Mooner Falls Victim To Stellar Book Review; Requires Psycho Therapies


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.”


“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.


“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.”


“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.

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14 Responses to “Mooner Falls Victim To Stellar Book Review; Requires Psycho Therapies”

  1. Granny Ook says:

    Yes, Mooner Daaahhhling, if Sam-I-Am sez so, you are the sweetest, caring-est a**hole in the world. Also the world’s smartest idiot.

    However, if such fulsome praise is destroying your moral fiber, I think it would be an act of kindness for your blog buddies to get together and compose a suitably abusive and insulting review to deflate your swelled head. I particularly like your line about the book being the worst idea since they sold tickets for the Titanic. Anybody got a better zinger?

  2. Granny. Thanks for the slam. I do need some air to be loosed from my balloon. And I love to be insulted. Bring them on!

  3. chrisinphx says:

    Be sure to correct people when they call you an asshole, now that your writer you deserve to be addressed as Mr. Asshole

  4. mel says:

    Oh…I get it….most people view being an asshole as a bad thing. Whatever. Let’s change focus here..on me. I am getting you a certain cake recipe you have been pining for and I was thinking about posting it Friday…as in the day after tomorrow. Now, you have stopped by recently and know I am doing my best to be a little Christmas cheerleader for my kids, so I have been putting a Christmas song on the old blog everyday. So, Mr. Grinch…what song are you picking???

    Also, there is some crazy ass religious dude fixing my television downstairs at the moment. He has anti abortion stickers all over his car…I almost keyed it walking up my driveway (because he parked in my spot and the stickers) but it was raining too hard and I just wanted to come inside. He brought his odd child with him too…I guess he is homeschooled…just like my kids…except my kids are way cooler….so they have nothing in common. I left my husband to deal with him.

    And you deserve a little of your ego…from what I have read so far, you have done an excellent job. I am leaning to the impressed side. Just sayin’…

  5. admin says:

    Chris. Maybe Your Royal Assholeness.


  6. Mel. Yum yum… Buttermilk cake, drool. As for Xmas songs, I choose the one I can’t hear.

    You need to grab a wooden stake and race your ass downstairs. You’ve let the devil inside your home.

    Thanks for the compliment. Can you feel my ego swelling? Oops, not my ego.

  7. Squatlo says:

    Folks, I have no idea how Mooner behaves at home in his own element, but when he visited middle TN last month he was the epitome of easy going, the kind of guest you would invite back (assuming you’re the kind of person who would do such a thing). Obviously, fame and the ensuing fortune are making a mockery of Mooner’s otherwise well-heeled doggie traits. Fortunately, the real dog in the story is helping to ground his ass before his inflated ego lifts him away from terra firma in some perverted twist on The Rapture. What would we call it if heathens and heretics were all sucked up into the heavens instead of the believers, leaving behind the television repair guy and his odd kid at Melanie’s house? What would be call it? The Rupture? The RapSheet?
    Mooner, go clean up after the dog and try to keep a level head about this review thingie. Most of those people get paid by the word, and probably make an extra dime if someone re-reads their review. You’re probably putting some community college sophomore through school with all of your repeated visits to that review site. Well done. Good to know you’re supporting higher education.

  8. chrisinphx says:

    Squalto-I believe that would be called Irony!

  9. admin says:

    Squat. Obviously you come to bury Caesar. If heathens and heritics were sucked up into heaven, we’d call it Disneyland. As for your lame attempt to minimize the power and authority of my Clarion review, please allow me to say, and I mean this in the kindest possible way, I hope Cindy turns up the AC, and fuck you!

    Chris, and Happy Barry B-day to you! Ignore Squat, he’s suffering from hypothermia and can’t think straight.

  10. Squatlo says:

    HAHAHAHAHAHAHA….! My lovely wife was just saying she thinks we should buy a couple of those Lazy Fleece thingies for you and BJ, but because they only come in pink she thought you might find that sexually threatening…

    And for your information, she’s got all the windows and doors open today to “freshen up the air” a bit… That clattering sound you hear? That’s my teeth.

  11. bj says:

    They’re called ‘Snuggies’, Squatty …. and I bought one the other day … the Pink looks real good, if ya’ wear Black Sox with it. I put it in the trunk of my car … in case I make another visit to the domain of the “White Witch of Narnia”, before July…..

  12. Mooner, first of all – fuck Rick Perry, and secondly – fuck what anyone thinks about your egomaniacism (I think I just made up a new word!). You want to be an egomaniac – go right a-fucking-head. I’m personally on the “It’s-all-about-me” bandwagon as of late, and quite frankly, I rather like being the Supreme Queen Empress of my own little world. And I’ll let you know for sure whether your head should be all swollen from the book review after I get off my own ass and read the damned book!

  13. admin says:

    Squat. I would love a pink snugglie and would wear it proudly. As a manly man and rakish racontour, you need not worry over the color of my garments. Pink is my favorite color.

    Beej. I’ll get one and embroider Squat’s initials on it and send it hither. That boy’s much ado about nothing. He’s the one lives in a meat locker and we were company. I still can’t feel my left pinkie toe from when we spent the day over there. I think these snarky comments are cries for help.

  14. admin says:

    Reckum and Rackum. Ask me why I love you… Let me count the ways. Those of us with martyred mothers are the only judges of life as their children. When a woman’s standard answer, typical response and most favored word is “fine”…

    I hear the word fine in my sleep. Oh wait, we’re speaking of my inflated ego. Like Gram always says when she says, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Now git me a beer.”

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