You’re Invited To A Party; Rick Perry Still A Prick


So. The Iowa straw vote or caucus or whateverthefuck it is the silly Ioweaners call their Presidential Primary is manana. Why they can’t call it a primary is beyond me, other than the fact that they think themselves special. Since they hold theirs first, they get an undo amount of national news coverage, and the candidates spend an undo amount of time campaigning in a state with seven electoral votes.

That’s right folks, Iowa has but 7 of the 538 total electoral votes yet we have spent the last six months with daily intense news coverage there. I for one am quite glad to see this shit come to an end. Me, I’m ready to move on to New Hampshire with its four electoral votes. Woo-hoo!

I’m also ready to get sales for my book moving along. Sales for Full Rising Mooner are moving but too slowly for my tastes. After receiving a stellar four-of-five stars book review from Clarion, I would have thought that sales would spike. Not so.

I also would have thought that all of you content thieves (not contented thieves but thieves of words) lurking worldwide would have bought my book as a way to say “Thanks” for the 1,646,311-plus words you have stolen from me. Mother fuckers. You slimy bastards sit continents away eating greasy potato pancakes or whatever it is you snack on, while your computer bots steal the fruit of my loins. Buy the book and make things right, mother fuckers.

Hey, and from Germany. You two spend so much time sucking the content from this site, my server has blisters on its pecker. And you, Mr., you Romanian shitball, write your own camel toe stories for shitsakes. Go down to your Whole Foods Market and collect your own fucking data. And from the Ukraine and from Bangkok and you, Mr.—you truffle-infused oil sniffing, baguette sandwich eating French stinky arm pitted bastard. Buy my book.

All of you content stealing assholes need to buy the book. It’s the least you can do. What if my book fails and I decide to pull the plug here to Moonerland? Then what? Where will you steal your content if I quit?

Faithful readers should buy the book as well. As of this morning, over the last thirty days I had 6,346 different individual computers logon here to look at this silly shit. That’s down by more than 600 since before Xmas, but that drop is expected during the holidays. And each of those 6,346 computers logged-on an average of eleven times in that thirty days.

That’s not all that many, but if each of you buys my book and we add to that the number of books I have purchased, I’m halfway to becoming a best-selling author!

Anyway, click over there ===}}} to the Bloggie Roller and look at the Clarion Review or the Amazon sales linksters. Check shit out and please at least consider a book purchase.

Which reminds me. For those of you who habitate areas in close proximity to Austin, Texas, I want to invite you to the book launch party for the book. It will be held on Thursday the 12th—that’s ten days from today and next Thursday—at 7-9:00 pm. You can email me and I’ll send you all the specifics. We have but so much room and I need to RSVP for you, so contact me on the emailer and I can get you in. It will be a good time—I give you my personal guarantee.

And why, for the love of God, is habitate not a word. Are you fucking kidding me? If you have habitation, there has to be habitate first. Asswipe Troglodyte Baptist right-wing goat fucking grammar police. I think the one-percenters must be running Webster’s Dictionary. Who decides that shit anyway?

OK, stop. My ADHD has set the train on fire and we smoldering on the tracks. What I wanted to say herein is that a story appeared in today’s Austin American-Statesman newspaper about how the Rick Perry headquarters is (are?) making plans on how to spin a third-place finish in Iowa. That would be assuming that he beats the predictions to finish fourth and places third, and that depends upon Rick’s prayers and church attendance record swaying God to give him more votes than God gives His other preferred candidates. Rick Perry believes that God is in control of the election and that it will be prayer that wins it.

I wonder how little Ricky words that prayer.

“Dear God,

I don’t want to be unseemly, but I need You to make Iowaianian voters vote for me when they vote. I promise I’ll do anything to win the primary straws and I really need those straws so I’ll have some mojo going into North Hampshire. With the seven Iowa electrical votes and then the four if I win that one in New Shropshire, I’ll have, uh let’s see… seven-carry-the-four…

Oh, You can count them, God, and You know I need those votes. And remind me again, what does the Department of Energy do? And by the way, would you please make Juarez safer. It’s embarrassing to have America’s most dangerous city in Texas.

And that Michele Bachmann. Please. How can she call herself a Christian? I’m the only real Christian in the race, God. I hate the fagots and the teachers and the abortionaterists and I hate the whatchamacallits too. You know, the uh, the… Oppsie. But You’re God and You already know I hate everything I’m supposed to hate.”

Which brings up a very important point for me. Something that has bothered me ever since the third grade. See, I stole a quarter from Mother’s purse when I was in the third grade. I was about a quarter short to buy a balsa wood airplane that I could strap a giant firecracker on board. Streaker Jones and I unrolled 1,000 Black Cats and took the gunpowder from them to make this bigger explosive using newspaper and electrician’s tape. We tied a few dozen of the Black Cat fuses together for a timed fuse. We had intentions to build a flying bomb and were dead set to do so.

This would be the same quarter I promised to return the other day when I challenged the Pope to Pay It Backward. I promised to give back everything a Johnson ever stole or got under-priced with threatening behavior, if he would do likewise for the Holy Roman Catholic Church. I have already quietly slipped $23.97 into Mother’s purse, an amount I calculate to be the quarter plus interest, and I mailed a Navajo rug to a woman in Manhattan, Kansas. I didn’t steal the rug, but my grandfather bought it for a pittance from the woman’s daddy, a man down on his luck.

The World awaits the fucking Pope to do the right thing on any subject.

Anyway, I stole the quarter one Sunday morning on our way to the Baptist church. Mother stopped to check on our neighbor, a widow woman, and left her purse in the car with Sister and me. I took the quarter and Sister told me I was going to burn in hell sitting at her left hand. My darling younger sibling already knew she was a lesbian and had been told, repeatedly, that homosexuals would burn in hell.

At church that morning Pastor Browningwell gave the sermon about the talents, and he summed it up by saying that wasting talents was like stealing talents and that stealing would send you to hell. He said that God knew everything and would punish you if you didn’t repent and pray for His forgivenesses.

After church I faced a dilemma—one of the many church-induced dilemmas of my childhood. I wanted to not go to hell but I wanted the balsa wood airplane enough to spend Eternity in hell. I didn’t have a firm grip on how long Eternity was, and I hadn’t yet burned myself badly enough to fear hell summarily. I also thought that God knew everything since that is the very basis of God’s existence as preached by the Baptists. So, I got to thinking.

Why do we need to pray if God already knows everything? If He knows everything, He knew that I stole the quarter, He knew that I had evil intent with the giant winged firecracker and He already knew that I am powerless to repent and stop my bad actions. He is, after all, the know-all/see-all of the Universe.

So why pray? Really, what good can it do? He already knows every fucking thing that has happened, is happening or ever will happen. So why pray?

Which brings up another confusion related to God and religion. If, as the Baptists say, God gives us free will to determine our fates, yet God is in charge of everything and makes everything happen…

Maybe Kris Kristofferson got it right. Maybe freedom really is when you’ve got nothing else to lose. Sometimes I wish the Baptist lobotomy had worked on me. Sometimes I wish that I was one of those brain numbed believers. Life would be so much simpler if I didn’t need to think and understand all of this stuff.

Of course then I’d be a right-wing religious asshole, the same kind of person I actually think will spend Eternity in whatever hell there is.

Fuck it, I’m taking the animals fishing. Manana, y’all.

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6 Responses to “You’re Invited To A Party; Rick Perry Still A Prick”

  1. I want to see Rick Perry stand up during a debate and go “Fuck this shit, I challenge you all to a King of the Cage tournament. Winner gets the nomination.” and watch them all duke it out.

    Mostly because I think Ron Paul has some mad ninja skills, and I want to see Michele Bachmann take a roundhouse kick to the face…

    …but that’s just me…

  2. admin says:

    Bandolini. Rick the Prick Perry would need to grow some actual balls to make that challenge. An oil match might be a better fit for this bunch of fuckballs. Let Dr. Marcus join the fun.

  3. squatlo says:

    God, the visual of a cage match between that herd of dolts has knocked my train of thought right off the track… Maybe they should all be smeared over with a frothy mixture of lube and fecal matter for that Santorum effect, too…

    Love your Rick Perry Prayer, Mooner, especially the part where he forgets what he’s praying about. If this group of hypocrites prayed half as often as they want people to think they pray, they’d have calloused knees and their hands would be welded into a perpetual palm-to-palm patty-cake pointer in the middle of their chests, making them look like porcelin devining rods searching for water, or gas to frack, or a Super PAC to plunder. If they weren’t so sad they’d be funny as hell to watch. Actually, they ARE funny as hell to watch, even though they’re the saddest group of posers since the good folks in Dayton, Tennessee tried to burn John Scopes at the stake for teaching evolution. Gimme that ol’ time religion, indeed.

    I was reading the comments to your previous post and it seems some of your loyal readers (not the lurkers or the contented thieving kind) eat black eyed peas for New Year’s. Glad my lovely and dangerous wife has us on a purge. Or a cleanse, maybe it’s called a cleanse, this thing we’re on. All I know is I’d love some cheese, a cold beer, and something fried and greasy. But she says we have to do this ‘brush and pot pourrie’ thing for a couple of weeks. Apparently, I’m not allowed to eat black eyed peas on this diet of hers. That’s the only saving grace I’ve found so far. I detest black eyed peas. I don’t even like the music the fucking band with that name makes on the radio. Wait, that’s the Red Hot Chili Peppers I detest… not sure I’ve even heard the Black Eyed Peas play a tune. Nevermind.
    See what happens when a good mind is starved of nutritional needs? You start to confuse veggies, legumes, and rock bands.

    Next thing you know I’ll be foraging for sunflower seeds with the squirrels beneath my bird feeders…

    If I show up unannounced for your book launch party and you don’t offer me a Carta Blanca I’m taking you out of my will…
    RSVP my hairy ass…

  4. Granny Ook says:

    Squatlo- Firstly, I enjoy Squatlo Rants- I found Mooner’s blog through your blogroll, for which I am not sure whether I should thank you or curse you… And secondly, pease are not only good for you, they is delicious (especially if you cook them with lots of spicy Cajun sausage). And if you do get desperate enough to fight the squirrels for the sunflower seeds, they are very healthful too…

    Mooner- I already bought your g-d book and have read it 2.62 times. So you content thieves out there- the book is really funny, and there is some primo content in there that does NOT appear anywhere here to this blog. (Probably because Mooner’s mom really would die of embarrassment if he went there.)

  5. chrisinphx says:

    that prayer is too damn funny, and sad and true that so many people believe it actually makes a difference.
    Its only recently that I started to pay attention to the politics non sense, and this whole electoral college votes are total BS.

  6. admin says:

    Squat. OK, where to start. “Porcelin devining rods…” that’s a classic. If that were to happen, then my God would have a target for His lightening bolts.

    Second, I have met your lovely and dangerous and still have the frost-chaffed balls to show for it. To think that she would first freeze your ass off and then starve you sounds like crybaby to me. Just because she limits your B-52 consumption to a quart per day doesn’t make her an evil person. Stop your whining and take it like a man. Really, how bad could it be? Sneak some peas if it’s that big a deal to you. Call BJ, he’ll share his.

    Lastly, you show here to Austin and I show you the Carta Blanca beer stash up close and personally.

    Granny. Thanks, I think. First of all, I love Squat’s to Pee dearly, but he can do him some whining. And I like black-eyed peas most any way they can be prepared. My deeply Baptist and likewise martyred mother wouldn’t read my shit if it was her Sundy School lesson. I haven’t included all that shit here because I’ve already given enough of the store away for free.

    Chris. I think I approximated little Ricky’s wishes and sentiments accurately. Fuck Rick Perry!

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