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

 

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.

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15 Responses to “Queen Lizzie La Queefa- Another Camel Toe Dream; Mooner’s Review Good”

  1. chrisinphx says:

    A chorus of queefing camel toes…I will never look at my comforter the same again. Bwahahahah!

  2. admin says:

    Chris. Me either. I just went into my room and I could swear it was laughing at me as I passed the bed. I think I need therapy.

  3. beej says:

    Well …… thank you Mister Johnson for helping increase the number of werds in my ever growing vocabulary. QUEEF/Queefed/have(has) been Queefed/Will (would/could)Have Been Queefed(Queefing)/Queefification (complete and total) and futher conjugalizations of the verb ‘To Queef’…. will be added to my already addled mental state of addletude to include it. Queefing Comforters aside … maybe you should take Big Ricky with you on yer next visit to Dr. Sam (she does comp werk … yes?) to get some professional ad-vice about the TG thingy. ‘Course …. you’d have to take the Squirt witchuz to translatize from Ostrich to Squirtspeak …. and you’d have to translatize from Squirt to Sam …. but could be bennyfishul fer evabody. And …. are you SURE you ain’t eatin’ a big bowl o’ Ice Cream before ya’ go to bed? ‘Cause that’s what that shit does to ME …. Bigtime MIGHTnares and all ….

  4. Q says:

    “Vaginal tootsies?” LOL! I cracked up on that one. I was already cramping in my side from the Marcus Bachmann line. And Chelsea does look like a college dude dresses her. She really doesn’t care much about wardrobe, it appears.

  5. admin says:

    Q. I think Chelsea must want to look “funky” as persona. BTW. A buddy told me that he thinks Chelsea Handler should play Sunny if the book becomes a movie, a good choice I think. For me, I’m thinking a younger Jeff Bridges than the Jeff Bridges of late.

    We could did up Imogene Cocca to play Gram.

    I’m dillusional and need more therapy. Or beer.

  6. Ruth Gordon would be the perfect Gram candidate… And you might want to look up the federal regulations on the proper disposal of queefed up comforters. Don’t just drop it off at some underpass where homeless people are trying to live, Mooner, you might accidentally cause a case of blue balls or something.

  7. admin says:

    Squats. Ruth Gordon is actually my first choice. Her work in Where’s Poppa is classic as well as Harold and Maude. As for the comforter, I’m keeping it. Dozens of geese gave their lives to stuff that fucking thing and my puppies adore it.

  8. melanie says:

    that was all kinds of levels of disturbing. i don’t feel so bad about the effed up motrin pm dreams i had today now, so thank you. also remember, you had promised to have extra beverages on my behalf yesterday, so perhaps i am partly to blame. or not.

  9. admin says:

    Mel. Don’t feel responsible for either my bad behaviors or the ill effects suffered at my own hand. If I was Tim Tebow, I guess I’d be thanking God for giving me a bad brain and a life that is somewhat out of my control. I’ve been ruminating over this Christian logic tree and will stop speaking to it here, and expound later.

    BTW. I have decided to start a collection of camel toe pics furnished to me by women I admire. So, I was wondering if you and Reck would, ah …

  10. beej says:

    I’ll sendja a pic of MINE, if you want it, Mooner …. but in all honesty …. I got more of a ‘Moose Knuckle’ … than a camel toe …..

  11. admin says:

    Beej. Pocket meat is pocket meat. I am a nondiscriminatory SOB if ever there was one.

  12. Squatlo says:

    I’d send you a slightly more revealing photo, Mooner, but you’ve already heard how I left that on a young lady’s disposable camera at the apartment complex swimming pool… My best work is always anonymous, I’m afraid.

  13. admin says:

    Squat. It’s the thought that counts.

  14. I definitely came here looking for camel toe!

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