooner.

And don’t you hate when a writer hits “Bold, Italicize and Underline” to provide emphasis to his words. I wish I could better communicate than to do that. But I can’t.

If you think that Earth was uninhabited until something less than 10,000 years ago, knock yourself the fuck out.

I wish I knew another word to use for the word fuck. Wouldn’t it be nice if there existed another English word to express all of those same thoughts and emotions and meanings as when you say, “Fuck?” Fuck is my favorite word, and you can go fuck your fucking self and all your fucking neighbors if you don’t fucking like it. Fuck you. But I would get more people to read this shit I write if I had another word.

Anyway, if you are one of those Christians who think the Bible says that the Earth was created sometime between four and ten thousand years ago… OK, let me first say, “Are you fucking kidding me? Are you truly that ignorant or stupid?” And second, please allow me to say, “Fine. If you want to ignore the facts, fine. Home school your own children or take them to your church school.” But leave the rest of us to teach reality in our public schools.

Said another way, I really don’t care what you want or choose to do with your life. I don’t care how you think you make it to heaven, or hell, and I don’t care if you think I’m a hedonistic, sacrilegious heretical and evil bastard. I don’t care about any of that. Think anything you want.

But leave… me… the… fuck… alone! Do not even try to force your shit on the rest of us.

Ugh. Ugh, ugh and ugh once more.

Isn’t it the final eleventh hour somewhere in the World? I need a Carta Blanca beer and an attitude adjustment. SAC Ellen is back in town and there is no way she’s sexing me when I act like this. Maybe I should take all the animals fishing. It’s unusually warm this morning and Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh could use the fresh air. Speaking of two-headed vibrators, my gay pig and ostrich haven’t seen the light of day since they opened their Xmas presents from each other.

So let me say “Happy New Year Everybody”[,] and I hope that all of your wishes come true. OK, look, I hope all of your wishes come true so long as they don’t infringe upon anyone else. If you have wishes that impinge on my rights then I say, “Fuck you, asshole! Eat shit and die.”

Manana, y’all.

 

To Freely Give; My Xmas Gifts

Friday, December 30th, 2011

 

So. Thankfully there are but two days left in 2011. I have a personal tradition that has been with me for the last fifteen years wherein (in which?) I will basically do anything I am asked that makes sense to me. If you ask me to watch your cat over the Xmas holidays, I’m cat watching. If you ask me to try the special sushi roll over to the Japanese place, I’m trying the special. Need someone to fetch giant-sized condoms by the case—I’m your man if you only make the effort to ask me.

I started this fifteen years ago as my personal response to the crass commercialization of Xmas. I decided to do favors instead of buy presents, and I limited my giving of purchased presents to a very few. I decided to do this without telling anyone—another shake of my figurative finger in the face of Xmas excessivenesses. I wanted to do nice things for people simply because they asked me to do so.

I start on December 115th each year and continue throughout the month to the 31st. As I said, I’ve done this for fifteen years and nobody caught on to what I’ve been up to. Or so I thought.

My mother stopped asking me to go to church decades ago, and no, this isn’t my ADHD slipping gears on us. Mother is a dedicated Baptist and enters her church’s doors every time they get unlocked. She dragged my ass with her the first thirteen years of my life until I put my foot down and refused to go. She spent a decade attempting to get me back inside routinely, and then a couple years asking/demanding sporadically, and then she just gave up. Mother tried and tried and finally tired of the effort.

I start my personal pilgrimage to good tidings by going to the bank on the 15th where I get a big wad of twenty-dollar bills. I put a dozen or so into my shirt pocket and stuff the rest into my jeans. Or shorts when the weather is nice. I wear shorts anytime I can. Then, whenever I see a person on a street corner with his hand out and every time I see a person collecting for a charity, I give a twenty-dollar bill.

This would include at McDonalds at the box sitting by the register for Ronald McDonald House, and it would include the tip jar at Starbucks. Eight people at the intersection—that’s $160.00. Salvation Army bell ringer—Twenty buckeroos. I’ll tip 50% if I dine out, and when I go to the grocery I’ll find a kid to carry whatever bag/bags I have and give him/her a double sawbuck.

I’m a non-denominational free-giver both of money to the needy and gifts of my efforts to the rest of the world. This hasn’t presented too many problems to me over the years, but there was this one time back in December 2000 when I pulled over for a hitch hiker who was on his way to Costa Rica.

Then the other day I was over to the Whole Foods, the one there to the Arboretum, and I was wearing my hot pink “Fuck Rick Perry” tee shirt as I stood in line at the butcher counter. When I stand in lines at Xmas time, I always let others go ahead of me. Unless, of course, they ask me to go ahead of them. Again, this giving dealie of mine is doing what is asked of me.

Sister likes Whole Foods spicy chicken Italian sausage links and like I said, I was standing in line in my hot pink “Fuck Rick Perry” tee shirt. You can buy your own hot pink “Fuck Rick Perry” tee shirt by either clicking over there ===}}} to the merchandise linkster or by clicking up there ^^^^^ to my Store Bar. Dustin the webber guru fixed my store button.

A lady walked over to stand beside me to browse the meat case. When I told her to, “Please go ahead,” she answered by saying, “Why thank you, sir. That’s a very pink shirt. Most men wouldn’t be caught dead in a hot pink shirt.”

“Well,” I answered, “I’m not most men.” That’s right, folks, Mooner Johnson is a quick wit.

She placed her order—three pounds of free range natural ground beef, twelve slices of apple smoked bacon and two ribeye steaks. The steaks were just natural beef and not free range which confused the shit out of me, so I asked her. “Why not free range and natural steaks like the ground beef?”

She turned to face me and said, “Well, sir, I have discovered that the free range steaks are a bit…” She paused as she studied the large print on the front of my shirt. “Does that say what I think it says?”

I looked down to be certain my memories of having dressed myself stood the test of time. I had debated which tee shirt to wear at what times today. “Well, darling, if you think it says “Metallica Forever” I decided to wear that one at dinner tonight. But if you think it says “Fuck Rick Perry” then we have us a winner.”

I could tell she wanted to slap me. I guess she didn’t because I let her cut in line. She did say, “You can kiss my ass, mister. Governor Rick Perry is a fine Christian man.”

Ooo, a request for personal services. “Well, Ma’am, if you’ll whistle so I know which end to kiss, I’ll be happy to fulfill your request.”

“Oh, you are disgusting. Go to hell,” and with that she huffed off without her ribeye steaks.

“Happy to oblige that request also. My own mother has already reserved my spot at the Devil’s right hand.”

Which brings me back to the original message I had to tell you. We’re sitting at lunch Wednesday and I’m giving Gram all kinds of happy grief about how she’s hogging Mr. Dave’s giant pecker and not sharing it like a good Baptist woman should, and especially at Xmas time. It was a good-hearted banter and Gram took it for about the first thirty minutes. After I gave the subject a final barb, my wonderful old grandmother turned to me with an impish smile, then turned to Mother and said, “Mother, why don’t you ask Mooner to go to church with you this evening?”

Like I said, only two more days of my freely giving what is asked of me. I just finished waxing Gram’s Ferrari so she can troll for college kids for New Years, I reorganized all the cabinets in her bathroom and I’ll be fixing her favorite dishes for dinner.

Next year, I’m limiting my free giving to acts not asked as blackmail. Manana, y’all.

Mooner Johnson Productions Presents- Melanie

Tuesday, December 27th, 2011

 

So. I’m finally catching up with my stuff and am almost finished doing all the stuff I agreed to do for others. And I’ve already started this bloggie posting with a lie because I haven’t caught up with shit—mine nor that of others either one. Something about this particular holiday season makes me a co-dependent people pleaser who has no problems of his own, because it’s your problems that are mine. Said another way, I become the crazy neighbor lady who tries to make everyone else happy and solve everyone else’s problems because her world is problem free. Then she’s found in an alcoholic coma with her panty hose bunched at her ankles over to the ally behind the Stephen F. Austin Hotel.

I offer to do errands that I hate to do, I offer to do the fucking dishes after spending three days slaving at the hot stove cooking the Xmas meal, and I offer to assist anyone down on their luck with whatever it might be that I can do to help.

OK, I lied again. I love to cook, and big holiday meals are my specialties.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my first-of-ten ex-wives and long time psycho therapist, tells me that it is my guilty conscience that drives me to co-dependency. I don’t know why I do it the other fifty weeks of the year, but I do know why I do it at Xmas. And by-the- bye, I’m only saying “Xmas” because I know it offends some persons who are too fucking stupid to learn why Xmas is not a sacrilegious word. I have found in my personal observations that those offended by the word Xmas are assholes.

And nothing pleases me more than offending assholes. Xmas, Xmas, Xmas!!!

As a child, Xmas was a magical time for me. While we weren’t yet wealthy we had way plenty, so my Xmas days were filled with toys and food and glad tidings. They were also filled with visits to the Baptist church for spacial Xmas lectures by Pastor Browningwell. But I’m speaking of my pre-rape childhood here, so I almost enjoyed church. Almost.

Anyway, as a kid I led a bountiful existence—I was loved, well fed and had plenty of toys and shit. This one Xmas eve, Granddad and Daddy took Sister and me to the hardware store to get something Gram and Mother needed. I think it was a bundt cake pan and all they had was a metal ring pan dealie, and the same one I used to make the buttermilk cake that Melanie found for me.

On our way to the store, there was an old pick-up truck stalled on the side of the Farm-to-Market road, and there were a dozen or so Hispanics standing around it. The hood was open and steaming, and the Hispanic men were all standing with their heads under the hood.

“Looks like those Mezkins need help,” Sister said. Sister had a slight speech problem with long words as a child so she shortened her big words. She meant no disrespect.

“Yep,” Granddad said. “Looks like we’ve got a Mexakin truck to tow this morning.” My grandfather grew up with the word Mexakin because he was a redneck. He meant no disrespect either, and these people took none.

We chained their truck to ours—an old flatbed that I still use—and we towed them to town to the repair shop. Three of the things about my father and grandfather that are ingrained in my soul happened that morning. The first was when Granddad told Mike, the mechanic, that, “Yes, you will fix the Mexakin’s truck this morning.”

Mike blanched at Granddad’s words but did the work. The second thing that became a deep impression on me was when Daddy pulled the wad of bills he had secreted inside his coveralls and gave several to Mike. Daddy always kept a personal stash hidden from Mother’s eyes. When I asked my father why he kept a wad of money hidden from his wife, he said to me, he said, “You’ll be learning soon enough, Mooner.”

The third of the three things I can still remember vividly from that Xmas eve was that nothing else was said about it. I mean other than saying, “I hope that old truck makes it to California,” the paternal units of my family didn’t mention a thing to a soul about their good deed.

Sister and I, of course, carried on and on about the sweet pecan candy we were given by the little girl on her way to California. She had a little patch of cloth wrapped around several cookie-sized discs of the homemade candy that is a traditional Mexican sweet. I could tell that her little stash was as prized as my father’s, and she gave of it to us as freely as Daddy gave of his.

OK, look. I’m way off the reservation. This was supposed to be where I announce to you the next award to my Bloggie Roller. I’m installing Melanie over there ====}}}}}} to the Bloggie Roller today. I was going to do this several weeks ago but I decided I needed to try the buttermilk cake recipe she gave me before doing so. See, Melanie posts a recipe with every installment over there, and what if her recipes turned out to be shitty?

Wait. That would be an unfair assessment if a recipe turned to shit under my care. Following a recipe is one of the things I do worst. But the Squirt helped me with the recipe and Gram gave me one of her, “Will you fucking pay attention, Mooner” mushroom potions. The cake was incredible.

Melanie is a working mom who home-schools her kids. She pulls a night shift in a hospital up in Michigan, schools and raises children, blogs like mad, and cooks like a maniac. She has the sharp wit, big heart and the twisted sense of humor that attract me to a woman. And the recipes she posts will make your mouth water.

Please go give her a look. You’ll be glad you did. Mel’s got kidney stones in addition to her regularly-scheduled life, so she can use your distractions.

Kisses and hugs, Mel.

Me, I’m headed to deliver that last slice of Mel’s cake to a sick buddy, drop Mr. Dave’s laundry at the cleaners for dry cleaning, and then I’ve got a shopping list of shit to purchase from Victoria’s Secret. I’m just glad Victoria’s Secret is having a half-off sale for all the naughties the half-off old women placed on the list.

I’m in serious need of a Carta Blanca beer, so let me go get my shopping done and get back here to drink. Manana, y’all.

“Pay It Backward”; Mooner Challenges The Pope

Monday, December 26th, 2011

 

So. Xmas is over and how grateful can we be for that? For all of you shitball right-wing Christians who think that my saying, “Xmas,” is sacrilegious, you dear morons know less about your own obsessions than do I. If you bothered to be certain that “Merry Xmas” is a blasphemous remark before shooting off your silly mouth and making threats upon my person, you’d have been saved the embarrassment of learning the truth post-incident. You’d have likewise escaped the case of puncture wounds to your upper thigh, said wounds perfectly matching the denture patterns of a certain half Chihuahua-half Whippet puppy.

Of course, if said shitballs bothered to check their facts before taking stupid positions on things, they wouldn’t even be right-wing Christian shitballs. They’d likely still be shitballs, but of some other variety.

See, Xmas is the shortened version of Christmas—a code name invented by the Greek Christians to evade additional torments at the hands of the anti-Christian tormentors of their time. The “X” in Xmas is the Greek letter for our C, so Xmas means Christmas, shitballs. It is the same fucking word.

Which reminds me. Did you guys see the Pope’s Xmas routine this year. As usual on Xmas day, his royal highness, La Popie, stood as nearly erect as possible at the golden alter in one of his chapels—as erect as one can stand when wearing fifty pounds of gold thread robes, gold trimmed hat and I’m sure a cutesy red thong—to deliver his annual Xmas mass message. There’s gold everywhere and thousands-of-dollars of fresh flowers ringing the alter area.

We can’t have the Pope seen without fresh flowers, you know, and maybe he should do squats to build his strength. I tried to stand straight holding a fifty-pound dumbbell and I’ll tell you that it requires a solid core strength.

The gold used to weave the finery and plate the alter, the scepters and other artifacts that set the scene of the Pope’s lecture are all items stolen from third world countries over the two thousand years we’ve had Catholics to plunder unfortunate civilizations. In the photo I saw from this Xmas, I bet there was $10 million worth of gold pictured in the cropped picture published in our paper.

I’m talking $10 million of the gold at the market price per ounce and not the value as art and artifact.

There he stood—twin sister of Queen Elizabeth—in the immaculate, perfect framing that only the Pope of the Holy Roman Catholic Church gets to use. And guess what the theme of his message just happened to be. Come on, guess.

His theme was “The over-commercialization of Xmas”[.]

That’s right, that pompous and silly shitball lectured the population of the entire world about our crass commercialization of the holiest of all Christian holy days while standing in and among 2,000-years worth of evidence that the Catholic Church is the crassest Christian organization in history. In response to the old Popster’s message, please allow me to post my response.

Dear Pope,

Hey buddy, how’s it hanging? I hope the holidays have been good to you and yours. Things here have been quite nice recently, thank you, and if God sent Mr. Dave my way to service this hen house, please tell him of my gratitudes.

The reason I’m writing you is that I saw some of your Xmas speech and was moved by your words. OK, I watched your lips move while a very manly robed man translated for you. The translator seemed to be working quite hard to keep his voice low and emotionless. He sounded like Anna the Amazon when she tries to sound like a man, and I’m concerned that she might be manly more than your translator. Look, we really don’t care if you guys are gay, or not. But when you work so hard at looking straight, you cause us to think that all of you are gay and hiding in the massive closets there to Popeville.

“Come out, come out, whoever you are!” Really, we do not give a shit. Maybe if you guys come out of the closet you’ll stop molesting children and take full responsibility for those already molested.

But I digress.

Look, dude. You crazy fucking Catholics invented the commercialization of Xmas. Your entire dealie has been to take everything valuable away from everyone you meet. Since your first years as a club, you started stealing some food, and then a few gold coins—you know, the ones with Caesar’s face stamped on one side—and then things escalated from there. You moved on to stealing people’s land, their gold and other valuables, their livestock and other worldly possessions, and then you started stealing the people themselves, making them your slaves.

You did all of this stealing of commercial goods and services in the name of Christ, or “X” as the Christian Greeks-in-hiding called Him. You, dear man, are the head high muck-a-muck of the organization that is the original instigator of all things crass and commercial about Xmas.

The way I see it you started it, so you stop it. I’ll even make you a deal. I’ll give back every single thing that my family has ever taken from any other person without paying that person full market compensation, if your church will do the same. I mean I’ll give back every single item from forever in the history of Johnsons. I’ll give back that Navajo rug my grandfather bought from that old lady up to Amarillo that one time. He paid $10 for a rug with a current market estimate of $20,000, and I’ll give it back to that old lady. If she’s not with us, I’ll seek out her heirs and give it to them. I’ll give back the the quarter I stole from Mother’s purse when I was seven.

Hell, Mr. Pope, I’ll take Mr. Dave back over to the old folks home and tell him to stay there.

I’ll do that if you return all of the shit you guys have stolen. And if you do it and I do it, I bet we can get a whole bunch of other people to do it. We’ll call the movement “Paying it backwards” and then Steven Spielberg will make a movie out of it and let me write the screen play. We’ll get Jeff Bridges to play me and Chelsea Handler to play SAC Ellen.

OK, wait. SAC Ellen might prefer Sandra Bullock to play her part. Sandra already has experience playing a federal agent. Of course that was the FBI and it was a comedy role. If it was ten years ago, I’d say let’s cast Sharon Stone in the role. SAC Ellen is as steamy hot as I used to imagine Sharon Stone to be.

You claim to be close to God, talk to him for me. You share the same God with the Jews, right? Steven Spielberg is a religious guy from what I hear. I’ll bet he’ll give all of his stolen stuff back too.

Anyway, I just want you to know that you come across as an insincere and ludicrous sack of shit when you do things like that. You know, when you get pissy with the rest of us when we use Christ as an excuse to collect material things. You invented it, and perfected it long before the rest of us gained enough civilization to have any fucking disposable income to waste on fruit cake, Air Jordon sneakers and Xmas lights.

I mean really, has this shit not ever crossed you mind? Dude. Give this a little thought. We could make a lot of money from this idea and not need to steal anything.

And hey, I’m in such a great mood I’ll let you steal this idea from me without any payment of thanks or credit. One last theft to make it all worthwhile.

So until next time…

Hugs and three of those silly European air kisses,

Mooner Johnson

I need to print this letter and go mail it to the Pope. I’ve got his address somewhere around here from when I wrote the last Pope guy about Catholics’ Nazi support back in the WWII. Grab yourself an icy Carta Blanca beer and I’ll see you manana, y’all.

Melanie’s Buttermilk Cake A Success; Mooner Weeps Tears Of Joy (Hopefully)

Saturday, December 24th, 2011

 

So. I want to take just a minute to do all the yakking I’m doing for today and Christmas day. I’ve got a houseful of happy and merry women, enough animals to fill a small zoo—like in that Matt Damon movie—and I’ve got myself a boarder that must be a sex robot.

I’ve made a doctor’s appointment for Mr. Dave for early next week. I can’t let anything happen to that gift from heaven. Squirt tells me I need to put him on a payroll for one of the companies so that I can get tax benefits for my covering his expenses. Me, I think I need to start a new business and put this boy on the street.

I want you to know that things here to the Johnson family ranch are happy, merry and quite peaceful. Notice I didn’t say silent. This place is like a hen house where all the hens are happy. I’ll swear some of these old bags are actually clucking.

But I most want to tell you about the Buttermilk Cake I baked with help from Melanie. She found the recipe for me. The cake is from my childhood, the recipe taken to the grave by its baker. But Mel dug it up and sent it to me. I somehow managed to get everyone but the animals out of the house yesterday afternoon, and we baked the cake.

First, please allow me to say that I now know why people buy boxed cake mix. I’m a good cook and cook often, but I’ve never been a baker. Baking requires precision of measurements, accuracy in the blendings, and following instructions. I am good with none of that. My ADHD won’t let me read an entire sentence straight through, and I can’t complete a four-step recipe without forgetting to separate the fucking egg.

But the Squirt was my able assistant and whip cracker, and we barged in. We got everything out and measured and organized. We almost emptied the cabinets of measuring devices doing so. We followed each step to a tee, and after an hour we had the finished cake batter. Which concerned me.

Oh, did I tell you that I intended to take pictures of each step? Since I forgot to tell the Squirt of that plan, I forgot to take photos as we went along. But I was happy with stuff until the cake batter was complete and ready to place in its bundt pan, or in my case a metallic two-piece ring mold dealie.

The batter was like very thick children’s’ paste—the kind we used to make with flour and water. I actually stuck the spatula in the batter and it stood at attention like a soldier. “Is that right, Mooner?” Squirt asked. “We could use that stuff to patch cracks in stucco.”

“I agree, little lady, but the instructions say, ‘spoon it into the pan,’ and not “pour,” so maybe this is as it should be.”

We put it in the oven to bake, and started fretting. “What if this fails, Mooner? I can’t have my first supervisory job be anything but a success.” The Squirt is, and has been trained to be, success oriented.

We watched and worried, and after thirty minutes we stuck the first toothpick into the cake. When it came out wet, I said, “Not yet, sweetie, let’s set the timer for five more minutes.”

It was still wet, and it took another five minutes to be all the way cooked. I removed it from the oven and placed it on a rack to cool, and my tear ducts opened like flood gates. In seconds my face was dripping onto the counter, the cake and Squirt’s little head as she got a close look at the cake.

“Oh for shit sakes, Mooner. You cry like a little girl over the silliest stuff.” Then, “Crikers, Mooner, you’re blowing snot bubbles. Get your ass away from my cake!”

Squirt is right. It’s entirely possible that I’m completely bonkers. But the cake is beautiful, and from the chunk I stole from the bottom and rubbed through the glaze bowl—perfect. It’s dense and buttery and chewy.

Thanks, Mel. When I get the chance to do so properly, I am placing you on my Bloggie Roller over there ====}}}}} in your place of honor. Here is a photo of the cake:

 

Happy and merry, and wishes for peace.

Clarifying Clarion’s Review: Full Rising Mooner Is Double Page-One Success

Friday, December 23rd, 2011

 

So. Let me first get my book stuff out of the way. The Squirt has agreed to not shit on any of my things if I spend fewer than three paragraphs on the book, not counting this paragraph wherein I describe the deal for her not so shitting. This first paragraph is introductory in nature and I’m not to be held accountable for any book bragging yet, if, I would suppose, that I don’t get carried away.

Now this paragraph will be the official start of sanctioned book bragging, and I’ll start bragging by saying that the link I gave you yesterday was to the page of my book’s review within Clarion’s website. When I gave you that link, I didn’t grasp the full purviews of things. I didn’t realize that the notice of my book’s review was on the actual first page of Clarion’s website! It appears that the first page of their website, Reviews Tab, posts six of their highest star rated books with recent reviews. Go and Google “Clarion Book Reviews” and then clicker to “Clarion” and hit the “Reviews” Tab. That’s a lot of clickers and apostrophes, but you can manage. If you can follow my thought streams you can forge that one.

There, in a prime spot on the first page of Clarion’s website, is my book Full Rising Mooner. Then, you can go down that page to see all the different categories Clarion reviews, where mine is under “Fiction- Humor” and again you can clicker that and find my book on page one once more!

I’m a doubled-up page one, four-of-five starred authorating sumbitch!

Having finished the authorized bragging, please allow me to say that the previously-discussed peace and harmonies continue, unabated, at Chez Johnson ranch. One of my errands for today is to revisit the Walgreens Drugstore to get a case of backup condoms for Mr. Dave because, as Gram put it, “Yer Aunt Hilda don’t wanna be runnin’ out on Christmas day.”

I’m guessing that Mr. Dave is spreading his Xmas cheer far and wide. And with exceedingly high frequencies. I didn’t count how many individual rubbers were in the case I bought earlier this week, but it had to be at least a gross, you know, 144 individual gold foil-wrapped goodies.

I can tell you that if I used 144 in a month I’d be needing back surgery and a semen transfusion, so me, I’m applauding the old geezer’s work ethic. A man has got to be in love with sex to do that much sexing.

When I return from errand running, the animals and I will start making goodies for Sunday’s meal. I’ll rub the big pork roast with my special Xmas rub and put it away to cure (I’m doing this sour cherry glaze for that), I’ll get the super-buttery scalloped potatoes together, and most importantly I’ll be baking the buttermilk cake that Melanie found the instructions how to bake for me.

Awkward sentence structure aside, I’m very fucking excited about the cake, and will be reporting on it herein, but at a later date. OK, wait a minute. Can I say “herein” as it will be herein, when it isn’t herein now, or even after I finish this bloggie posting and post it? I’m not coming back later and inserting the cake results herein, so that adds additional layers of confusion to my musings.

Try this. At a later time, I will tell you what happened with Melanie’s buttermilk cake instructions and I’ll post that posting here, in these pages. But not these specific pages, future pages.

Clarity is my middle name and communication is my game.

Anyway. My ADHD is in full DEFCON mode. I don’t know if that’s DEFCON ONE or FIVE whichever, but I can tell you that my brain is spinning with shit. That would be why I’m stopping now at fewer than 600 words before I confuse anyone.

Please check out my book in all the many places aforementioned, herein and hereout. Manana, y’all.

Clarion 4-Star Review Of Mooner’s Book; A Linkster

Thursday, December 22nd, 2011

 

http://www.forewordreviews.com/reviews/full-rising-mooner/

So. That little dealie up there ^^^^^ is the linkster to the Clarion book review for my book, Full Rising Mooner. Please click there and see that I did not lie to you and that I fully disclosed the verbiage herein last week.

To those naysayers among my readers, please allow me to say this, “Nanny-nanny boo-boo!”

Soon I will post herein my 30-second book trailer. I just approved the final and it is nifty. It’ll take a couple days for me to get it in a form I can share with you, but you guys will be the first I share it with.

I’m cracking an icy-cold Carta Blanca and celebrating. Manana, y’all.

Johnsons Form A Pack; Pact Comes Next

Wednesday, December 21st, 2011

 

So. There’s a sense of quiet here to the Johnson family ranch, a quiet that I’m starting to find unsettling. Until this week, my life was filled with the calming charms of bitchy women—the whining and complainings typical of a house full of women who know each other only too well.

When I made it to the kitchen to start breakfast at 6 am this morning, I walked into a scene from Betty Crocker’s test kitchens. It was like a TV crew’s arrival was expected to film the perfect breakfast as cooked by a half-dozen mature women. Save for Gram, each was in nice slacks and blouses and was well accessorized, each was in full makeup and each was working merrily. Harmoniously even, and maybe the right word back there would be “accessorated”[.] Maybe they had rings, bracelets, earrings, belts, scarves and other adornments and they were well accessorated.

Mother was at the sink washing pots and pans from whatever it was the others were cooking. She was humming the Baptist hymnal ditty “Love Lifted Me” and was singing the words each time she got to the “love lifted me” parts. I smelled cinnamon and Penelope Paxton-Parades was peeking in the oven, so I figured P-cubed was baking her special rolls, and hers are the best I ever had. Aunt Hilda was at the cook top putting a sweat on some veggies for an omelet, Gnat was beside her frying bacon and sausage. Gram and SAC Ellen were sitting at the big table—the SACster reading the slug of emails she’d already gotten on her laptop—and Gram was watching over the entire operation with a stern appraisal.

Gram and Ellen both had mugs of coffee and I took a sip of Ellen’s. “Ick, that’s pussy coffee. That tastes like old dishwater.”

My comment got me nothing but the sideways glance law enforcement officials learn to give offending perpetrators. “No problem,” I responded to the glance, “I know how to fix my own.”

I put the three heaping tablespoons of ground coffee bean powder into the single-cup filter system I use to make my own coffee, and pored hot water over that. As the liquid dripped through the filter into my cup I became mesmerized with the sound. It was the sound of a thing stream of liquid spilling into a small pond of liquid. You guys all know that sound, right.

It was also the sound made when Yoda pees after waiting six hours and isn’t peeing outside on the grass. “Hey everyone. Good morning to each of you, and thanks for fixing me this terrific breakfast. I feel like the king of my realm.”

“Ain’t fer you, ya little shitball,” Gram informed me. “This herd a ninnies thinks they can cook their way inta Davy’s pants. Harumph.”

Why was I so slow to catch on, and why was SAC Ellen in here with the others?

“We’re just glad to have a man around the house again, Gram, a man with manners and grace.” These words from my mother were said without a pause to the hymn humming. The only change in the humming was that it got louder after she spoke.

A man not me would take offense at Mother’s obvious slam on me with the “man-in-the-house-with-manners-and-grace” comment, but not me. I’m used to my mother’s distaste for all things me, and her tacky attempts to put me down.

“Maybe, said man can write me a check for the extra groceries and feminine hygiene products I’ve had to purchase this week. You crazy old broads are going to bankrupt me trying to get laid by a man I’m supporting. Why don’t we do a fucking lottery for Mr. Dave’s servicings and get my household back to normal.”

“I’ll take seconds on that one, Mooner. They’s all acting like school monkeys.”

I love how my grandmother fractures every tenet of grammar and prose. I could tell that Gram was getting cranky from all the harmony in the house. “Look,” I said, “you ladies need to not make this a competition or else this place is going to become a cat fight pit. I will not allow you to ruin Christmas with your fighting over a pecker.”

“Butcher Einstein Johnson!” Mother was raising her voice at me. “You go stick the Ivory soap in your mouth, and right… damned… now!”

“Oh pull tha stick out yer ass, Mother. Mooner’s right out about this. You girls are gonna fuck this dealie up fer all a us iffn ya don’t quit this shit.” Gram usually sees things my way.

Whoa, Nellie, and hold the horses. Let me pull the plug on this right here. I have been trying for three days to tell you about the new training methods we are employing to house train Yoda. He and the Squirt watched a program on the Animal Channel Monday and were impressed with much they saw. It was all about canines and their territorial pack mentality—how they organize their entire lives based on marked territories.

We three discussed it Monday at bedtime and it was decided that Yoda and I, as Alpha Males One and Two of our pack, would mark the ranch as our pack’s territory. This is a multi-step process that involves: 1. Pissing all over the place to mark our territory; 2. Forcing any interlopers away with extreme aggressiveness; and, 3. Sexing all the bitches we can find—me first and Yoda sloppy seconds.

I get to go first with the bitches as I would be Alpha Male Numero Uno. I would also happen to be the only un-neutered Alpha male in our pack. Not-neutered? But, we decided we wouldn’t worry about the bitches in Part 3. since Mr. Dave seems to have our bitches under control.

The Squirt’s takes on all of this are interesting. As a spayed and neutered female, and the Alpha Bitch of our pack, she has explained to Yoda and I both that our sexual advances are unwelcome. Not a problem for me but Yoda’s feelings are quite hurt. Her ideas about Mr. Dave caught me by surprise when she said, “Maybe I’ll see what all the fuss is about.”

Then there’s her observations as to Yoda’s total lack of sexing skills and knowledge. When I told her to not worry, she told me, “OK, big boy, show him how it’s done.”

Part 3. aside, parts 1. and 2. are going well but with mixed anticipations. Yoda and I have pissed on maybe the first hundred yards of the north property line, the shortest side of our 3,000 acres. I estimate that it will take five weeks for us to mark the entire thing, and I’ve scheduled that. As for the interloper dealie, we’ve managed to harass a couple armadillos, a raccoon, some snakes and lizards, and we chased a turtle off the dock. Yoda is cute as a button when he arfs and growls with his damaged voice box voice.

Our only failure was with the skunk that was sniffing around the tool shed out to the big garden. We discussed it and decided no harm/no foul, and let the skunk live. When Yoda and I returned to clean up after encountering the skunk, Squirt said, “ Tenemos que el nombre de nuestro paquete de, Bwana Mooner. I suggest ‘The Texas Stink Pack.’”

“Very funny, little lady, and we do need to name our pack.” She does have quite a sharp wit, our Miss Squirt.

We’re test driving a few names for our pack. “Terrier Terrors of Texas” and “Two Ten Pound Terrors and One Old Fart” are most favored. I made the mistake of telling the dogs that they could choose the name.

Honor, the fucking cat, does nothing to participate in these festivities save eying (eyeing?) us with a cat’s amusements. She feels no compulsions to join our dog pack nor does she want us to form a cat pack. Would it be a cat pack? Herd of cats, or a clutch? I don’t really give a shit if Honor doesn’t want one, whatever it’s name.

Anyway, before my ADHD takes us off-planet, let me say that I’m headed out for errands and the most important is to stock up on Carta Blanca beer for the weekend. Manana, y’all.

Burning The Extra Large Rubber; Mooner Buys Dave’s Condom Supply

Tuesday, December 20th, 2011

 

So. Things around here are moving quite smoothly if you ask me. Mr. Dave, the well-enhanced randy old geezer Gram kidnapped from the Whole Foods market is fitting seamlessly into the fabrics that are the Johnson family women. I’m not keeping score, but my mother would, if appearances bear true, be the only woman over forty to not yet bed Mr. Dave. Mother looks like a kid in a candy store every time she is in his proximity, but she still has that, “I didn’t get any candy yet” look.

My participation in the calming of my household to date has been to pay the living expenses of those sleeping under my roof, cook the dinners, and make a run to the big Walgreen’s pharmacy over to US 183. The one there to Braker Lane.

“Go ta tha one there to Braker Lane, Mooner. Git them Trojan Claudius Maximum jobbies. They’s holdin’ a case fer me at the back desk. Tell ‘um Ramoner sent ya,” were my Gram’s precise words. “An make sure they don’t try ta give ya any a them cut-rate jobbies. Dave needs the real thingies.”

“Who the hell is Ramona?”

I had to ask.

“Oh hell, Mooner, Ramoner’s that gal what was a guy what had that giant pecker an’ cut it off. Terrible waste a manhood. Me an tha P-cubed use ta do tha tag-teamer on ‘im.” My grandmother got a forlorn look in her eyes. “An then he decided he wanted ta be a girl. Said me an’ Penelope hepped him make his mind up.”

Like I said, I had to ask. And let me add, “Of course you and Penelope Paxton-Parades helped him decide.” I can only imagine the damage my Gram and the P-cubed could inflict upon a young man during a three-way.

After my shower with the dogs this morning, they wanted to watch the Animal Channel. We’ve been discussing how to help Yoda learn proper Johnson family potty habits. There was a special running on the Animal Channel about canines, so I turned the family room TV to that station and left them with it while I went to get SAC Ellen. The SACster has just returned from New York City where she helped review the City’s security plans for New Year’s Eve.

We sexed, and thoroughly at that, and made the stop at the Walgreens store. She said she needed a few things and would go in with me. I went to the back of the store to give my password code, “Ramona”[,] to whomever I found back there, while my lover worked her way around the store. I found a nice lady in the way-back at the pharmacist’s counter, “Louise” it said on her tag, so I said to her, I said, “Good afternoon, Louise, Ramona sent me for a package you’re holding.”

“Does this Ramona have a last name, sir? We sort everything here at Walgreens by last name.”

“Nope, just Ramona. You know, she called you to set aside a package for me to fetch for my grandmother?”

“I don’t know anything about a package, mister.” Things weren’t as seamless here as at home.

“Well,” I said, “would anyone here know about a package for Ramona?”

“Hey, Gertie, you got a package for a Ramona somebody or this guy’s grandmother?” This was yelled, basically, at a plump woman doing stock work maybe six aisles away.

“Only Ramona I know,” Gertie blasts back at Louise, “is that real nice young man who had us special order those real big rubbers. Oh, wait, there’s also that Ramona on that Housewives TV show.”

Gertie looked somewhat perplexed for a second, then added, “Except I’ve seen that TV Ramona’s husband, and he don’t need no giant sized rubbers. I got a nose for that kind a deal.”

Now Gertie is walking my way, staring at my crotch with a lazer-eyed stare with every step. “Move your hands, mister. It don’t look like you need the big’uns but I can’t tell for sure until you move your hands. I can help you choose the right size for maximum pleasure.”

“OK, look, ladies, like I said, they aren’t for me… I mean it isn’t that I wouldn’t buy that kind if I was buying for myself, but, well, these are for Dave, the guy from over to Wortham’s Sanctuary. He’s staying at my place and is in need of a supply.”

“Oh,” said Louise and Gertie simultaneously.

Then Louise said, “I was wondering why he wasn’t there to sign for his order Friday afternoon. It was my turn to deliver his order to Wortham’s.”

“Well, I’m here to pick up his order.”

The ladies giggled at some private joke between them. Louise rang up the sale while Gertie fetched the condoms. Gertie returned with a large double-shoe box sized carton that had “Trojan Magnum XL- Extra Large Condoms” emblazoned all over it in bold black lettering. I guess a man who needs extra-large rubbers likes to advertise the fact.

I had Louise put the $400+ charge on my AmEx card. This was when I caught a glimpse of SAC Ellen, as I was signing the credit slip. She stood off to my blind side with her basket clutched in both hands and a smile creasing her face ear-to-ear.

“I’m a Special Agent in Charge for US Homeland Security, ladies,” Ellen said as she walked over and flashed her badge. Have you completed your transaction with this man?”

“Yes,” from Gertie, and, “All I need to do is wrap this box for him, sir,” from Louise.

“Don’t worry about the box, ma’am. I’m going to quietly walk this man to the front of the store, pay for my purchases, and take him away. Please don’t alarm anyone. He’s harmless as long as he doesn’t open that box inside your store. Once that box is open…”

The ladies gasped. Gertie said, “Be careful Special Agent. He does look dangerous.”

SAC Ellen grabbed me by my shoulder and said, “Pick up the box, Mr. Johnson, and please follow me. And bear in mind that I have a stun gun issued me by the federal government and I know how to use it.”

She perp-walked me to the front, hand held on her tazer harness all the way. When we got to the front she said, “Will you stand there quietly sir, or do I need to cuff you to that rail?”

“I’ll be good,” I answered.

This was fun. Everybody sort of stood away from us but not too far. A crowd of people was gathering, looking between the fancy federal agent—purchasing mouthwash, toothpaste, deodorant, cotton Coet Pads, and a large bottle of KY Warming Lubricant—and me, as I held a case of super-duty rubbers.

She paid her bill, turned to me and pointed, and said, “You- in the car,” and she perp-walked me to the car.

When we got to my GTO, parked twenty spaces from the door to protect it from getting dinged, SAC Ellen said, “Get in the passenger side, sweetie. We don’t want to break the spell now.”

I don’t know if there is a federal agent anywhere in America who drives a 1967 GTO to work, but it didn’t seem to matter to the crowd at Walgreens as they followed us all the way out. The SACster started the car with her set of keys and burned rubber as she took off. After a block she started laughing and then me too.

“Oh my goodness but I needed that.” SAC Ellen has been going almost constantly for months and she really needs a break. “Did you see that one lady eyeballing you?

“I think that was the lady I told about last summer when I got tazered at the Barnes and Noble Bookstore.” I’d gotten tazered while doing research in the kiddies book section.

We rehashed the prank from one end to the other and laughed it up at length. The condom box was sitting between us and my curiosity got the best of me. “I’ve never seen one of these things, let’s take a look.”

I opened the box with my pocket knife, and cut one condom from its sleeve. It was in a gold foil-wrapped disk about the diameter of a bread plate. I cut the foil and pulled the condom free.

“Holy shit,”I exclaimed, “I can fit my foot in this fucking thing!” I wear a size thirteen wide shoe.

I stuck my hand inside the rubber and rolled it up my arm where it stopped just short of my elbow. “Holy shit,” was about all I could say. My mind started wandering to just exactly what was going on in my household with an old man in residence who needed, and could still use, the condom on my arm. I began to worry that the Johnson women would fall behind on their chores.

Ellen kept glancing sideways at the big condom as she drove us home. “How old is this guy Dave anyway?” she asked me.

“I need a Carta Blanca,” I answered.

Please think about purchasing my book from over there ===}}} Manana, y’all.

Mooner Finds Solution At Whole Foods; Trolls With Dried Figs

Monday, December 19th, 2011

 

So. When I signed off yesterday, Mother and Gram had left for church leaving me in charge of things. Being left in charge of things is normally routine, but our routine is usually sans a randy old fucker with a Japanese eggplant pecker, Grade-A Extra Large, and the excessively high progesterone levels the ladies of the abode have been exhibiting this holiday season.

In honor of old Dave, the giant-peckered old fucker above-mentioned, I’m making this eggplant and turkey cutlet lasagna I invented for tonight’s dinner. I use thin layers of crusty-fried turkey and eggplant rather than pasta and if I must say so myself, it is a downright yummy use of ingredients.

I went to Whole Foods yesterday to shop for last night’s and tonight’s meals, and decided to take Gram’s little red Ferrari. It had stopped raining and I felt like winding through the gears of my grandmother’s little 550-horsepower hot rod.

The Baptist girls were home from church and they gathered with the rest of us in the kitchen before I left. I always take requests before shopping because I hate to hear, “Don’t we have any_____,” and then fill in the blank.

The list was complete and as I had my hand on the door knob to leave, Gram sidled up to me and pulled my head down to whisper to me. “Here,” she said, as she placed a paper in my shirt pocket. “You go stand in tha dried fruit an jerky section there to tha Whole Foodies and show that to any nice men ya see just a hangin’ out.”

I started to reply but she whisked me out with a, “Now git,” and a swat to my bottom. When I managed to get myself seated in the little sports car and start the engine, I pulled my shopping list and whatever it was that Gram gave me from my pocket. I always like to let the car warm up before taking off so that I can take off fast.

The papers in my hand were the list, and a glossy photo of my Gram standing beside this self-same Ferrari in a leather outfit of black with red piping. She was doing that “come here” dealie you do with your forefinger, a wolfish smile on her face. It seems the randy old gasbag who mothered my father was asking me to shop for men who hang out with dehydrated food stuffs at the Whole Foods market over to the Arboretum.

I guess randy old men shop for women at the grocery store same as younger randy men. Me, I’ll hang around the melon section or over with the avocados. I like my ladies not too skinny and round on top. After an encounter with a plump-crotched lady in the avocado section at the Sprouts store this one time, I also find the hunting good in the guacamole pit. We men look for reflections of the women we seek in our chosen sections of the store.

I’ve seen my grandmother nekid, regrettably, and the dried foods section is where I’d shop if I was looking for Gram. I saw her unclothed last summer when she and her best buddy P-cubed picked up some Texas A&M engineering students. The animals and I were all fishing on the dock when the girls brought their captives outside for some sunlight and fresh air. I was treated to the sight of both Gram and P-cubed’s nekidnesses when they decided to take the boys skinny dipping.

I know I should have diverted my eyes, but could you look away if you saw an airplane crashing from the sky?

Anyway, it’s raining again this Monday morning and I still feel pretty good about things. SAC Ellen flies in at noon, so she’ll be having dinner—after a little afternoon sexting delights—and then we’ll be headed to a Christmas party at eight. The stuff being done for the four-of-five stars Clarion reviewed book are still going well, and so is Yoda’s trainings.

He and I were in the shower with the Squirt today after breakfast discussing how I can assist him to learn to not pee anywhere but in the sink or outside, and how to only shit outside. I let the dogs shower with me whenever they want and also whenever I want them too. But no new theories came up in the discussion.

After the shower, I turned the Animal Channel on the TV in the living room and went to get SAC Ellen from her place. She’d left her car at the airport since her schedule is so flighty, and wanted to freshen up before I got there.

OK, wait a big fucking minute because I am fixing to go waaayyy off the reservation. The point of this entire writing today is to tell you that a vote was taken at dinner last night, and Mr. Dave has been invited, and here I’ll specifically quote the language of the proposed vote, “That Mr. Dave be invited to stay awhile to keep the ladies of the house company.”

The vote was fourteen “yeas” and one “abstained” and the abstained was Mother. But her abstention was done with a coquettish smile and flutter of eyelashes in Mr. Dave’s direction. “A proper Baptist lady would never ‘vote” for such a thing,” was my mom’s explanation for witholding her approvals.

“Oh, fer shitsakes, woman, git tha fuck over yerself. I’ll share ‘im.” My grandmother actually won’t share. She’ll get tired of old Dave and move on. She’ll likely come back to him during a dry spell, but she’ll pass him along for sure.

And me, I’m glad to have another man around to soak up the hormones. When things get bitchy at the Chez Johnson ranch, I’ll have a man to share the burdens, tote the bales.

So please, everyone, hoist your Carta Blancas on high with me, and toast to Mr. Dave. Manana, y’all.

Mooner’s Xmas Arrives Early; Things Go Swimmingly

Sunday, December 18th, 2011

 

So. As I’ve said on these pages many times before, Sunday morning breakfast is the grandest of the week’s breakfasts here to Chez Johnson. Every occupant of the house—whether live-in or visiting—is required to be at least partially clothed and sitting at the table at 8 am for breakfast. We convene at eight so that we can get our breakfasting completed in time for Mother and Gram to make it to church for the start of Sunday School.

Baptists, practicing Baptists, are big on Sunday School. Indoctrinate early and often is the backbone of Baptist dogma.

In attendance at today’s Sunday breakfast were only live-ins, plus one. The plus-one is Gram’s date, a spindly old fucker she corralled at Whole Foods Friday afternoon when she went there to shop for me. I gave her a list of an even-dozen items I needed to make the buttermilk cake that Melanie is teaching me how to bake. I’m getting ready to put Melanie over there to the Bloggie Roller, but I figure I’d better see how this cake turns out before doing so. Just in case.

Anyway Dave, Dave is his name, had gone over to the Whole Foods to find a natural or herbal remedy to cure the limp pecker that has recently turned him from being known as Big Dick Dave, the rest home Lothario, to Limp Dick Dave, the old fucker with bad breath up to room 314. Seems the broads at Wortham’s Sanctuary for the Aged get pretty cranky when they don’t get their sexing as regularly scheduled.

Dave’s standing there in the “medical” section of Whole Foods looking like, as Gram tells it, “He looked like he’d just lost his dog and didn’t know what ta do. Had lumps an bumps an scratches all over his noggin.” It also seems that the old broads whacked Dave with their canes when he couldn’t deliver.

Gram said, “I’m there lookin fer yer contrafectcha-ornary sugar, Mooner, and there he was. At first I though he had a wine bottle in his drawers. I said to him, I say, ‘Looks ta me like yer packing some serious meat in them drawers, mister. You like buttermilk cake?’”

“Then ole Dave says ta me, ‘Well, miss, I was looking for an older gentleman to assist me with something to cure my impotency, but these workers are all young women. I’m not about to discuss my flaccid penis with a young woman.’”

That’s when I got a call from Gram asking me to plan for one more plate at Friday’s supper. “Ya need ta fix a extra pork chop, Mooner. Ole Dave here’s got him a man-sized pecker that done broke down on him, an’ I got some nursin’ ta do.”

Breakfast this morning was, at Gram’s request, a carb-filled setting. I’m guessing that between her medicine cabinet filled with chemical enhancements, a closet full of toys, and what I can only describe as my grandmothers endless capacity to get sexually satiated, Gram got Dave back in the wood. Otherwise, Dave would have been taxied home long before eight this morning.

I’ve been in a somewhat festive mood recently. I’ve met some interesting people, had some good meetings and worked on book stuff. When I say “book stuff” I’m speaking, of course, about stuff I’m required to do as the author of a four-of-five stars Clarion reviewed book. Said book, Full Rising Mooner, is available by clicking to the linksters over there ====}}}} on my Bloggie Roller.

Said book stuff is going nicely. The book launch party Evite invitation went out and folks are already RSVP responding to come. The fine folks at Badgerdog Literary Publishing haven’t pulled out on me as recipients of all the profits from book sales at the launch party, and all of the other plans are going swimmingly.

Which reminds me. Why, in the fuck, do we say “things are going swimmingly” when things are moving along nicely? There’s something intrinsically wrong with that.

Anyway. I’m sitting with family and friend at breakfast this am feeling pretty good about stuff. “Well, everybody,” I started, “since I’ve got everything I want for Xmas, how about you each say what you want. Let’s start with Aunt Hilda and Dubbie-J.”

For those of you new to the giant cauldron of content swill that is Moonerville, Dubbie-J is a shrunken head in a mahogany box, and Aunt Hilda’s constant companion. The full background story is contained in the pages of the afore-mentioned four-of-five stars Clarion reviewed book, Full Rising Mooner.

“Well,” Aunt Hilda said. “Dubbie-J wants a soft wool turtleneck sweater to keep the chill off his neck. And me, I want a man. Why does Gram get all the men?”

Why, indeed.

“Oh don’t worry, Hilda, I’ll go back to tha store this afternoon an’ find you a fella. Gotta git Dave some vitamins anyhows, might as well git you a fella while I’m there. What kind ya want?”

I could tell this conversations was wearing on my mother, so I broke in. “How about you, Mother?” This, asked by me with an internal shudder.

“Well you know I’ve always prayed for world peace, Mooner, and you…”

Oh crap, I know what’s coming next. “How about you, Gnat?” I broke my mother off before she could go on. “What heads your list this year?” I asked my able assistant.

“Butcher Einstein Johnson!” Mother almost yelled. “How dare you interrupt your mother when she is speaking. I raised you far better than to do that. Why God burdened me with you I’ll never know. I pray every night for God to tell me what it is I did to deserve you for a son. Why I, I…”

“Oh fer shitsakes, Mother, will you shut yer whiny-ass yapper? God gave ya Mooner to see if’fn he could git that stick out yer ass. Now pass me them buckwheat wafflies. Dave here needs ‘em ta reconsterbate tha cellulite in his pecker.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus, save me from all of these Johnsons.” This prayer I call “Mother’s martyred Lament”[.]

“Well, Mrs. Johnson,” Dave began, “with your mother-in-law’s assistance I’ve managed to get my penis fully operational again. I’d be happy to visit your room later and make you feel better.” With this, old Dave pulled the leg of his sweat pants tight to give my mother a look at the outline of his pecker.

Now me, if ever I saw a sign from God, this might have been it. My father died many years ago and to my best knowledge, Mother has been chaste ever since. Hell, to hear Daddy talk, Mother has been chaste for the last thirty years. When my mother glanced down at the outline in Dave’s crotch, she placed her hand over her heart and said, “Oh my.” And then she just sat there with her mouth open.

“Ain’t gonna be no sharin’ Dave around here til I’m finished with him. You can have ‘im manana iffn he can still walk.”

Sometimes presents come your way from the strangest places. My mother said not one more word at breakfast and she even stuck around to help clean up. I noticed her sneaking peeks at old Dave, and coyly so. When she and Gram were leaving for church, Mother came into my office. She was in a frilly dress and heels, and was wearing eye shadow. I haven’t seen my mother in eye shadow since daddy died.

“Now Mooner, you take good care of Mr. Dave while we’re gone. Don’t make him do anything too strenuous—he’s been ill, you know.” Saying that, she turned to walk out of the room. But she whipped around quickly and added, “And keep your Aunt Hilda away from him. He’s not all the way healed quite yet.”

Take good care of him? I’m buying the man a back brace and heading to the seafood distributor for a sack of oysters.

I’m going to need some extra psycho therapy this week. Been sitting here hoping that my grandmother shares her man with my mother. Like that swimmingly dealie, I think there is something intrinsically wrong with that.

Manana, y’all.

Dog Training Blues: Yoda Screws The Pooch

Thursday, December 15th, 2011

 

So. What a day. It’s been raining, sprinkling actually, for the entire week, and the furry little shitbird we call Yoda is a hot mess. The little half Chihuahua/half whippet can’t stand to get his little tootsies wet, so our visits to the great outdoors for him to make doggy piles are problematic.

For me, problematic, but not for Yoda as he says to me, “No problemo por mi, I’ll just take a giant smelly dog shit on one of your nice rugs.” That would be the Squirt’s translation of Yoda’s whispers and grunts. The owners of the puppy mill he was born into choked him and damaged his voice box, so every noise he makes is muted.

He mostly pees in the sink with Squirt, Honor and me, and, “No, Gene, I didn’t need to pee when I was at your place, so you needn’t worry about your pretty, spotless bathrooms.” I would have peed in your sink and for all of the right reasons had I needed.

I say Yoda mostly pees properly because he has taken to strike back at me when I make him go out into the rain. I take him out any time he gets up after we go to bed, and last night he woke me just as my own pee alarm started ringing. So I picked him up and put on my slippers and the two of us, nekid saving the aforementioned slippers, slid outside into the drizzle.

I love getting rained on and especially nekid when the weather is warm like now. I walked the little rat out into the grass and set him down. He said something that sounded a lot like “asshole” and he took a few steps away. Like I said, I needed to ease the pressures on my own bladder so I shut my eyes to pee. I always shut my eyes at night so that I can ease the muscles that control bed wetting in adult male humans.

I’m standing there for a few seconds before starting, start, and release a nice stream. I realize quickly that my leg is getting warm and I immediately suspect that my anxious flow has diverted from the grass to my leg. I stopped peeing, wiggled my pecker to get things back on track, and then realized that the warmth was continuing to spread.

My first reaction to this was panic—panic that my prostate had finally exploded and I’d lost bladder control. My eyes shot open and I looked down to see Yoda, giant shit-eating grin plastered to his rain-soaked face, peeing on my leg.

Would somebody please remind me why it was that I saved this white-furred mess from the gallows. If I’d been saved by some nice man in Texas and removed from an existence living in a cage two sizes too small in Oklahoma, where they beat and choked me routinely, I’d… well, I at least wouldn’t piss on the nice man’s leg. In his shoes or on any clothes he might drop on the floor, but never right on him. Unless, of course, the nice man liked it.

As punishment, I made Yoda stand outside with me until he shit and the rain washed my leg clean, both. I almost fell asleep on my feet several times before he did his duty and we returned to bed.

“Ce qui pue?” Squirt asked as I snuggled back under the covers.

“Yoda pissed on my leg and I guess it’s still in my slipper.” I got up and put the slipper outside to further wash and returned to bed again.

“Serves you right, asshole.”

I love my little puppies, the both of them. But sometimes I want to send them back to their puppy mills. Squirt, an already fully-trained dog, has been shitting on my stuff every time she thinks my ego gets out of whack over the four-of-five stars book review I got from Clarion. I’ll admit to a swelled (swollen?) ego and maybe an over-swelled ego. But you tell me. If you had written a book of 400+ pages and your book had been given a four-of-five stars review by Clarion, would you be proud?

OK, unless you’d written dozens of books—all five-of-five stars—then you’d be mighty proud of your four stars. Hell, four stars are all even the finest hotels can get, and chefs shit their pants when they even get one Michelin star. I’m a great cook and I’d be proud to get a Michelin star, but I’m way more proud of my four stars for writing.

Hell, for that matter, I actually think I’m pretty hot stuff. How many other authors do you know who have four-of-five Clarion stars reviews? None I bet. Special is as special does.

I need to go. Squirt just left me a load over by the door, and she had a sweet bean tamale for lunch. But do me a favor. Go over there ===}}} and click on the linksters for Full Rising Mooner. See what all the fuss is about. Manana, y’all.

Mooner Falls Victim To Stellar Book Review; Requires Psycho Therapies

Wednesday, December 14th, 2011

 

So. I’ve got quite a few things to cover with you and not enough time to adequately do so, and the net results herein are likely going to be only partially satisfying. For all of us. With that in mind, I’ll do my best to provide clear concepts and information in such manners as to be at my most informative. I do this for you guys and at terrible personal costs, as I am a very busy man.

OK, stop the fucking presses. Could I be any more self absorbed and egomaniacal? Is egomaniacal even a word? Is now, because that is what I’ve become since getting a four-of-five-stars review from Clarion. I’ve become that stuffy, effete asshole who wrote a book and suddenly became someone of importance and too involved with his own importance to be anything other than an asshole.

Next thing you know I’ll be speaking with a Hamptons’ accent and ordering Campari cocktails with a twist. Saying, “my good man,” and calling everyone “Daaahhhling”[.]

Squirt told me she was going to start shitting in or on something of mine each time I act like an asshole over the review. I didn’t take her seriously until maybe a half-hour ago. Does anyone know if fleece-lined leather slippers are machine washable?

But I’m too busy, really, with the ever-growing list of chores and errands with which I’m burdened here at the end of the year. In addition to the routine errands and chores I suffer as the Johnson family patriarch, I’m involved with the planning of the big Book Launch Party for my four-of-five-stars rated book, I’m busy setting meetings and taking lunches with executives with the big book sellers negotiating for shelf space in their retail outlets, and I’ve been working my fingers to the bone on the I-net as I try to run down Jeff Bridges. Yes, that Jeff Bridges.

It has been suggested, and often, that Mr. Bridges was born to play the part of Mooner Johnson in the series of movies to be based upon my life, and starting with Full Rising Mooner. I think Jeff Bridges is a great choice if he’ll allow me to give him some coaching. He has a great, a great instrument, but he’ll need some fine tuning to get me right.

Maybe we can get Justin Beeber (Beaber, or mayhaps Beber?) to play me as an adolescent. I think Justin’s image would get a huge boost from portraying me as I learn to masturbate with Ivory soap, and he can show his acting chops in the gripping scene where my Baptist Deacon Boy Scout Leader rapes me at Aquatic Camp.

Wait a second. The Squirt just lowered her ass over my keyboard to take a shit.

This four-of-five-stars review business is heady stuff but I’ve got a life to run here. SAC Ellen, for those of you who have asked about her, has been missing in action. For terroristic reasons, terrorists like to ply their trades during holidays and this time of year is the mother of holiday seasons. My sweet baboo has been flying around the country in a cross hatch pattern that is mystifying. When I last saw her for a conjugal visit, I suggested that a random pattern computer had assumed the role of her scheduler. She spent the days, or parts of days last week, in Austin, Minot in the Dakotas, Kenner in Loosyanna, San Diego, St. Louis, back to the Fargo area of the Dakotas, and finished her week as she landed in Floriduh late Saturday night.

We got Skype installed on our computers so that we can have some near sex together, but I’m finding Skype sex not nearly satisfying. I’m better off with nothing but my Ivory soap and a little imagination than with Skype. When I’m not too bus with my book I’ll do some serious thinking on the whys of that dealie.

And did you hear that The Donald canceled his personal presidential debate? Waaaaa. Wa-wa waaaaaaa. Poor Donnie. At least I’m not as egomaniacal as that shitball.

I had two psycho therapy sessions yesterday—one regularly-scheduled and one special session due to my having become an asshole over my four-of-five-stars Clarion book review—and I found them both quite unsettling.

“Mooner, the reason everyone is calling you an asshole is because you ARE and asshole. That’s both an opinion and a diagnosis,” said Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my therapist and first of ten ex-wives. “You got lucky with the review, Mooner, and found that one in a million person who wrote it.”

Bitch.

“Why are you such a bitch over this, Sammie? You haven’t even read Full Rising Mooner.”

“I have read it, or some of it,” her response, and delivered with a snappiness that caught my radar.

“Well?” I questioned.

“Well what?”

I rarely see evasion in the quite lovely woman who is my ex-wife. When I do, it usually means she’s withholding something. Something that she wants to hide from me.

“Come on, spit it out. What did you think?”

The good doctor turned her pretty face from me and looked at the floor under her feet. She whispered and mumbled something under her breath.

“What was that? All I heard was the word ‘admit’” I asked. “Come on, out with it.”

“Oh alright, if I must. I’m about half way through, you know where you tell the story of Mother zipping your penis into a metal zipper. It’s embarrassing to say, but I like it. And don’t you dare print this on that silly website of yours. I’ll never live it down if my colleagues hear about it.”

The zipper story deals with one of the most painful times in my life, but it isn’t often that I have a chance to benefit from my relationship with Sam I. Am. OK, except for the help she gives me with my mental illnesses and her continued love and support. But me, I take ‘em where I gets ‘em, so you read it here first folks, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson- psycho therapist super star of Austin, Texas, likes my book. My four-of-five-stars rated book, Full Rising Mooner.

Hoo-yaa.

“But you are becoming an asshole, Mooner, and your psyche can’t stand the additional pressure.”

That was the unsettling part of that session—the special session. Her telling me I can’t handle pressure. The second, regular session involved a discussion about my inability to say “No!” to people who ask me for, or to do things.

“Look, Mooner. You are one of the sweetest and caring people I know, but you’re crazy and have no boundaries. You have such a terrible case of guilty conscience that you feel you can only make better by doing anything asked of you. Better stop. Remember what happened last time you over-committed at Christmastime?”

Oh yea, I remember with crystal clarity. “Oh yea, I remember. I over committed on promises and you committed me to stay over at the loony bin.”

Bitch.

“You got so frazzled that you dissociated, sweetie. They called me to come get you from the Whole Foods Market. You’d been standing in front of the organic cantaloupe display for hours and saying, ‘Does anybody know if these are good for male impotence?”

I was having a little problem due to all the pressures and deadlines caused by my over-committing that holiday season. “I hear you. I’ll work on it,” I told her.

Ugh. I’ve somehow managed to fuck things up. Again. I don’t know what it is about me that I keep getting myself into this mess. I mean other than the ADHD, the ADD and that little obsessive-compulsive thingie. And all the promises I’ve made to people.

But what does Dr. Sam expect me to do. I’ve written a wildly popular book, my family depends on me and people know that they can count on me to deliver. I have a reputation to maintain, a good reputation.

Wait a minute.. Do I smell dog shit?

I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

Hitler Bashed Gays Too; Think, Republicans, Please Think

Tuesday, December 13th, 2011

 

So. Republican presidential candidates, I have a message for you. Enough gay bashing already. Your pandering to the lunatic fringes of the far right are getting downright nasty.

And stupid.

You had better be careful from here on out as gay folks, and supporters of gay folks, are starting to tire of your antics. My sister and her wife, my ex number three appropriately named Anna the Amazon, were over to dinner last night and the subject arose.

“Why are they targeting us as the cause of all things rotten in American society?” Sister asked the table. “You’d think that at least Newt the Gingerbread Man would stand up for his own lesbian sister.”

“Now don’t you be speaking ill of Speaker Newt, Sister,” the woman I find myself calling “Mother” said. As I mature and improve my mental health through extensive psycho therapy, I find myself wondering if this woman actually birthed me from scratch.

“What?” Sister was trying to maintain mealtime decorum but her eyes were starting to bulge from their sockets. “Are you going to defend a man who ridicules his own sister’s lesbianism when he himself fooled around on his sick wife and then divorced her as she was dying in the hospital?”

When Mother failed to answer, my sweet and lovely lesbian sister said, “Really, Mother? You will defend that lying sack of dog shit, that evil… fucking… man…”

Anna reached across the table and patted Sister’s hand. “Your mother means well, honey, she just doesn’t have perspective as we do.”

“She doesn’t have a fucking conscience except for what Pastor Browningwell tells her to think. That idiot at the church still thinks you catch homosexuality, like a cold. Jesus Christ, Mother, will you ever learn to think for yourself?” Sister was pissed but hurt too, as only a child can be hurt by a calloused parent.

“Yer mother’s a asshole, Sister, don’t pay her no mind. Now pass them taters and let’s talk about what we want Mooner ta fix fer Christmas dinner.” Gram has a way that usually kills talk on unpleasant subjects, but not last night.

“Look, Mother Johnson,” Anna began, “you don’t really believe all of that hooey that homosexuals make a choice to be gay, do you? Do you actually believe that I chose to fall in love with your daughter while I was married to your son?”

Now let’s take a short pause in the storyline at this point because I have often wondered about this myself. Not that I think Anna chose to fall in love with Sister while married to me, but all of the whys and wherefores of that dealie were quite confusing to me when they happened. Many gay people get married before either coming out of the closet, or recognizing they were in the closet.

Anna was one of the latter, and I wonder which Dr. Marcus Bachmann will turn out to be. Anna knew she liked girls but didn’t know she was gay until she met Sister. Sister was traveling in Europe for a year and was, therefore, not around when Anna and I courted and wed. Not that marriage to Anna wasn’t wonderful, but I firmly believe that I would have but nine ex-wives at this point if Anna had met Sister first.

Before dinner last night, my mother had a bunch of her Baptist church ladies over for “tea”[.] Baptist lady tea is not actually tea at all. Mother and her buddies consumed six pitchers of my world famous Margarita’s made with Hornitos tequila and fresh-squozed lime juice. I love saying “squozed” rather than squeezed. They also ate about a gallon of my garlicky guacamole with salsa we canned back in May.

The drought and super-high temps killed my garden this year and out tomatoes burned out in late May, a first.

Pastor Browningwell’s wife was there, Leticia is her name, and the six women all came in the big van the church uses to haul kids around. Margaret Jenkins was the designated driver and since Leticia was there, I doubled-up on the tequila in the drinks. Mrs. Browningwell was my Spanish teacher for several years of my schooling and we have a history. Yesterday was maybe the twentieth time I have gotten her shit-faced drunk and sent her back to the church. This time with a drunk’s nasty garlic breath.

A humble man seeks his pleasures as they find him.

I went out to the drive to welcome the ladies when they arrived. “Welcome to the Johnson family ranch, ladies,” I said. “Come on in and make yourselves to home.”

“Well, well well,” Leticia said, sarcasm dripping off each well. “Everyone get a good look at Mooner here, friends. God will be striking him down quite soon I think. Let’s hurry inside for some tea before the storm clouds move in.”

I have been somewhat sacrilegious lately in some folks eyes and I’ve caught some hell for it. When politicians use their supposed religious beliefs to beat and batter already oppressed people, I find myself thatwise moody. The word is “thatwise” right? The opposite of otherwise?

But I was in a fiesty mood yesterday afternoon so I said back, “Oh, Letecia Browningwell, you silver fox you. Why don’t you ditch that boring old preacher so you and I can make a run together. I’ve been in love with you ever since I was in seventh grade, and you a handsome young woman.”

The other ladies all giggled at that remark, so I thought to add, “You know you want me. How about I change my sheets and get the tazer gun charged up?”

Anyway, by dinnertime Mother was wearing a buzz and forgot to put on her tact. “You two listen here. You have absolutely no idea the pain I suffer at your hands, the indignations that I quietly endure because you two are queer.”

I told you the Baptists like to call gays queer.

“How do you think it makes me feel when everyone at church knows that my daughter is a homo (gulp) sexual, and now she is married to my (another, larger gulp with the first blobs of tears welling in the corners of her eyes) my… (gulp, gulp, deep shuddering) my heretical, embarrassing son’s third ex-wife?” This was followed by more gulps, whimpers and at last a big sniveling of Mother’s now snot-laden nose. “The third of ten ex-wives.”

My mother took a second to adjust the fitting of her cross, I guess it was hurting her wrists and ankles, then continued with, “Don’t you children ever think about how your choices effect me? I’m your mother.”

Let me interrupt the regularly-scheduled program here to make an announcement. My dear mother is not a bad person in the classic sense of bad people. She doesn’t rape or maim or kill or steal or lie to improve her own lot in life. She is actually kind hearted, honest and hard working. What my mother is though, is the worst kind of bad I think there is.

Mother is a blind follower. A person who does evil out of their acceptances of another’s preachings or dogma. My mother is one of the blind followers who believe things “just because”[.]

Mother is one of those people who have blind faith in something and refuses to be stirred by reason, logic, humanity or facts. Mother is an evangelical Christian and believes any fucking thing that Pastor Browningwell tells her to believe.

That, dear friends, is a belief system that mirrors—and precisely so—the thinking of Nazi supporters in the middle of last century. Millions of Germans persecuted millions of Jews and gays and communists in their blind faith of Adolf Hitler. Today’s Modern American Evangelical Christians are doing exactly the same things in their blind faith.

Don’t believe me? Go do some research and listen to or read some of Hitler and his cronies speeches on the subject of those groups. “Aberrations, mutants, evil, Devil’s workers” are all names and terms used in the 1930’s and 1940’s to describe the named abused groups. Those people were blamed for what was wrong with Germany the same as the Republican Christian right blames them now.

And guys, the rhetoric is getting the ratchet treatment now just as it was back then. Go listen to Rick Perry’s Iowa TV commercial and then tell me I’m wrong. Listen, if you can stomach it, to some of Michele Bachmann’s comments on the subjects. The strength of accusations is growing.

So again, I ask the Republicans to stop this bullshit.

Which reminds me. As you all know, the Squirt has been afflicted by three infections at once. Two broken-tooth abscesses now removed, a single infected anal gland and a hurt tooter. She hasn’t been what you would call sick, but she hasn’t been her usual chipper self. She’s been spending more time sitting than running and I’ve caught her napping often. So I bought my book, Full Rising Mooner, and put it on her Kindle so that she could read it.

She has agreed to do a book review when she finishes. She can’t believe that Clarion gave me four of five stars because, as only Squirt could say it, “Sie, Mooner, sind ein Arschloch.“

I guess that in the Squirt’s eyes assholes can’t get four of five stars from Clarion, and that reminds me of something else.

Hey, all of you foreign fuckers who come here every day to steal my shit—yea you, shitheads, you know who you are. Can you man-up just a little bit, and compensate me a touch for all of the content you steal from me, by purchasing my book. Click over there ====}}}} and link-up and buy one. It’s the right thing to do. The book is full of content you can steal, and I won’t be pissed at you if you buy the book.

OK, I’ve got errands to run and Carta Blanca beers to drink after. Manana, y’all.

Forgive Me Father For I Have Screwed The Pooch- A Christmas Story

Monday, December 12th, 2011

 

So. It’s Monday and I’m already crazy with chores and errands enough to last the week. I get extra nuts this time of the year because it’s a tough time for me. OK, let’s back up. For starters, I said, “I’m already nuts,” back there a couple sentences ago, like I had just become nuts early this morning and it surprised me. Not the case. What I should have said is this, “Since I awaken each day already nutty as a fruitcake, the loads of errands and chores heaped upon my strong shoulders by others has made me extra- nutty as a giant fruitcake.”

Christmas is a tough time for me, and most especially this year. Christmas in and of its very self holds the cruxes of my consternations this time of year. I have deep-rooted difficulties with Christmas and all things Christmassy. It’s a love/hate dealie and you know how I hate those fucking dealies, which thought gives me a perfect analogy that will fully-explain my senses on Christmas. Ready?

Here goes. I have the same love/hate relationship with Christmas as I do with Gram. Same as the leathered old gasbag warms my heart while simultaneously chilling my sensibilities, Christmas can heat my heart cockles and chill me to the bone with dread.

On the positive side, I was raised Christian and the Baptist variety at that. For Baptists, the entire fucking year’s church activities are focused on the rousing, thunderous conclusions presented on the day we celebrate the virginal birthing of the one, the only… Jesus Christ.

Wait. I might should have said, “The One, The Only,” you know all caps.

All year long, Baptists tout the future glad tidings about Jesus’ birthday as if His second coming with be coordinated to the same date as his first coming. Even though the December 25th date is arbitrary and totally made-up. That date was selected by big business-directed political fuckballs to boost end-of-year sales.

Which reminds me of a thought I have had ever since the days I reached puberty. As I said, I was raised Baptist and was fully under the iron fist of Baptist dogma until I was quite unceremoniously raped by my Baptist Deacon Boy Scout Leader. Mother dragged my ass, and Sister’s too, to the church every fucking time they opened the doors. Sunday morning, Sunday night, Wednesday evenings and summers for Vacation Bible School.

In Sunday School class—that’s what Baptists call the weekly brain-washing they do to their children every Sunday before morning service—I enjoyed all of the fantastic stories about giant’s slayings and lions’ dens and shit. But I hated all of the preaching that went with it. I especially didn’t cotton to the teachers telling me to “don’t do this” and “don’t do that”[.]

When I was maybe ten, and it might have been eleven, I had a lady Sunday School teacher. Can’t remember her name, but I do remember her as scary looking. I was already growing faster than everybody else so I was a big kid. But this woman was huge. Wait, her name was Mrs. Frieze. Wow. Wow, wow, and wow again! How the fuck did I remember that, and wait until you connect the appropriateness of her name.

Mrs. Frieze had an only son who was, if memory further serves me, in his late twenties. Her son had left the Baptist church to join the Catholics as a priest. Since all Baptists believe that the Catholics are heathens and not real Christians, everybody in the whole church knew why that “young Frieze boy” had become a priest.

“Frieze boy’s a homosexual. Poor Mrs. Frieze, only son done turned queer,” was the mantra on the issue.

Mrs. Frieze was treated with the same care and feeding as all the other unfortunate women at our church. Widows and in particular war widows, women who lost a child and divorced women who were divorced because their husbands were scum, and then women with family in jail were all afforded special treatment by the members of a Baptist church.

Mrs. Frieze had a Mr. Frieze, a smallish man to his wife’s bigness, and no deaths of jailings of close relatives. But Mrs. Frieze had suffered a fate far worse than those. Her son had turned into a homosexual AND he’s become heathen-more and joined the Catholics, and become a priest at that! What worse fate could God enforce a woman to endure?

Anyway, Mrs. Frieze was my Sunday School teacher and I now think she was placed with the ten-to-thirteen year old boys because her son had become a queer. That’s what most Baptists of my church called him, “Queer.” Said with a sneer and as if there was a taste of shit in the mouth. I have always been unsettled by the word queer. I’ll need to talk to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson about that.

As our teacher, Mrs. Frieze was determined to be one, a dutiful teacher and therefore she would brow beat the lessons into us. She would rise to her full height and get into our faces as we sat in our uncomfortable metal chairs when she drove home her points about the various things we could do that would send us, and I’ll quote Mrs. Frieze here when she often said, “You’ll go to hell, straight to hell and do not collect $200.”

The “$200” part was funny for maybe the first hundred times I heard it.

This one Sunday she decided to lecture us boys on which sins would cause us to become a queer. What I remember her telling us as reasons were if we didn’t get active in sports, if we played with dolls, if we spoke like a girl and, of course, if we masturbated. Having had a wet dream but not yet connected the dots, I asked what masturbating was. I remember a quite disjointed description and one that would likely be pretty fucking hilarious if I could replace it to words at this time. All I do remember is that I got the gist, so immediately after church was over and I was returned by Mother to the house, I attempted to use the lesson learned.

I rubbed and rubbed my pecker with my dry and chafed hands and ended with a glorious yet somewhat scary conclusion, and squirted onto the rug in front of the bathroom sink. As a young boy, I made but a perfunctory attempt to clean my residues, a mistake I later regretted.

Then all that week I had wet dreams. I connected my sin of beating-off with the wet dreams and I went to the library and read up on wet dreams and masturbation. What I discovered is that both are normal, and the wet dreams impossible for a boy to avoid UNLESS he eases the pressure of his ejaculate-filled system by masturbating. I practiced masturbating for several months using socks and vibrators and finally my beloved Ivory soap.

And then I got to thinking about Jesus.

Me thinking about Jesus and all things Jesus has caused many of life’s most difficult times on me. Wondering about if Jesus masturbated with a dry hand, a soft woolen sock or with spit was likely the pivotal time of my Christianity.

This subject was a tough one for me, a burden that was heavy on my heart. In Sunday School this one morning, and I think it was Easter morning, Mrs. Frieze was talking all about redemption and Jesus coming back from the dead and rolling the heavy stone from in front of His grave all by Himself—a job requiring at least fifteen men not Son’s of God. She was telling us about how our souls would be saved and we could avoid burning in hell if we would just, blah, blah and blah.

But me, I had a one-tracked mind and having a one-tracked mind is highly unusual for me. So when Mrs. Frieze took a breath in the middle of her lecture, I blurted out, “Mrs. Frieze, do you think Jesus masturbated or do you think he just evacuated his ejaculates with wet dreams? I mean, his family was poor and they likely didn’t have a washing machine and I just know he only had one set of sheets for his bed. I know I don’t like sleeping on crusty sheets, so I’m thinking Jesus masturbated.”

I got a stunned look I took for approval, so I went on. “Do you think He used Ivory soap?”

OK, I’m way distracted from my point. I like Christmas because of the actual idea of Peace on Earth, Goodwill Towards All Men. What I really do not like is what Christians have allowed to happen to it. To sum up my thoughts let me point to the American Family Association who is boycotting any business that doesn’t specifically use Christmas as the slogan for sales.

Are you fucking kidding me? These “Christians” don’t like it when a company DOESN’T employ crass commercialism of Christ’s birth to make profits? They only want you to buy from companies that do?

I’m not pissed enough to say fuck Christmas, but I have decided to only shop where I don’t feel the merchant over commercializes the holiday. Limiting options, but options.

Which reminds me. The Squirt’s oral extractions went well and she feels much better. I’ll post some happy pics of her whenever I can figure out how to take good pictures. So far each one I take makes her look like a ball of brown fur in a film noir. She won’t let me post anything without her approval, and chastised much as Reckmonster did for the pic of her I put up.

Oh well, ces’t la vie and fuck it. I’ve got work to do and Carta Blanca beers to drink. Manana, y’all.

PS- Please consider the purchase of my book, Full Rising Mooner. It got a real live actual four-of-five stars review by Clarion. You can get it in paper form or for your Kindle. Kindle’s a better deal. Just click over there +++}}}} to the linksters I have provided for your convenience.

Trojan Horses Killed; Mooner Can Posting Pics!!!

Saturday, December 10th, 2011

 

So. Hip-hip hooray!!! Ben from Balcones PC came over and fixed the latest Trojan Horse infection on my computer, and he showed me how to post pictures while he was at it.

This infection was as serious as the last, but it was caught before doing any real damage. Someday the computer geeks will develop a condom to prevent Trojan Horse infections. Meanwhile, I’ll use this posting to put up some pics for you. Wish me luck. I’ll attempt to put both pictures and info both.

The Squirt is in my lap and Yoda is sitting on my mouse pad.

That’s Bob from Squatlo, Michelle the Reckmonster and future 12th Fiance, BJ from Uo-original Thoughts in Bob’s arm pit, and the most dangerous Cindy in the rear.

OK, look.  This is a new toy, as is my camera, and all of my pics of the dogs are sucky.  I’mma attempt to get better pics and post them.  I’ll try to not drive you nuts with pics of my babies.  Now I’m drinking me some Carta Blanca beerskies!

Watch For Lightening- Stand Away From Mooner, A Public Service Announcement

Friday, December 9th, 2011

 

So. I’m thinking a little straighter and feeling better for it. Don’t get all concerned that my ADHD has suffered a miraculous cure and my brain ways are cleared of confusing thoughts, I’m talking about my posture. I discovered that I was slouching a lot recently and it has made my back and major joints ache. By joints, I mean hips, shoulders and elbows rather than my “joint”[.] My joint could care less if I slouch or stand in full military Parade Rest, he can stand at attention either way.

And while I’m at it, why, oh why, won’t the grammar police tell me the method—and a reasonable explanation thereto—for how to punctuate after a set of quotation marks when the substance placed between them isn’t an actual quote? Like I did back in that last paragraph with the [.].

By sitting up straight-backed, I have brought some relief to the many aches and pains caused by my slouching. But I can’t pay attention to remember to not slouch, so I sit properly for a few seconds then slouch, remember to not slouch (or feel an achy twinge in my shoulder), and think to sit up straight once more.

OK, actually not just once more, since I do that straight/slouch/straight business a dozen times per minute. A video of me at this silly fucking keyboard, run in fast motion, would show me as a puppet whose strings were pulled by a jerky drunk.

Which reminds me. First, please allow me to say that I do not like Tim Tebow, Sam I. Am. I like nothing about him. I do not like him in a truck, for a buck or worth a fuck. I’m sure he’s a fine young man and all of that, but I simply don’t care shit or Shinola about him. But there is this thing that Christians do that at least to me, speaks of all that is wrong with modern American Christianity. The thing is the act of only thanking God when something the Christian thinks is good happens in their life.

Like, “I want to thank God for giving us this win,” a string of words uttered by the Tims’ter after every football victory. Innocuous words at first look, but sinister in actualities. Here’s why.

Evangelical Christian pastors, leaders and “Prophets”[.] (there’s another of those dealies I need the grammar police to help with) use “The power of God to make your life better” as the central thematic device in their sales pitches. They likewise attempt to get their followers to believe that “all good things come from God”[.] (another grammar dealio)

To garner a full understanding of what I’m speaking to, think back on every public prayer you have ever heard, or made. In each, God is thanked for all the blessings He has bestowed recently, and then He is asked to provide future blessings for a wish list of the prayer’s wants.

Right?

This “God gives all good” theology permeates church sales pitches and is used as the basis for the brain washing of their flocks. But I have an intrinsic problem with this modern American Christian dogma. I think it is impossible for God to only be responsible for good things. I know I’m not the first to say this, I’ve heard it before. I just haven’t bitched about it here and I’m pissed that Tim fucking Tebow has become the model of Christian masculinity for taking on this mantle.

Let me stop the presses for a minute. My ADHD has been super-charged with this issue. I have a thousand thoughts about this and I can’t make heads or tail of them.

Squirt and I settled a debate this am as to whether she should go to the vet to remove the two broken teeth she has. The same two broken teeth that caused the infection in her mouth that is a third of her three-way infections. That’s the infections of anal gland and tooter we’ve been talking about.

The nasty teeth give her the worst bad-teeth breath you can imagine, and I’ve been trying to get her to have them pulled for months. The teeth broke off because I’m a bad father. See, Squirt loves beef bones and I gave her little chunks of cow arm bones that I would personally saw into Squirt-sized rings. I herein freely admit that I gave her these bones not only for her delight, but also to help cement her devotions to me. My heart wasn’t pure. I’m the parent, she my child, and it’s my fault and not hers that she broke two teeth from chomping those bones, and developed trench mouth.

She’s had a little pain with the teeth but not enough to face extraction. As she puts it when I suggest a trip to the vet for dentistry, “Fuck you, Mooner.”

But, if you read yesterday’s posting, you know that in cold weather we sleep with the dogs cocooned inside a thick goose down comforter. It was extra cold last night, so Squirt asked me to get her her extra snuggly. When I finished tucking her in, she was only somewhat more loosely rolled into the blanket than the filler of a fine Cuban cigar.

I love good Cuban cigars. Why in the ever-fucking shit do we still have a hard-on for Fidel Castro? American politicians have managed to forgive and forget every… fucking… asshole in the world over the last fifty years, yet we still put Fidel’s balls in the blender. Cuba is a beautiful country filled with incredible people, and America has been punishing those people for decades because Fidel Castro is an asshole.

Jesus Christ people, the Shaw of Iran was an asshole. The list of assholes that we have actually kept propped-up would fill these pages, yet we still torture Cuba because Fidel is an asshole. End the fucking Cuban embargo, for shitsakes.

Early this morning, 4:41 am to be precise, I was startled awake.

“Holy Jésus ce n’est que l’odeur? Hat jemand Scheiße im Bett?“ It was the Squirt as she fought to get herself unwrapped from the covers.

“Nobody shit in bed, little lady, you just got trapped under the comforter with your own bad breath,” I told her. “Now you understand why I turn my head away from your formerly-sweet kisses.”

“Call the vet, Mooner, and right fucking now!”

I must admit it’s unsettling sometimes to hear the potty mouth on my sweet puppy. It’s also deliciously funny at others.

“I’ll call first thing and see if we can get you in,” my answer. I did, we could, and she’s at the vet right now getting extractions. She’ll need to be on a soft food diet for a week after I get her back home, and I can already hear the seven days worth of bitching coming my way over that.

When I dropped her off, I reminded Dr. May that he promised to think about Rick Perry’s request for a sex change operation. After he stopped laughing he said, “You mean you were serious about making your ostrich into a girl?”

“Oh, for shitsakes, doc. This isn’t my idea, it’s his.”

Again, I think Dr. May might still be laughing.

OK, so let me tie this together for you. If the modern American Evangelical Christian theology was one of honesty and integrity, here would be my official prayer for today:

“Dear God, Maker of all good and bringer of all evil, I want to thank you for showing to Squirt the light and getting her to agree to the teeth extractions. She will be far better off and the rest of us won’t be subjected to her foul breath. I also want to thank You for teaching me to sit up straight and for the incredible sausage that Mr. Jones makes. Nothing goes better with runny eggs at breakfast than Mr. Jones’ sausage and a slice of great toast for sopping. Thanks as well for Gram’s health, undeserved as it might be, and thanks, I guess, for my mother as well. I’m very grateful that you let me finish my silly fucking book, and since You seem to be so accommodating, why not make it a best seller? Please make millions of people look over there ===}}}} to the Full Rising Mooner linkster buttons, and make click to buy my book. Thanks for my pets and family and friends, and thanks for letting me have so many fabulous Internet buddies. Thank You for these and all the many blessings You have bestowed upon me.

“And while I’m here, could you please explain why You decided to give me the worst case of diagnosed ADHD in history? What the fuck did I ever do to You to deserve that shit? You know, sometimes You can be a real asshole. And this dealie with the Squirt’s teeth. It isn’t enough that You make me a bad parent. You then feel compelled to make the poor innocent dog suffer not only through my bad parenting, but You also seem it fit to give her a three-way infection? What’s up with that shit? And this entire thingie with Cuba. WTF? Why do You punish the the entire Cuban population just because Fidel Castro is an asshole? Would Jesus approve of that? Does Your Son condone those actions? I think not.

“I mean really, what goes in in that all-encompassing mind of yours sometimes? Famine? Wars? The Kardashians? Really, the fucking Kardashians? I’m starting to think You need some psycho therapy. I’m beginning to think you’ve got issues. How about I get You an appointment with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson. Hell, I’ll pay. Which brings up another set of complications. In therapy, a person learns that his problems are either/or self inflicted, or they are caused by an outside influence. Since you decide all things good and evil both, and You make every fucking thing that happens happen, who are You going to blame for the mess You’ve made of things? Your Mother? How in Your name are you going to get any better?

“Get Your shit together Big Guy, You’ve made a real mess of things. Amen”

I hope Mother doesn’t read this. She really will have trouble explaining that prayer to the church ladies. But like Gram always says, when she’ll say, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Ya said what cha think, and that’s that.”

Manana, y’all.

Queen Lizzie La Queefa- Another Camel Toe Dream; Mooner’s Review Good

Thursday, December 8th, 2011

 

So. Ugh says it best for me this morning. Ugh, again, and with gusto. I should be very happy about all things Mooner Johnson, but I find myself in an Ughly mood. Normal folks will likely look at me and shake their heads as they walk as far away from me as possible, and quickly walking at that.

But I’m not normal—except in penis size, number of human organs and male appetites—so I’m in an Ughly mood.

The sources of my Ughly mood are thus, and such. Number one, my first what you would call “Third-party, professional book review” came in yesterday, and it turned out to be way, way better than I expected or deserved, either one. I got four of five stars, and the reviewer made honest criticisms as well as pointing out good stuff. I know I have bias on this dealie, but it seemed fair and balanced to me.

I went to Clarion’s website because I wanted to check the voracity of their reviews. After reading it, my crazy brain started worrying that every Clarion review was four or five stars and that my pride would have been quite false. What I discovered is that no, most of Clarion’s reviews are far less than four stars and, in fact, the vast majority have no stars at all. The starless nature of a review, I discovered with further investigations, comes from the author’s request to not publish the stars with the review.

Since I’m assuming that most authors would want four or five-stars of award to be published, I choose to think that most of those un-starred reviews are at least less than four-stars jobbies. OK, wait. That last sentence should have said “not-starred” along with “…at least fewer than four-stars”[.]

Net results- I’m a very happy and proud camper that my book was well received by Clarion, and this should enough to brighten even the darkest of moods. But, alas, not so.

See, I have been wanting to tell you the heart-wrenching story of Rick Perry’s request for a sex change operation since before I left for Floriduh last week. My pet ostrich has deep emotional needs that are consuming my full measure of empathy. Yet my own emotional needs have been placed, by me, ahead of his. And will be done so again today. Squirt says that’s because I’m an asshole.

Once more, I am placing my needs ahead of those needs of my family and loved ones. Maybe I am an asshole.

It’s a wonder I don’t have trouble maintaining relationships, and let me admit it here, and freely too, I am an asshole.

I know that ignoring Ricky’s needs is a sure sign of my bad parenting. I get that. But my giant bird’s desire to be a woman will still be there long after my memory of last night’s dream is just so many dead brain cells, said dream the main topic herein. I will say that I called my vet—Doctor May over to Crossings Animal Clinic—and he might still be laughing.

Mother told me that she thinks I’m foolish to even consider paying for the numerous operations required to turn a bird man into a woman. Actually, what she said was, “Oh, for God’s sweet sakes, Mooner. How can you even consider a purposeful action that is forbidden in the Bible? It’s bad enough when a mother bears a child who accidentally becomes a homosexual child. But to do it on purpose…”

At that point my mother stopped talking and got this horrified look to her face. “Mooner Einstein Johnson! You WILL NOT write about this on that blasphemous trashy website of yours!!!”

Deep, gasping and heaving of maternal unit’s martyred lungs followed by a series of “Uh’s and ah’s” and then, “Oh, sweet Jesus in heaven. How can I ever look Pastor Browningwell in the face again?”

“Who gives a shit?” thought but unspoken by me.

Anyway, the main subject of today’s postings deal neither with the prejudice of my pride of having authored a four-stars novel containing over four-hundred pages, nor shall we dwell upon the deeply emotional needs of Rick Perry. Nope, today we’re talking about camel toes and specifically, last night’s camel toe dream.

I’m certain what prompted this particular camel toe dream was my having checked the “top searches” dealie on my website’s Amin page yesterday. As usual, the top five ways people, and likely the searchbots that frequent my place, find me is by typing something containing the words “camel toe”[.] Chelsea Handler’s camel toe, Sarah Palin and Queen Elizabeth’s camel toes, Dr. Marcus Bachmann’s camel toe, and so on.

People from all around the globe come to my place every day, and in droves, to catch the camel toe action here to Loonyland. And they have to be disappointed since I’m too stupid to even be able to post a fucking picture of my favorite vaginal tootsies. Those people come back repeatedly and they never comment. But many stay and read page after page of my shit.

I think they steal my trashy prose and then republish it as their own. I’m guessing that what I write here is far more interesting when translated into Estonian. Or fucking Hindi. Have you ever seen written Hindi?

So, as I lay down to go to sleep last night, my head was full of pride for my Clarion review, and my heart was full of empathetic concern for my birdie. OK, and my bloodstream was full of something approaching a dozen Carta Blancas drunk during the day, six long drags of Streaker Jones’ newest ganga hybrid, and a triple dosing of Gram’s celebratory potion she calls “Put tha kids ta bed, baby, we’s gonna party”[.]

My bed has a wintertime covering of sheets—Egyptian of cotton origins and 600 thread counts of middle names—and a goose down comforter that sits six-inches tall when fluffed full of air. The sheets are for me, as I sleep nekid and with just the sheets year-round, and the comforter is for the animals. The sleeping arrangements change somewhat as Summer’s heat shifts to a Winter freeze.

Everybody jumps up onto the bed before me at bedtime and the dogs jump and skitter around like kids on a playground while the fucking cat sits in the middle of my pillow keeping watch. When it’s just sheets on the bed, Squirt and Yoda slip and slide around the big bed, almost skating on the sleek, slick cotton covers. With the comforter in place, it’s more like two bunny rabbits frolicking in fresh snowdrifts. They hop and bounce through the thick down piles as they chase each other around.

While this frivolity unfolds, I’m brushing my teeth and shoving my night guard into my mouth. I’ll finish and head to bed and I always say, “OK, rug rats, line ‘em up.” The two puppies race to the head of the bed and sit at attention on the visitor’s pillow, and Honor slightly moves her ass only what’s required to uncover a patch of my pillow just large enough for me to place my head.

I roll the comforter off my half of bed, lay down, and then say, and always say, “OK, kids, assume your positions.”

On freezing nights this means that Squirt lays (lies?) next to me at the hip not on my crotch, and Yoda curls into a tight ball in my armpit against my side. I then cover the two puppies with comforter, making little doggy cocoons. Honor waits for all of this to unfold and when the rest of us settle for sleep, my fucking cat wraps herself around my neck into whatever position will most bother me.

The previously-detailed all unfolded as usual last night excepting for two things. The first being my state of altered consciousness, previously mentioned, and a strange chill I felt just before drifting off. I think all of the silly bullshit Squatlo has caused with his hurt feelings over his cold house had some sort of negative influence on me But I felt chilled and pulled some of the comforter over me, my intentions to warm a touch and then toss the down blanket before sleep.

Good intentions and all of that aside, I fell asleep under the fucking comforter.

Those of you with ADHD or ADD will understand when I speak of what I call “the confluence of multiple influential thought streams on dream contents”[.] That would be when my ADHD-addled brain patterns take actual awake thoughts and turns them into dream scenarios. Therefore, and Ipso Facto if ever Ipso had a fucking fact, I had a camel toe dream. A camel toe dream that even I am willing to call weird.

Remember the AIDS Quilt from a few years ago, you know, the one where loved ones of AIDS patients sewed patches into a big quilt, which traveled the country? It was beautiful in both sentiments and art. I remember boo-hooing like a school girl when I saw it.

Well, this dream had a quilt, a camel toe quilt consisting of hundreds of actual live dromedary tootsies tacked to my goose down comforter. Rows of them and each clipped and pruned just as I remember them from previous camel toe dreams. As a connoisseur of ladies’ pocket meats, I can distinguish them all.

I was lying on this quilt. OK, I was luxuriating on this quilt. I rolled gingerly so as to not injure, I touched and I never touch in these dreams, and I actually kissed and caressed as I admired plump mounds with only occasional tufts of bushy crowns. I spoke to them as if they were attached to their keepers. “Oh hey, Chelsea, how’s it hanging, girl?” I said to Chelsea Handler’s incredibly luscious toe.

Gram and the dogs watch the Chelsea Lately TV show each night and the girls think Ms. Handler needs a new stylist. “She looks like a man dresses her,” is my Gram’s assessment. This from a crabby old bag of bones that would look like a scarecrow in a Chanel gown.

I tell you that bit of info as again, confluence of multiple influential thought streams on dream contents, I added, “Chelse, Gram and Squirt want you to think about getting someone new to dress you. They think you look silly most times.”

When I said that, Chelsea’s camel toe queefed me. That’s right, I caught a vaginal fart right in my face. It was light and airy and smelled of lavender soap, but Chelsea Handler’s camel toe farted in my face. It went, “pfft.” Small “p” pfft and not a Pfft.

I moved on.

Next I encountered Queen Elizabeth, who was in a deep conversation with Demi Moore. The Monarch was telling Ms. Moore that she was too skinny. Since I agreed with Her Royal Highness’s assessments, I said, “I agree with Her Majesty, Demi. I can’t quite see bones sticking out of your lady package, but you’re starting to look like a boy down there. You need to plump up.”

Demi queefed me, and then the Queen followed suit. “Pfft,” from the Queen and a, “pfft,” from Demi. I detected rose water from Lizzy and I think honeysuckle from Ms. Moore. Then suddenly, like a room full of wind-up false teeth toys chattering in chorus, the entire patchwork quilt of camel toes was queefing at me. Not all smelled of flowered perfumes and now all were Pffts, and PFFT’s even.

I rolled around and broke out into a terrible sweat, and no matter how far I rolled I never could roll off of queefing camel toes.

I awoke with a start with the Squirt sitting on my chest and nudging my chin with her snout. “Mooner, wake the fuck up. You’re having a nightmare.”

I was laying under the comforter, sweating like a pig and breathing in gasps. “Holy shit, little lady, I was just attacked by a meadow full of pastoral camel toes.”

“Nope,” Squirt told me. “Your were having drug and sweat dreams because you forgot to uncover yourself, and you just farted a sweet bean tamale fart that even burned the fucking cat’s eyes.”

Crap. I just hit 2,000 words. Manana, y’all.

The Review Is Here!!! Full Rising Mooner- Picked, Or Panned???

Wednesday, December 7th, 2011

 

So. Everybody listen up. Part of publishing a book is having it reviewed, and the most important part of having it reviewed is when independent and third-party professional reviewers do the review. Publishers send a writer’s manuscript to key reviewers—hopefully ones with skills and understandings of said writer’s book’s type—and awaiting the arrival of the first of those reviews is nerve shattering.

I want you to know that my ADHD has been on super-high alert, making me bonkers as I’ve checked my emails dozens-of-times daily to catch my first professional review.

It’s here. It’s here and I’m afraid to read it. It arrived in some funky fucking program that wouldn’t easily open for me, but I finally got it open and pasted to this page.

I haven’t read it yet because this bloggie forum has become my second skin—the chaffed yet comfortable blanket providing warmth to my soul. I want to publish this thing to you before I read it. I want to maintain my full-disclosure relationship with you guys, and I’ll live, or die, with your eyes on the target.

OK, suck it up, Mooner, you big fucking pansy-assed crybaby.

Look, everyone, this is a very big deal to me and I want to share it with you as if you are at my wrap party. Just like in those 1930’s movies about Broadway shows, as the cast and crew sat in a Park Avenue Penthouse waiting for the papers to publish the good, or bad, reviews. I’ve already had a few Carta Blanca beers, so go grab your beverage of choice, and read along with me.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you, the review:

ForeWord Clarion Review

FICTION: HUMOR

Full Rising Mooner: The Most Inappropriate Man in the World

Don Legacy

CreateSpace

978-1-4563-3986-9

Four Stars (out of Five)

“My name is Mooner Johnson, and I’m a crazy man. I’m not lock-away-to-the-loony-bin-and-

throw-away-the-keys crazy—not the dangerous to society sort of crazy. I’m the variety of crazy

that makes for ten ex-wives and great campfire stories.”

In Full Rising Mooner, one of the incidents Butcher Einstein Johnson relates is how he

got the nickname “Mooner” by his first-grade classmates on the first day of school, and how he’s

held onto this identity well into adulthood. Thoroughly open about his attention-deficit

hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), Mooner writes and rants in first person about his life as a

compost entrepreneur from Austin, Texas. Using strong language, he constantly lambastes the

two things he dislikes most: Republicans and Baptists.

But Mooner’s ADHD is not his only problem. The plot of Don Legacy’s Full Rising

Mooner unfolds as the severed arm of one of Mooner’s foes is found at his place of business, and

he becomes the main suspect in the man’s murder. Because he keeps a journal for his therapist,

who happens to be ex-wife number one, Mooner jots down entries on “Postie Notes” throughout

the book, even when he’s tossed into the local mental hospital.

With the assistance of his mysterious and mystic lifelong friend Streaker Jones, his

potion-plying Gram (grandmother), and his current girlfriend, a news reporter named Sunny,

Mooner tries to determine whether he really did commit the crime.

Legacy has created a likable if unusually quirky main character whose memorable antics

will remain with readers long after they’ve finished the book. The deftly woven in backstories

are especially enjoyable to read and ruminate on; a good example is the enduring friendship

between Mooner and Streaker. Also intriguing is the way the author nonchalantly adds nuggets

of information incrementally throughout the story; the result is a continual fleshing out of

previously presented information.

The character, manner, and thoughts of Mooner Johnson are an acquired taste, however,

and some readers may fail to see the humor in the book’s very adult language, situations, and

potentially offensive subject matter. For example, Mooner drops his trousers to emphasize

political statements and uses the f-word as easily as he breathes. That said, the situations he finds

himself in are oftentimes hilarious and absurd to the extreme. Readers will especially enjoy the

supporting cast of characters. Full Rising Mooner is for readers who have a high threshold for

ribald humor and raw language.

Don Legacy is the retired president of a compost manufacturing and erosion control

business in Austin, Texas. He has characterized Mooner as “my ego altered.”

Robin Edmunds

Rick Perry Requests Sex Change; This Story Is Different

Wednesday, December 7th, 2011

 

So. Here’s the dealio. When I got back I promised to catch you up on all things Johnson family—both events that occurred before I left to Floriduh, things that happened while there and, of course, those things happening now that I’m back, in real time as they actually happen, or soon thereafter happening.

OK, wait. That last sentence couldn’t have been a “both” conjunctioned constructure, as both would imply two somethings, and I listed more than two somethings. Way more than two somethings as you are soon to discover if you can force yourself to keep reading this shit and drivel.

I should have said, “…on all things Johnson family—numerous events, which included, but are not limited to…,” and then I could have blah, blah and blahed about said numerous events. But like Gram always says when she tells me, “Oh, who gives a shit, Mooner?”

Truly.

First, for all you cat lovers, the fucking cat came home, and in the middle of the night at that. That would explain why I now sit in the chilled, dark hours—steaming cup of Costa Rica’s best at my side—writing you about the fucking cat. I would be sleeping soundly and comfy-cozy under my down comforter, if not for Honor.

Honor left yesterday in the am to go “bird hunting” and didn’t return as scheduled. Scheduled meant “before anyone started worrying about her”[,] and Mother, of course, started worrying early. That meant I needed to go looking for Honor, a pursuit many people have said is a futile effort on my part, and futile the search was. We looked high and low, walking, and then driving the 3,000 total acres that comprise our modest spread.

And look, don’t be too impressed with the 3,000 acres thingie. A large Texas ranch will comprise tens-of-thousands-of acres and a big one one-hundred-thousand or more.

But searching 3,000 acres as you look to find a shoe box-sized cat—with fur the same color as the winter and drought-dried under brush—is a chore. The old flat bedded work truck we use for ranch chores has a big stereo system and bull horn intercom we use for both entertainment while we work, and communications as well. Squirt was as adorable as it gets as she called, “Here kitty, kitty, kitty,” in half a dozen languages as we drove the property. Her sweet voice booming through the big Bose speakers sometimes brought tears to my eyes.

Then, again, it might have been the chilled air tearing my eyes. But I’m finding myself more, and more, auto-tearing sentimentally with the silliest of shit. Oldies music, thoughts of good friends and good times are cranking up my tear ducts routinely. Hell, Tuesday morning I started weeping like a widow woman when I awakened to discover I could still get a nighttime woodie.

Squirt’s verbal skills will be a recurring thematic content contributor in today’s posted writings, and I want to say here and now, that the Squirt is the number one, most adorable ten-pounds of dog meat ever. In all ways, adorable, and I need to find some synchronyms for the word “adorable”[.]

We drove and drove and found signs of Honor—evidence, in abundance, that Honor had passed—but no actual Honor was discovered. It seems Honor is fleeting and hard found. Little piles of hunted birds, mice and rats lay stacked in pyramid heaps like the stacked-stone mile-markers used by the surveyors who penned the first, original surveys of central Texas. The birds were all grackles—cockroaches of the air in our country. Grackles are the only bird I let her kill without eating the resulting bird carcass. Even I don’t like smoked grackle, and I’ll eat most anything.

Anyway, we drove and looked and Kitty, kitty, kitteyed for several hours and found nothing but signs of Honor passed, which fact earned me the full-blown wrath of Mother’s martyred soul when we returned with no Honor.

“God will find a way to punish you, son,” were the first words of my mother’s lament. “I wish I knew what it is I did in my early years to deserve a child who mistreats animals the way that you do.” This said as the Johnson family shared a big pot of chicken soup and jalapeño cornbread I had made for removing a part of the chill from the cold weather that invaded Austin while I was in Floriduh.

“Oh, fer shitsakes, Mother, leave tha boy ta his bothers.” Gram to the rescue. “It ain’t but a fuckin’ cat, an Mooner loves it like it was family. Now sumbody grab me another cervezer, an Mooner, pass me tha cornbread. Ya baked it too dry, but iffn ya slobber it with butter ya can git it swallered. Soup needs salt.”

See what I mean about that whole love/hate/hate/love dealie with my grandmother?

But Mother was undeterred. “I could have been a Broadway star, and I was saddled with this.” Here my mother did that motion with both palms opened starting from her bosom, where she opened her arms in what would seem to an outsider to be a gesture of welcoming.

With the finish of the motion, both of Mother’s arms were fully outstretched, open palms shoulder height. She looked like a Baptist preacher encouraging the sinners to come to the front of the church to accept Jesus as their Saviour, the finishing punishment delivered at the end of every Baptist service.

“I could have been a star, but God placed me here instead. Forgive me, Jesus, for I have sinned. I pray that some day you will shed your glorious light in my life and release me from this burden. It isn’t enough that my other child is homosexual…”

“Aw-right, Mother,” my grandmother interrupted. “That’s enough a that shit ta last me a lifetime. Now ya put me offn my grub.” Gram had had a belly full of Mother and dinner both. “Shut yer snotty yap an be grateful yer son puts up with yer shit.”

Love.

“Now, Mooner, git out there an find the fucking cat. I’ll kick yer fat ass up ta yer ears iffn ya don’t bring Honor home.”

Hate.

Anyway, another few hours of nighttime searching revealed no new clues and we turned-in to bed at just after midnight. Then, at 3:23 am, I was awakened by sounds of furious purring as my balls were shredded by the tiny pin pricks of kneading cat paws. My kitty had returned home and appeared to be none the worse for my wear.

Sometimes you can’t find Honor, no matter how hard you try. Sometimes, Honor finds you. Now I’m crying again. I think I need help.

Shit. Shit and ugh. I didn’t mean to spend today’s twelve-hundred words on the fucking cat, I wanted to tell you that the morning I left for Floriduh, Rick Perry awakened me with his tearful proclamation that he wants a sex change operation. Squirt did the interpreting, my giant flightless bird did the sniveling and blabbering. I did the open-mouthed gawking of a stunned father when told by his son he was, “Born with a woman’s heart.”

Ugh. And shit.

Where will I find a vet who does ostrich sex-change operations? But we don’t have time for all of that now. I guess we’ll save it for manana, y’all.

PS- Please click over there ===}}} and check out my book, Full Rising Mooner. Especially you silly shitballs from middle, eastern and northern Europe, the countries formerly known as the USSR, and you other fuckers who only visit me for camel toe stories. The mother of all camel toe stories in in the fucking book. So buy it already.