Archive for February, 2012

Almost Drilled At Top Notch Drive-In; Hannah Still Has It!

Wednesday, February 29th, 2012


So. I was over to visit an ex-brother in law yesterday before lunch. His office is in the general vicinity of the Top Notch Drive-In, so I had lunch at the nifty little burger and fried chicken joint. They cook their burgers on an actual charcoal grill and their chicken is among the best in town. I had a burger and crispy tots, my usual.

Why this is remarkable isn’t the high quality of the food as it is remarkably consistent in its high qualities. I like to sit in my car and eat—Top Notch has it’s original car hop speaker system and tin-covered car port—while I listen to my radio. I have Sirius Satellite in the GTO and I had Left Radio, Channel 127 on your radio dial, and Ed Schultz was on. My food had just been dropped off and I’d unwrapped my burger for the first bite.

Is it even proper to say “on your radio dial” anymore? The only radio I even have with a dial is Granddaddy’s old Philco, and it’s in storage out to the barn. Everything else is digitized.

Before I take a first bite of any Top Notch burger, I always take a sniff first. There’s something intoxicating about that first whiff of charcoaled beef, pickles and onion that makes the burger more enjoyable. I guess it’s the same dealie as with wine.

OK, let’s back up a second. This might be my ADHD talking, but why do we say “ex-in laws” if we only have divorces from the wife or husband? I have only divorced one brother in law yet have been divorced to ten women. That one guy, a Baptist Deacon lawyer who works for the State of Texas to fight death sentence appeals, is a special case. Actually, I didn’t accept him as my in-law when I married his sister, so maybe he’s a bad example. I never did like that asshole.

When I asked him the question “What about the innocent man who is convicted wrongly and sentenced to death? How do you rectify, justify that in your mind putting him to death?”[,] he answered, he said to me, “Who cares? The death penalty is all about punishment of the guilty and we’re all guilty of something.”

I also heard the other day that he and his wife are big Santorum supporters. They don’t think Rick Perry is a big enough prick, they want an asshole like Santoria to be President. Asswipe dickwad Baptist right-wing Republican shitballs is what they are.

Anyway, so I sniffed a deep drag off my burger. My eyes were closed and Ed was talking to a man on the ground up to Michigan about the Repub primary. They were discussing the light voter turn-out and what it might mean. I exhaled my burger hit in a whoosh, and slowly opened my eyes. My focus settled on the door to the Top Notch dining room where an old fart was exiting with two little kids who appeared to be his grandkids.

One of them, the boy, was holding the man’s left hand at the wrist and hanging with his feet off the ground like kids love to do. The boy was laughing and swinging as he tugged the man’s shoulder out the joint. I was reminded of my youngest son who felt that my arm was the neatest carnival ride on the midway until he was three.

The other child, the girl, was a step behind and had her eyes plastered to the man’s right hip. They were walking towards me—I was in the last parking slot at the end of the carport so that my satellite radio would work—and the little girl’s fascination fascinated me. Their truck was parked right beside the GTO outside the cover of the carport. I was thinking how nice it was that the man didn’t park at a car hop speaker spot and then eat inside. I get pissed when the speaker spots are filled with empty cars.

The trio walked to the aisle between our rides, and that was when I saw the object of the girl’s attentions. Riding low on the man’s hip was a six shooter sitting in a leather holster with, I think, a DPS star pinned to it. I figured DPS because they have a big office near and I see their officers here often. Here in Texas we have concealed handgun laws but, thankfully, not yet an open carry rule. Thank god you have to be a lawman to carry a gun on your hip, and I wish to god we had smarter lawmen.

The little girl waited until the man’s attentions were focused on removing the boy from his arm, and struck. She grabbed the pistol with both hands and yanked it free of the leather. I don’t know if it wasn’t properly latched in the holster or if the tyke had great strength, but either way a four-year-old girl now had a loaded revolver.

I ducked—my natural response in these situations—and dumped my tots on the floor and started cussing about that. I heard the discussion about the retaking of the gun, scolding and placing the kids in the truck, but I didn’t register much of it because I was cussing. Then I realized as I was leaning over to pick tots off the floor, I dragged my shirt through catchup I had carefully placed on the console.

“Mo-ther fuck-er,” I said aloud but mostly to myself when I saw the front of my shirt.

“Hey, buddy,” a man’s voice said from outside my window. “You need to watch your mouth. This here’s a family restaurant.”


I took a deep breath and exhaled onion and grilled beef before even looking at him. When I did look his way, his eyes widened and he stepped back with his hands in that “Oops, sorry” position. “You’re right… I’ll just be going now,” and he did.

Am I a shitbag magnet? Do I bring this sort of thing on myself? This asshole almost gets someone shot and he’s pissed at my language? I don’t usually cuss around kids but they don’t usually point a fucking revolver at me. Does a revolver even have a safety?

Good thing for him I promised the Squirt I’d not loose my shit with assholes this week.

Anyway, I got home from that bullshit to find the Squirt and Honor the fucking cat waiting for me in the driveway. I could tell we had a problem as soon as I saw them sitting there without Yoda at their side. When I got out of the car I asked them, “Hey, guys, where’s the third shitbird?”

“You need to do something about Yoda, and right fucking now!” Squirt stamped her foot on the “now” and finished with a prissy pout. “He’s locked in Gram’s potion cellar so we don’t kill him.”

Speaking of revolvers, I need to find my Revolver CD and spend some time with it. I need to hear Tomorrow Never Knows. Manana, y’all.


Oh, yea, and PS- Hannah from Whole Foods- check out February 17th.

Not Mayonaise, Dumass- Maliase

Monday, February 27th, 2012


So. It’s Monday. I’m looking at today as a new beginning of sorts, and I’ve promised myself that I won’t get out of sorts with political or religious assholes for the entire week. I promised myself I’d let dummies be dumb and stupid say as stupid does.

OK, I’ve started the week not breaking my promise but with a lie. I didn’t promise myself I’d maintain composure in relation to the incorrectness that is the Republican Party, I made said promise to the Squirt.

“You’re out of fucking control, Monsieur Mooner. You are ranting and raving like the lunatic who gets himself locked away over at Shoal Creek Mental Hospital,” Squirt told me while we were fishing.

Those of you who have read my book, Full Rising Mooner—available on Amazon or Kindle with a simple clicking over there ===}}} to the Bloggie Roller—already know about Shoal Creek Loony Bin. Those readers know how much I hate that hellhole. Fuck the rest of you, you can use your imaginations. Unless, of course, you have the book but have not as yet reached the Shoal Creek Mental parts, in which case you don’t need to be fucked at this time.

The reason I was ranting while fishing is Rick “Super-Prick” Santoria. That shitwad had the gall to actually say that he doesn’t want church and state separated. He wants to conjoin them in accordance to his personal religious beliefs. For the life of me I can’t see how these assholes are finding enough support for getting elected to anyfuckingthing. What woman in her right mind would vote for this prick?

I guess the short answer is brain-dead or frightened women. Like Sarah Palin in the first sense and my very own mother in the second. Sarah and her twin-separated-at-birth, Michele Bachmann, are obviously dumb enough to give a guy like the Voodoo Prince control of their lives. Sarah still thinks Moose hunting should be legal in all 50 states (except that she only knows the names of thirty-one of the fifty), and Michele is married to a gay man who says he thinks the same as Santoria.

My mother is so frozen with fear that she isn’t good enough to get into heaven that she’ll believe anything Pastor Browningwell tells her.

Anyway, we’re all out to the dock fishing this morning. Rick Perry was scratching Rush Limbaugh’s back with his beak making long swipes back and forth. The big pig was splatted out on his stomach and the ostrich was standing at his side—wings fully extended to the sides for balance, ass high in the air as he leaned over to scratch Rushie’s tough hide. It sounded like #4 grit sandpaper dragged across a cedar plank as the bird made long, rhythmic arcs back-and-forth.

The sound reminded me of this Buddy Rich riff when he was playing in a trio with Art Tatum and Lionel Hampton. Buddy played almost the entire album with brushes rather than sticks, and the sounds of his drums made an indelible print on my memory.

“Swishhhh-shishhh-shi-shi-shishhhhh.” The big feather duster tail on Rick Perry’s ass fluttered in syncopation to his head movements—cantaloupe head one way-big ass and top knot of feathers the other. It was mesmerizing.

I was staring at the bird’s ass and trying to dredge my memory for the strains of “Lover Man” off one of the trio’s albums. I tried to pull the full picture of Buddy Rich’s face too, but all I got was his Cheshire Cat grin—that grin that said, “I know you dig this, baby, but there’s deeper thinking here than you’ll ever get. I’ve got rhythms that got their own rhythms.”

I was sitting with my eyes closed doing my best rendition of wire brushes on top-hat cymbals with a still-cold Carta Blanca resting nestled in my crotch, and a smoldering dube sitting in the crack in the pier plank that serves as my roach clip on fishing trips. Squirt jumped into my lap—front paws braced on my chest, her nose jammed on my chin, and the beer bottle pressed between her soft belly and mine. Her breath smelled of earthworms and dandelions, a not altogether unpleasant odor.

“Listen to me, Mooner, you jackass, wake up! You have got to get yourself under control. It’s nine months until the elections and you’ll be apoplectic by then if you can’t settle down.”

“I just don’t know how to not react to this shit, Squirtie. I’m so scared that there are enough stupid Americans to put one of those assholes in the White House.”

“Then write about it, bitch about it. But don’t take it out on the rest of us,” she counseled.

I took a deep breath and said, “You’re right, Sweetie, I can’t bully you any more than I can let them bully me. Now get you’re smelly ass off me so I can drink my beer.”

I guzzled the rest of my then tepid beer, picked a pair of short brown dog hairs off my tongue, re-lit the dube, closed my eyes and took a big drag. When I opened my eyes again, I realized that the music had stopped. The ostrich was now splayed atop the splayed pig. Rick Perry looked like an ostrich back pack mounted on a giant pig’s back.

I poked Squirt’s side and said, “Look at that, little lady. Ain’t love grand?”

Squirt scrunched her nose at the sight. “Beauty in the eyes, big guy, beauty is in the fucking eyes.”

“And me without my camera.”

I looked around the dock. Rush and Rick deep in love’s sleep, Yoda and the fucking cat were chasing a snake or a lizard in the tall grass at the base of the dock, and my favorite puppy was sitting at my side. All seemed right with the world for a moment.

“OK. I promise I’ll try to not take this shit out on you guys,” I told her. “I promise I’ll try.”

Squirt lay her soft head on my hand and looked out over the water. She took a deep breath and let it out with a “hmmmmmm”[.] She said to me, she said, “I guess that’ll be good enough for now.”

Manana, y’all.


A Man For All Seasons, Sex Is The Reason; Mooner’s Miracle Cure

Saturday, February 25th, 2012


So. I’m sitting here Saturday morning reflecting back on a strange week. I had a great guest host story from Melanie, I had my first review made by a free book recipient, I got a little nookie, and I lost my temper with my mother and almost blew the house down.

I’m sitting here at the computer having sat with nothing to tell you. I first sat to check out what everybody else had written today, but nobody has done anything—all my favorite bloggie spots contain yesterday’s news—so I decided to write to you. I sat and stared at the screen for fifteen minutes, screen and mind sharing the same blankness.

I opened Spider Solitaire to ease a little pressure off my swollen and bruised brain, started playing, and thirty minutes later I had three blank spaces, two runs of new cards left to play at the bottom, the King-to-five of Spades were in the far left space, the King-to-seven of Diamonds were next to them, King-to ten of Hearts next then another set of Spades down to the nine. In the far right, in descending numbers to the bottom of the pile, were my finishing stacks of suited cards. Each of those stacks were in rows wherein the bottom cards were in ascending order right-to-left.

“I love when a plan comes together,” I said, proud and aloud, to myself and the animals, who were just starting to stir from sleep.

“Vos est los?” Squirt had left the bed and jumped into my lap. She stared at the computer screen and said, again, she said, “What in the hell are you doing, Bwana Mooner?”

I pointed at the screen. “See how I have things organized? Now, when I decide to finish the game I can make the books from right-to-left on the left side of the screen using the closing stacks from left-to-right as I move them from the right side of the screen.”

My little puppy stared at the screen for another long moment. “Huh?” she said, “run that shit by me once more.”

I did.

She stared at the screen again, looked at me a long moment, then back to the computer screen. “OK, shitbrain, show me what the fuck you’re doing.”

“OK,” said proudly. “Watch this.”

I played the first run of new cards and set each up correctly according to my formula. “See how I’ve kept the integrity of my stacks?”

“No,” Squirt told me, “but don’t let that stop you. Go on.”

I clicked the final new card stack and began my closing moves. The suited stacks closed with their animated sound effects. When I play correctly, I can click the closings where they clear the board in syncopation.

“Ha, would you look at that!” I exclaimed. “Per-fucking-fecto!!!”

The Squirt seemed not to be sharing my elation—she just kept moving her glassy stare from the screen to my face. After maybe a dozen passes between face and computer, Squirt locked her eyes onto mine. “Mooner, you are seriously fucked up. I think we need an intervention.”

I shooed her off and opened a game of Free Cell. I always go from Spider to Free Cell. It’s an easier game and since I’m usually worn out getting a proper win on Spider, my Free Cell game has fewer self-imposed rules. For this game I check the initial layout to see which of the outer four stacks has the lowest card on its bottom. That stack is my “flipper stack” and the one I use to end the game.

I then arrange all of the Kings-ascending stacks into the middle four slots leaving two slots on either side to be open in the end. When I end the game, it has to be by making that last move from the flipper stack. Shazam, animated sound effects with the lowest possible card the last card played!!!

When I finished the Free Cell game off with another perfect synchronization, I sat back, satisfied. The sun was peeking through my bedroom window and giving my computer screen a mirror finish. I tilted my head to bring the image of my face into view. I first caught the shit-eating grin plastered to my face and then the manic look raging in my eyes.

“Oh, god. I really am fucked up. I can’t even play a stupid computer card game without complications. Ugh.” My mood went from card shark elation to loony man blue.

Ugh, ugh, ugga-fucking-ugh. How crazy am I? How crazy is it possible to be? Is crazy a quantitative measure or is it like pregnant—you either are are are not, and all or nothing? Once it’s a clinical diagnosis reading “He’s crazy” does anything else really matter?

Or can you be crazy by degrees? Like was Hitler more crazy than Salvador Dali, is Lindsey Lohan more nutso than Charlie Sheen? Am I a bigger wacko than Newbt Gangreenich or Pricky Rick Santoria?


I sat, as I said earlier, reflecting on my week and likewise on my lunacies. After careful consideration of all the aspects of my crazinesses, I have reached a conclusion. I think I have a clear picture of what the root cause of my afflictions is. The realization was stunning, the simplicity of my problems amazing.

More sex. I need more sex!

Manana, y’all.


Back To Normal- A Psycho Therapy Success Story

Friday, February 24th, 2012


So. I have now discovered that I am the Aeolus of shit storms. Sure, Zeus was the Greek’s thunderbolt God but it was Aeolus who controlled the winds—both fair and foul. I have managed to blow a wind most foul and cast a pall over the Johnson family household. And, “Yes, Mother, “ I did spell that non-Christian’s god with a capital “G”[.]

I’m sick of the Christians having the only capital G god. I’m either making everybody’s fucking god a big G God, or they’re all to be small gods. I wonder if it was Aeolus after whom one of my favorite parts of a woman’s body was named.

My hours yesterday were spent getting hammered on all sides about my temper tantrum and what is now viewed as a “threat” to kick my mother out of my house. I didn’t do any such a thing. I told her that if she was so offended by my beliefs that she could move her rosy-red ass out of my house.

It is, after all, my fucking house. I won’t tell you the entire story as to how the Johnson family homestead became mine before the deaths of Gram and Mother, because it would embarrass them both. If I was the kind of man I’m now accused to be, I’d tell you the full-disclosured details and say to them, “How’s that ass taste, ladies?”

What I will say is this. I own this entire insane asylum lock, stock and barrel, and I didn’t want to be its owner. I was forced to take sole ownership in order to keep said asylum under family controls. In the many years the title has been in my name, I think I have been a fair king—a just king. I’m an asshole and likewise crazy, but I’m not, usually, a tyrant.

The only woman in the house who was speaking to me was the Squirt, and the only conversations we had had since breakfast yesterday were on the subject line reading “Mooner’s a giant flaming asshole”[.] “You, Mooner middle name Fuckhead Johnson, are a giant flaming asshole,” have been the words out of Squirt’s mouth.

Save for Mother, who didn’t speak to me all day, I was dressed-down by each Johnson woman at dinner last night. It was pointed out to me that I’m a giant flaming asshole, I act as if my feelings are the only feelings that matter, I throw my weight around like a Sumo wrestler, I speak disrespectfully to my elders, I am inappropriate, and oh yes, that I’m a giant flaming asshole.

Do you guys think the proper grammatical methodology for that would be to add a comma before flaming? Like I’m a giant, flaming asshole?

When my dressing down was complete, I thanked the ladies for expressing themselves in a confident, active way and without passive-aggressivnesses, and I told them that I would take their critiques under advisement. I also apologized to my mother publicly, as she sat poking at the chicken salad on her plate. She hadn’t looked me in the eyes nor has she spoken a word since my temper tantrum. She made no response to my public apology same as with the private one made earlier in the day.

I’ve been in a quandary over this one, having difficulties with what to do. I felt that I should get this issue in front of my psycho therapist with great alacrity, so I made an “emergency” appointment for after dinner at 7 pm. Why I thought I’d get insight in the office of my therapist and first ex-wife is beyond me. The longer I’m in psycho therapy the more I come to understand that the goal of psycho therapy is to create the need for more psycho therapy.

When I called Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson to make the appointment, she asked me, “What is so important that I need to cancel my facial?”

When I told her about yesterday’s indecent, she said to me, she said, “Aaaah. I’ve been waiting for this one to raise its ugly head for years. See you at seven.”

She’s been waiting for this one to raise its ugly head for years? Whatthefuck?

“Look, Mooner, you crazy redneck fuckbrain, those women are all grateful to you for saving the family homestead and providing a pleasant life for them. But when you acted to keep the ranch in the family, you upset the family apple cart. You destroyed the hierarchy.”

I caught that load of shit before my ass was even settled onto her couch. “Whatthefuck, Sammie,” I started, “I don’t abuse or mistreat those women in any way. I’m respectful of their peccadilloes—and trust me here when I say that Chez Johnson has got itself some fucking peccadilloes—and I always try to be sensitive to their needs and delicate sensibilities.”

“This isn’t about you, shit brain, this is about them. How many times do I have to tell you that the yin to gratitude’s yang, is embarrassment?”

“Oh for shitsakes, Sam. I am incapable of pretending to be something I’m not, so what am I going to do about this? And what is this stain on your couch cushion?”

My ex-wife/therapist blushed, then waived-off my cushion stain question with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Mooner, what you are going to do, is nothing. You apologized, you tried to get Mother to understand your side, and we all know that your mother is controlled by her fears. If I were you, I’d pretend that nothing has happened and just go on as usual. Things will settle back to normal before you know it. You do need to control your temper though. It concerns me that you blew up so much.”

“Don’t you worry about me and my temper, I’m managing fine. Well, I was hoping for insight with a keener edge to it, Sammie, but I guess you’ve got this one pegged. Thanks.” And with that I dragged myself off her couch and headed out.

“Oh, and Mooner. Tell Gnat that your bill will show charges for a facial, a bottle of Dom and a triple-times hourly rate for tonight. Some way or another we’re going to get to to act right.”

Anyway, I took the advice to heart and at breakfast I got up early and made pecan waffles, huevos rancheros and pork meat three ways—bacon, smoked ham and savory sausage. As they came to the kitchen I addressed each lady with a, “Good morning, sunshine. Have a seat and I’ll pour you some coffee.” OK, except I popped the cap on a bottle of Carta Blanca for Gram and myself—we both like beer with the rancheros-style eggies.

The reactions from each woman was different but all had the same cool sentiments. “Everybody want runny yolks this morning?” I asked when the chilled matrons were all were seated.

“Can I have mine hard, Mr. Johnson?” Robert asked. “I’m in an agriculture class at A&M as an elective, and the professor said that you should not eat uncooked egg yolks. Not safe.”

“Robert, my boy,” I instructed. “These eggs right here were snatched from the hen’s ass before they were half-way laid and washed in that sink right over there while still warm. I have a pretty good idea where you mouth has been since the weekend, and these eggies right here might be the safest things you’ve had.”

At that, Robert—one of the pair of young Texas Aggies spending the week with us looked adoringly at Gram as if to get her affirmation on the eggs. “What you need to be wary of, Robert, is that look of love in your eyes. That old woman will rip your heart in a dozen places and leaved you wrecked and broken,” I told him.

I fixed all the eggs runny-yolked and the entire table ate greedily. Mother sat in a quiet solitude, her face in the pinched pose of martyred motherhood that has become her permanent countenance. “So,” I started, “how ’bout them Cowboys?” The Dallas Cowboys are my mother’s football team. “America’s team” and all that silly shit.

The entire went still. The half-minute of silence was broken with, “We need a cornerback,” Mother almost whispered. “And some Christian counseling for Dez Bryant.”

“Oh, fer shitsakes, Mother, fuck yer Christian canoing. All Dezzie needs is a little bit of a good woman ta fix his shit. Maybe me an’ tha P-cubed can make a swing up ta Dallas fer ya. Now quit yer bitchin’ an’ pass me tha syrup.”

I looked at Robert when Gram made her offer to head to Dallas and fix Dez Bryant’s shit and the look of shock registered a hit. The other, nameless Aggie ate without uttering a word. Aunt Hilda was telling her shrunken-head-in-a-mahogany-box that the Texas Longhorns just landed a top prospect for the 2013 recruiting class, and Mother reached for the remote and turned on Good Morning America.

She raised the TV sound with the volume button. “…and new in the Republican Presidential race, Rick Santorum said yesterday that Mitt Romney…”

Dr. Sam I. Am was right. Good as new. Manana, y’all.


In The Name Of Christ?; Fuck Rick Santorum

Thursday, February 23rd, 2012


So. We’re all at breakfast this morning, sitting at the big table. The table is crowded today since the two most recent Texas Aggie underclassmen victims of Gram’s catch-and-release man-fishing practices have stayed close to the boat after their release. Gram snagged these pimply-faced engineering students while trolling the A&M campus in her Ferrari on Saturday afternoon and when offered the requisite ride back to College Station Monday afternoon, the one named Robert asked, “Can we stay a few more days, please. We haven’t eaten this well since we moved into the dorm.”

Usually, the young fish Gram hooks with her shiny sports car come to their senses within the first forty-eight hours of captivity, become severely embarrassed with the knowledge that they have rubbed blisters on their pecker bumping uglies with a woman who would make a good model for a garden scarecrow, and get all meek and scared.

“Will you please take us home, Gram Johnson? Please?” are the first words most often heard uttered by these boys at the breakfast table the morning after. Oft times the words are whimpered and often the young Aggie Corpsmen don’t even make it to breakfast. Many is the time I’m awakened at dawn by the shrieks and howls a 12-cylinder engine makes when over-revved while cold when Gram hauls her catch back to Aggieland.

I’ve tried to get my grandmother to take a few minutes to warm her car’s engine before hauling ass. “I ain’t got tha time ta warm steel, Mooner, I’m a old lady what got tha hot crotchies.”

I figure my randy old grandmother doesn’t care that it costs $3,000 each to re-sleeve the dozen tight-tolerance cylinders that power her little red hot rod. I likewise figure I don’t care either as long as she keeps carding these boys to insure she lands legally caught fish.

Anyway, we’re at breakfast and Robert, and the other boy whose name I still don’t know, are bartering for room and board for the week. “If you’ll get Mr. Mooner to teach us how he cooks that tomato sauce with the secret ingredients, we’ll stick around and do chores ’till the weekend,” Robert told us.

“Son, if you call me “Mister” again, you’ll end up as fertilizer for the secret ingredients,” I told him back. “The secret to that sauce is my home grown tomatoes for their flavor and Gram’s magic mushrooms for their texture. The buzz is just a pleasant side effect.”

The boys giggled, I guess at the mushroom part, and the TV caught my ear. Pricky Rick Santoria and Herr Schmidt Romney were on the tube in a lowlights dealie from last night’s Reflublican debate. “The problem with America is the family is becoming fractured,” is what I heard that Catholic bigot Santorum say.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I asked the TV and the room. I grabbed the remote out of Mother’s hand and jammed a finger to the Off button. “Mother fucking asswipe Christian chalky-skinned religious shit-headed Catholic right-wing Republican fuckball!”

I took a deep breath while I wished I could have said how I really felt. I’m finding myself getting truly angry with the Republican’s political issuing for this election. I’m pissed at them because they are true bigoted assholes. But I’m getting really pissed because I clearly understand that the reason the Republican issues are political issues is because their voter base has been polled, and those polls say their base thinks that way.

I sat and fumed at the table while my fellow diners sat quietly poking forks at their plates. I guess my little diatribe had caught them by surprise. But I quite simply didn’t give a shit. As stated, I was fuming.

I slammed my fist on the table. “Jesus fucking Christ, what is wrong with people? Are sane Americans actually supporting this bullshit? Are grown up adult women really in favor of giving Rick Santorum control of their bodies and minds?”

“Mooner,” Mother sternly said. “You will not take the Lord’s name in vain in my presence.”

I felt my blood pressure pounding in my ears and the blood vessels of my eyes engorge with anger. I jumped from my chair pitching it backwards where it slammed to the floor, and then I pounded both fists on the table top. “Fuck Jesus, fuck God and fuck you too, Mother. If you don’t like the way I act then the three of you need to get your asses out of my house. This shit has gotten out of hand!”

In all the years my mother has thought of me as her son-tyrant, this was the first time I have ever actually been one. “Fuck you, fuck you and fuck you some fucking more!”

And with that, I steamrolled out the back door.

For the first hour I sat on the fishing dock staring at my reflection in the murky water, I wondered how my own mother could be so terribly stupid—ignorant even. Mother is a smart, honest, hard working and quite decent educated woman. I spent the second hour wondering what has happened to me that I would lose my temper that way. I don’t lose my temper like that—I’m always the level head in a crowded bar.

I think I understand why my mother, and millions of other Americans think as she does on these political issues floated by Republicans in this Presidential race. It came to me when I remembered a conversation I had with Mother last week when she drove with me to take some things down to the Food Bank.

Out of the blue she asked me, “Do you ever worry that you won’t make it to Heaven, Mooner?”

“Not for a single moment, Mother,” I answered.

My mother sighed and turned to look forlornly out her side window, sighed again, deeply. “I sometimes worry I haven’t done enough, been a good enough Christian woman. My only daughter is a homo-sex-u-al and you’re… Well, Mooner Johnson, you are my only son.”

When we had this conversation, I thought it was typical martyred Mother talk—Mother’s usual lament that neither of her offspring were good Baptists. Sitting on the dock in reflection, I decided instead that my mother is fearful that the sins of her children will be judged as the sins of the mother come Judgment Day.

I decided that my mother is driven by fear. My mother thinks it isn’t good enough to be a Christian, she worries that she must be the right kind of Christian to get into Heaven.

That is the answer to my question. That, dear friends, is what is wrong with those people who support the likes of Rick Santorum and the other pricky Rick, Texas Governor Perry. People are afraid to not support them.

It’s fear Mooner, you dumbass, fear is the fuel for this rhetoric.

I walked back to the house and into the kitchen and found but one occupant. Mother was at the sink doing dishes with her back to the door. “Mother,” I said in a hushed voice, “Mother I’m sorry for what I said.”

I got no response other than the chilled silence she so often gives me when I disappoint her.

I walked and stood behind her and put my arms around her waist. I rested my chin lightly on top of her head and stood quietly. I could hear her sniffle and felt her body twitch as she cried.

“I love you,” I told her, “you know I do. And I know that you see me as your biggest failure. But it isn’t your fault that I learned to think for myself.”

“I did the best I could with you and Sister, Mooner, and you’re both going to Hell to burn for eternity. Don’t you know what a burden that is for a mother to bear?”

“I guess I don’t,” I told her. I squeezed her and kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled of lilac perfume, the scent of which told me she had spent the night in the company of Mr. Dave. Mother likes to dress all the way up when she schedules a visit. I suppose she sees these conjugal moments as courting. I know she doesn’t see Mr. Dave as a male prostitute whose services are paid paid this self-same Hell-bent son.

The humor of the hypocrisy started niggling in my addled brain, and I felt the laugh start as a tingle at the nape of my neck. The tingle worked down my sides and when it made it to my belly, my belly started laughing. Once I started I couldn’t stop. I was “Ho-ho-hoeing” like a manic Santa Claus. I laughed so hard I lost my breath and sank to the floor with the giggles. When I could catch enough air to speak, I decided against it.

My poor mother thinks she is going to hell because she is sexing it up with Mr. Dave. What a dilemma that must be for her. She’s so horny and lonely for male companionship that she’ll risk going to Hell to bang Mr. Dave.

People do terrible things in the name of religion. This current crop of Republicans are feeding Christ’s followers a steady diet of bigoted fear, and that might be the most terrible thing a man can do in the name of Christ.

Like I said, fuck them all. Manana, y’all.



Reflections In A Dark Mirror; Mending Mooner’s Mind

Wednesday, February 22nd, 2012


So. I was out early this morning to finish my fishing and reflections to complete the task that was interrupted by SAC Ellen’s booty call yesterday. I’ve got a crick in my neck from having my head jammed against the door of the truck, I’ve got a bloody patch in my chest hairs where a little tuft was twisted out, and I’ve got a bruise on my hip that would be a perfect match for a “Hello Kitty” gear shift knob. Ever since I was adopted by the fucking cat, everybody thinks it’s funny to give me “Hello Kitty” shit. Who even thought that there would be a market for “Hello Kitty” gear shifter knobs?

It does have a nice feel in your hand though. But everything in the entire HK line is pink, for shitsakes. I don’t think I actually hate the color pink, but I can say with absolute certainty that I don’t care for the color pink.

I do like Pink, the singer, and Arrowsmith’s song is a favorite romance tune.

SAC Ellen likes to be on top when we’re in a hurry and I’m A-OK with that. What makes me uncomfortable is when we’re in a hurry and the only safe room for sexing is the truck. “Why couldn’t I drive the GTO?” I asked her when we’d finished the sexing and she was getting redressed to re-board the airplane and I was blotting the blood from my chest. “The seat lays back in the goat and I don’t hurt my neck.”

She had a 90-minute layover—layover an appropriate double entendre in this case—and our sex was fast and furious. She told me, “I’ve banged my head on the roof of that damned GTO so many times my skull looks like a horse apple, Sweetie. Thanks for taking one for the team.”

With that she kissed me, handed me the soiled moist towelettes she’d used to clean up, and said, she said to me, “Keep this one close to your mind, Mooner. I’m not sure when I’ll get back to town.”

“You’re lucky it was good,” I said to her back as she slammed the old truck’s door. I watched her disappear through the big opening in the airport parking garage as she ran to catch her flight, and marveled one more once at how nimble she is on medium-heeled shoes.

I guess I’ll try to keep that memory close to mind—damned if there isn’t room for it. I’ve had so many thought strings banging around in the ADHD swill I call a mind that I can’t keep them all straight. That’s why I wanted to reflect and spend some time by myself yesterday. So, I grabbed the cooler—still packed with icy-cold Carta Blanca beers from yesterday’s attempts at reflections—rolled a fat replacement dubie for the one not left over from yesterday, made some sausage sammies to replace the eaten BLT’s from yesterday, and headed to the dock.

I thought of BJ as I was making the stacked sausage-and-bread pies. I put a fat-yolked eggie one each in Beej’s honor. He made me pork and egg sammies when I left his house last November so I wouldn’t need to stop to eat on my way home. He stacked spicy pork sausage, bacon and ham with fried eggs and I must say, “Yum-fucking-my!”

I forgot fish bait, not really a problem, and parked my ass on the dock with my feet hanging over the water. I snagged a little ball of bread from one of the sams and stuck it to the end of my hook before flipping the hook and bobber lazily into the creek. I didn’t want to catch anything but genius and I figured the fish in our creek are so spoiled with the fat earthworms I normally use that they’d leave me to my thinking.

I set the top-spinner reel and rod on the dock, cracked a beer and lit the fat wonker for a hit. I met an Irish guy who called a joint a wonker and for some reason I thought about that. Then I drifted to the many words used for pot—like chronic and weed and bud—and drifted off to sleep. I was dreaming about the Kardashian sisters and their mother, and the four of them were fighting over me. Quincy wrote a dealie about Kimmy K yesterday and I guess that was somewhere lodged in my brain in the “Sex” section.

I had just told the K-Girls there was no need to fight because there is plenty of Mooner to go around, when I was jerked awake as the fishing pole started running off the deck on its own. I grabbed it by the last inch of its pistol grip handle, tugging as I sat up. The tug I got in response almost pulled me off the dock.

“What the hell is this all about?” I asked the air. “Can’t a man get any peace and fucking quiet around here. I was this close (see Mooner’s thumb and index finger a quarter-inch apart) from banging all four of the K women in a five-way.”

As I fought and reeled the fish, I started thinking if there really is enough Mooner Johnson for those four women. Hell, Kimmy has been through Reggie Bush, Miles Austin and that basketball player in just two years time, and Kloe looks like she could put a hurt on a man. But the mother, she’s the one that most fascinates me. That one looks crazy to me and you know how much fun crazy women can be.

Anyway, I’d hooked a giant fucking Asian carp. The carp were imported to eat the hydrilla that was imported from Asia and is clogging our lakes. These guys are prettier and cleaner than native carp so it was this fellow’s unluckiest of days. I smoke them with pecan wood after a day in the walk-in cooler covered with a dry rub. Use hot smoke to crispy-up the skin.

I could hardly wait to see how Honor the fucking cat would react to a fish this big. She’s seen three-pound bass but never a fifteen-pound anything. I packed my stuff with the fish in the cooler and headed back up to the house.

As I walked, I wondered why a carp is a fish—carp species includes Asian carp, goldfish and even Koi—and a carp is also a bitchy person. Like say………. my mother. How do pretty fish and quibbling complainers rate the same name? Again, I find myself continuously baffled by the Grammar Police.

I felt the tumblers of my muddled brain starting to fit into place and the thread of an answer to this question started forming. Just as I started puling on the thread, wrapping it around my mental spool, the back door burst open and the menagerie of animals I call pets stormed out.

The fucking cat raced to my feet and started circling and rubbing and purring at my socks. They all gathered and stared at the cooler. “Honor says she smells fish, Herr Mooner,” the Squirt informed me. “Was ist in der verdammten Kuhler, dude?”

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, this here cooler contains a big fucking Asian carp, and we’re giving the honors of gutting him to Honor. Now Squirt, you tell the her to keep her claws off the tenderloins, OK?”

Guys, you have never seen suck a mess or such a sight. I started to think that maybe my life isn’t so tough after all, and I guess I’ll need to finish reflecting manana, y’all.

First Free Book Review Is Here; Rick Perry Still An Asshole!

Wednesday, February 22nd, 2012


So. I have the first book report from one of the books I have given away. I was starting to worry that I’d made bad evaluations of the give-ees since it’s been almost three weeks since I gave the first book away. But the first review arrived by email last night, and as promised, I’m printing it as it arrived. OK, except that I’m not printing Barbara’s email address and Barbara isn’t her actual name.

This is Barbara’s evaluations of Full Rising Mooner:



I don’t know how to do this so I’ll just start. One morning a few weeks ago I was sitting at a table at Pasha, my neighborhood coffee shop, reading a book. A large man wearing shorts and a long sleeve knit shirt came to my table holding a cup of coffee and a book. He had a very big smile, and the twinkle in his eyes told me he was either one of the charismatic Christians that bother me while I try to read, or he was going to hit on me.

“I see you are reading and I’d like to ask you a favor,” the man said.

I gave him my best “I’m a lesbian atheist look” and said, “What do you want?”

“I’ve written this book,” he held the book in my face, “and I’ll give it to you if you pass the test.”

When I didn’t answer in two seconds time, he said, “Are you a Baptist?” I shook my head “No”. “Would you ever vote for Rick Perry for President?” An emphatic “No” from me. “OK, here’s the deal,” he said. “I’ll give you this book if you promise two things. First is that you will go to my website and make a comment, you know, do a book report. Second, you have to promise to give the book to another reader who makes the same promises. Deal?”

“Deal,” I told him. Then I told him I’m a writer also, and that I’m going to steal his test marketing system. He laughed and said, “OK, steal any of my shit you want.”

Then he simply walked away. I looked over the book jacket and laughed at the back cover. I put it into my book bag where it lay hidden until two days ago. I opened it Sunday morning and finished it Sunday night in bed. I read it all day with only stops to eat and go to the store.

Here is my review of Full Mooner Rising- the Most Inappropriate Man in the World. This was the weirdest book I have ever read. I can’t decide if it is weird by accident or on purpose, but it’s weird and in a good way. The book’s narrative style takes some mental adjustment and the constant cursing and ranting at Christians can be off-putting. I almost put the book down when it seemed as if I’d read the word “fuck” more often than the word “the”. Then I realized that this is how some of my friends speak, so I plowed on.

I’m glad I did. Once I relaxed into the rhythm of this book I found myself laughing out loud on almost every page. When I got to the camel toe chapter, I read it three times, laughed each of the three times, and made a mental note to give all my leotards and stretch pants to Goodwill.

I was racing through the pages of preposterous situations and hilarious outcomes and all of a sudden the main character tells a story about the flag that draped his father’s coffin. That story wrenched my guts and I started crying like a baby. It was so like my own experience at my father’s death that I cried for a good ten minutes. When I gave the book to its next reader, a young man attending the University of Texas, I opened the book to that chapter and showed him the tear stains so he wouldn’t worry what they were.

I now believe that dogs can talk; I now will seek a drug dealer to get me some magic mushrooms; I’m working on a method so that I can pee in sinks; and I made an appointment with a therapist to see if I caught Mooner’s ADD.

I didn’t like the ESPN part of the ending, it was too over the top for me. But I have started doing exercises to strengthen my tugging muscles, and I furted my sixteen-year-old daughter as she stood brushing her teeth. Sick as it is, watching my eldest child jump out of her skin was way too funny.

The author gave me a Clarion Forward review of the book when we made our deal. I think the review is spot on in every way. I find myself thinking about some of the social commentaries made in this book and talking to other people about them. Maybe that’s the best thing about it.

I would have paid to buy this book if I knew how much I would enjoy it. [Finis]


Mooner here and please allow me to say, “Hoo-yah!” Another good review even though she got the book’s name wrong. I started to correct that but decided that if I promised to print reviews without censure, I’d do so.

I wonder if anyone would bother to give me a bad review? If I hated a book would I take the time to bitch about it? I’d bitch for sure if I paid for it, but would I complain about a free book?

Ugh. Leave it to me to find the black cloud.

But I don’t really give a shit, I got another good review. So, go buy my fucking book!!!

Southern Baptists Look For New Name; Mooner Suggests: “Ignorant Bigot Asshole Baptists”

Tuesday, February 21st, 2012


So. I’m having some work done to the house and it might drive me crazy. Restorations include re varnishing and repainting outside doors and wood house trim, repainting the walls and ceiling in my closet after installing soundproofing and metal rings strong enough to hold 1,200 pounds on the walls, building a fucking cat play-scape in my bedroom, sealing cracks in my concrete flat work an other stuff.

For those of you in wonderment as to the 1,200 pounds part, if you add 650 pounds of gay pig to 350 pounds of African ostrich—likewise gay—you get a calculated need for 1,200 pounds of towing capacity required for the bondage equipment I promised my closeted same-sex lover pets. I can’t get Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry to come out of the closet and they refuse to play their sex games out to the barn where all that equipment is already set up.

And will somebody please tell me whyinthefuck I can’t say “revarnish” but I can say “repaint”[?] What’s up with that shit? If I can re the finish on something with paint then I should be able to re the finish with varnish, right? Sometimes I think I could choke the life out of whomever it is that made up some of these silly-assed grammar rules.

The first person to start with me about the repairs was, of course, Mother, and she started in on me at breakfast. I can always count on my stuffy-assed mother to take the first shit in my mess kit.

“Butcher Einstein Johnson, you will not play a role in the ungodly homo-sex-u-al relationship between Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry. Isn’t it enough that I must endure living under the same roof where Sodom meets Gomorrah? Now you’re turning your closet into a homo-sex-u-al sex den? I’ve seen how the gays are with those chains and rubber penises. It just isn’t right!” Anytime my mother is feeling especially martyred, she’s compelled to use my full, given name. Which brings up another issue. Why don’t we spell it “unGodly” with a big G?

Anytime Gram hears Mother use my given name, she’s compelled to come to my aid. Gram sniped at Mother, she said, “Mother, yer a bigger pain inna ass than them hermatoids I had that one time. Now, you quit yer fucking bitchy-achin’ an’ pass me tha bacon?”

My grandmother swiped a chunk of crusty ciabatta bread through the remnants of runny egg yolk left on her plate and jammed it into her mouth. The yellowed bread was half swallowed when Gram added, “I swear I don’t got a clue the first one as ta what that big-assed bird sees in Mooner’s fuckin’ pig. Bird’s a pretty little thing an’ that piggie’s a mess. But they’s in love, Mother Johnson, a little sumthin you need ta git a taste of. Now finish yer breakfast an’ go schedule a visit with Mr. Dave.”

My mother blushed and started to deny she has spread her wings with Mr. Dave, the giant-peckered old geezer I’ve hired to keep the Johnson women happy. But Mother won’t tell lies, so she started, “Well I never heard of such a thing, Gram. How dare you to insinuate that I… That… Uh, that, ah… Well, it’s against God’s laws to engage in homo-sex-u-al activity, and it’s blasphemous that my own son—who I raised correctly in the Southern Baptist way—would name a filthy hog after Mr. Limbaugh and that smelly bird after our dear governor.”

Here, Mother did her left-hand-fans-face-right-hand-to-the-forehead martyr pose. “They say God doesn’t give you any burdens you can’t carry, so I guess I must be the strongest woman in Texas.”

“I’mma kick yer bourbon up yer ass if’fn ya don’t shut yer yapper. Now pass me tha bacon fer shit sakes!” I’m not the only Johnson who loves his bacon.

And here I’m reminded that the fucking Southern Baptist Convention has decided to broaden their fan base. I guess that since an asshole like Rick Santarum from Pennsylvania can spout the same idiotic exclusionary hate swill as a Southern Baptist, they need a little name adjustment. They’ve decided to add “Great Commission Baptists” to their name. Seems like ignorance, racism and bigotry has finally escaped the South and infected its way up to the North.

Me, I’m starting to think that if we were to draw the Mason-Dixon line today, there’d be a fight to move it up to include the fucking rust belt states.

Anyway, we all ate some more bacon and I grabbed a beer to go back to my wing of the house to plan the animal’s renovations. When I got there, Ricky and Rushie were engaged in a terrible row about paint colors for their closet. Their closet?

“All right you two melon heads,” I told them, “break it up or I’m taking the both of you to the butcher shop. SAC Ellen has asked for a pair of ostrich skin boots and my pork meat freezer has an opening just about your size.”

They kept snipping at each other like little kids so I sent them outside. I went looking for my puppies and found that Squirt was in the bathroom talking to the fucking cat, and Yoda was playing with the new toy I made him. I cut a little triangle hole in an old tennis ball and stuffed dandelion leaves inside. It’s driving him nuts trying to get at the tender shoots.

The Squirt informed me, “Honor says she wants it built with unfinished cedar and strapped with hemp ropes, like in the movie Tarzan The Fearless, and she wants a scratching station in each corner. She says if you’ll do that she’ll promise to stop using SAC Ellen’s diaphragm.”

“What!!!” I almost came out of my sneakers when I flinched.

Squirt and Honor were rolling on the floor with their laughter. “Got you, shithead. You should have seen the look on your face. Now listen, she wants a scratching station in each corner, and she wants you to know that…”

I didn’t hear anything else Squirt said. Until that very moment I haven’t thought about having a baby for years. I need a vasectomy, I thought to myself.

“You need to reverse that lobotomy first, Bwanna Mooner, then worry about a vasectomy. You aren’t getting enough sex to warrant making a nut cut number one.” I guess I must be thinking out loud again. Squirt followed up with, “Prioritize your medical needs, dude, you know how tricky it’s getting to get health insurance to cover shit.”

And with that my dogs and the fucking cat were all rolling in laughter.

I packed a cooler with Carta Blanca beer, made myself a couple BLT’s with the leftover bacon, rolled a fat one and headed to the dock to fish by myself. To fish and reflect, by myself. That’s when my cell phone started playing “You Can’t Get A Man With A Gun”[,] SAC Ellen’s ring tone.

“Mooner Johnson’s the name, heavy petting and sex is my game,” I answered.

“Pick me up at the airport in an hour. Drive the truck and bring something to cover the windows, my layover is only ninety minutes.” SAC Ellen’s voice was deep, raspy.

“I guess that means no stun gun foreplay, huh?” I had to ask.

“No time, baby, and bring my diaphragm and some moist towelettes. I can’t be traveling with my boss when I’m stinking of Mooner Johnson.”

I hung up the phone and decided to reflect at a later date. I did, however, hold her rubber contraceptive devise to the harsh light of the afternoon sun to check for perforations.

“Good to go,” I said to myself as I placed the disk back into it’s little case.

At least I think I said it to myself. Manana, y’all.


Mel’s Adventures In Chicago; Songs In The Key Of Integrity

Sunday, February 19th, 2012


So. Today I’m posting the second story in my Guest Host Series. This one is by Melanie, the food writer who found the buttermilk cake recipe for me. Mel has been down in her back, down with kidney stones and she’s been getting down with some pain pills. Under normal circumstances I think it unlikely that she would write something for me to print. But I have always found that a stoned woman can be persuaded to step out of her comfort zone and into the madness. Here is Melanie’s story titled:


Adventures in Chicago


When Mooner put the call out for guest posts, I thought it would be really cool to do something. His requirement? “Write about something other than food, Mel.” Well, OK. I had to think about it. I mean, I have some stories to tell, but which one. And which one would there be no way possible I could parlay into a recipe somehow. Then it hit me.

I have long had a theory that the fall of our modern “civilization” started with the advent of the talk show. It started with Phil Donahue. The topics discussed were shocking at the time, but pretty tame now if you think about it. After Morton Downey , Jr. and Jerry Springer got in the game, it would never be the same again. There were many that came after. They all served the same purpose – to sensationalize things that are better left behind closed doors. Essentially, everything was out there and fair game. At first we were shocked, but then after a while it was just another slut or baby daddy story involving several members a trailer park from somewhere in America who were all sleeping with one another, who had to be swearing because all we heard were bleeps, and they really liked to beat the shit out of one another.

I was but a young, innocent soul in high school when all this was going on in the late 80’s and early 90’s. I still can’t decide if the talk shows or the series of events I am about to share with you were what lead to my unraveling and eventual cynical view of the world. Everything I knew changed after this long weekend trip to Chi-Town, and my life hasn’t been the same since.


That’s my school..back in the day…

I was in choir when I was in high school. It was kind of a big deal at my school – we weren’t pelted with missiles during performances and there was a huge cross section of the student body in the choirs (plural…there were so many in the program that multiple choirs were necessary). We had awesome concerts – several a year. I myself had my share of duets and solos. It was a great time and I actually learned a great deal. My junior year of high school we actually sang in Carnegie Hall over Thanksgiving weekend. Yep. That big. The choir that went to New York that year and then to Chicago the following year was the A Capella Choir. Not everyone got in – you had to prove yourself to the director of the program. The A Capella Choir was primarily juniors and seniors with the occasional sophomore – but they were only boys. There was an over abundance of girls in choir, so there was no way any of us were breaking in earlier…also, we really had to be good. If not, we were destined to spend an eternity in Girls Choir ringing bells and wearing shitty robes that were worn out. I felt pretty good about myself for making it there.


This is the choir…sorry folks, but I was absent that day. You won’t find me in the picture!

Ok, ok…I feel like Mooner, getting off on a tangent somewhere in southeast Michigan. So, senior year we went to Chicago to have a session with some big time choir director at Northwestern University. I could not tell you his name now, but he was a very nice man. We spent a couple of hours with him and the rest of the time, with the exception of the required dinners and shows we saw at night, we were pretty much left to our own devices. There were 65 high school juniors and seniors. There were 4 adult chaperones – the choir director, her daughter and two moms. If there were more adults there I do not remember them. Why? Well, what in the hell do you think we were all doing with that free time and a floor full of hotel rooms to ourselves? We got shitfaced! I think maybe 11 people didn’t drink. Maybe. I sure as hell did. I was with my friends and we were pretty tame in comparison to the other shenanigans going on all around. It was a roaming party. There were certain rooms were a few people would hang, and others would stop by to see what they had to drink. We were the beer/Southern Comfort room. I don’t know why. That is just what we got out hands on. The big party room, I never actually made it to…it was on the other side of the floor, and I could never remember the room number, and it was all the way on the other side of the floor (see, some things never change…if its too far away, I probably don’t need it. And in this case, I was soooooo right!!). Party room got its booze from a kid we will call Willy. His brother lived in Chicago and did his little brother a solid and spend a couple hundred bucks on whatever they wanted. They got enough to fill a big old aluminum garbage can with a jungle juice concoction. It lasted them most of the weekend. Willy, like the rest of us, had three other students staying in his room. So, there were those four guys, plus three girls, some of whom where dating boys from that room. They were the fixtures. One of the wanderers (who came to the room I was a fixture in) was a girl we shall call Cherie. She had kind of a “reputation” if you know what I mean. I didn’t know if it was true, but after that weekend I had an idea.

So, Miss Cherie, the wanderer, was trying her bestest to whore it up while away from home – the family was a bunch of Bible thumpers. I am pretty sure she spent no time sober the entire time we were gone. She was drinking and smoking and hitting on everything with a dick. Since she was known for being kinda skanky, everyone was saying no. She finally stumbled her way to the Party Room, and started grinding on Willy (whatever, total hearsay…I know…but, since the details from everyone I heard it there were the same I kinda gotta believe them), and he was one raging hormone ready to go. He, from what I understand, did refuse her at first as he was busy playing poker (the card game…he wasn’t poking any other her…) and she started crawling on the floor (which she did when she stopped by the room I was hanging in) moaning, “Somebody fuck me!” Well, Willy’s willy heard this and he did. She was on the floor on the far side of the room under the window and he was bouncing all over her, doing as she asked. From what I understand, the other guys were cheering him on, because oh yeah, there were 7 or 8 other people in the room (important later). News of these developments spread through the entire hotel within about five seconds. I hear some old booze hound was looking for her after Willy finished.


Well, booze hound was in for a disappointment. Cherie, was escorted back to her room and proceeded to pass right out. And I take back what I said about her being drunk the whole time. She must have had a wicked hangover Sunday morning as we boarded the bus to come home. Her hangover was made worse as she claimed to “not remember anything” about the night before. Convenient. No worries. Leave it to some teenagers to help her “remember”. The whole six hour ride home, Cherie was asked over and over again, “Who’s in me?” By Monday morning the rest of the school knew. By Tuesday morning she couldn’t take it anymore. She went to one of the guidance counselors and relayed what had been going on, but that she didn’t remember anything happening like what everyone was saying. Sorry, but it wasn’t Vegas, baby. What happens in Chicago, doesn’t stay in Chicago. It follows you back to high school.

The counselor did not keep things confidential. She went to the principal. At that time a list of all the students on the trip were made. The list of kids they didn’t think did anything were called to see “Mr. Right” and the kids they thought were wasted the whole time, “Mr. Wrong”. We had a concert that Friday night and of the 65 of us, there were 23 performing. Willy was not among them. He was expelled. Cherie too was absent. She never came back to school (Willy was quite popular and she was getting threats or something like that.) and she was allowed the “graduate” in January. Bitch. I made it to the performance. Monday morning while sitting in AP English, my teacher (who HATED the choir director) looked at me with a smug grin and said, “Mel, you’re up.” I was called to speak with Mr. Right. Now since I had already told my parents what happened, and the one week suspension wasn’t counting against anyone, I wasn’t going to lie to him. I took my suspension like a champ. Side note, my AP English teacher seemed to have a new found respect for me upon my return to school. In total, all but about 20 kids were suspended. Remember I said only 11 weren’t drinking. Yep, there were some liars. We made the fucking paper. It was a long article too. I was surprised they didn’t publish the names of all of us that were suspended.

So, like I said, many things changed right then. My father, who is the biggest alcoholic I have ever met, decided to be a total hypocrite and ground me. This, after years of hearing stories of all the trouble he got into when my age, made me sick. My mom was proud of me for telling the truth. I am sure she was kind of pissed too, but at least I didn’t lie about it. My choir director and many other teachers also appreciated the honesty on the parts of the students that were suspended but had never been in trouble before (like me…and there were several of us). And then there were the members of the choir who were very judgmental. Many relationships were never the same.

So did that cloud my view on the world after? Perhaps. Within a few months my parents separated and we moved away from my father. That is one relationship not even worth saving. But that is another story for another day. I finished high school and here I am today. I guess I have just been walking down memory lane recently because my twenty year reunion is coming up. Not sure if I’ll make it or not. I will just have to see where life has me at that point.

Hope you got a laugh or two out of this! [Finis]


Thanks, Mel. I love stories about doing the right thing. It’s a pretty day here, so I’m taking the animals out to the fishing dock for some cold beer and left-over BBQ from last night.

Manana, y’all.

Bacon, BookPeople & WholeFoods; Mooner Gets Fed, Shelved And Disturbed

Friday, February 17th, 2012


So. This is a banner day for me, a day that will be memorable in various ways. I got me a little sexing early—a fact in and of itself banner-worthy these days—I met some interesting people, and I finally got my book stocked on the bookshelves of a local bookstore. Getting sexed isn’t usually quite so remarkable, but the Special Agent in Charge for The US Department of Homeland Security that I call “Sweetie Pie” has been so busy with “special assignments” that having her in Austin overnight is a remarkable event.

SAC Ellen has been on high alert status, what with all the bullshit going on with Iran, and I’m not even managing two-person sex on a weekly basis. But she was here last night and I’m the better for it. The interesting people I met were part-and-parcel to me getting accepted to go onto the shelves at Book People—Austin’s premier not-so-national-chain bookstore. Michael McCarthy, the Corporate Sales Manager for Book People, set a meet with me for noon today wherein I would execute a Consignment Agreement and pay the shelving fee required to get Full Rising Mooner legally stocked inside the store.

I say “legally stocked inside the store” because I have been standing out in their parking lot for several weeks, selling my book to passersby like counterfeit Rolex watches. “Wanna buy a book, little girl?” Actually I only direct-sell to proven 18-year olds and I do card if I have any question. But I live twenty miles from the store and the return on my investment of time and gas is too small to have kept it up much longer.

I’m a little pissed at the dogs because they managed to piss off SAC Ellen, so I left them home and took only Honor the fucking cat book storing with me. Yoda and the Squirt snuck into the bathroom last night while SAC Ellen was lounging in the tub and, apparently, napping in the hot, sudsy water. She was awakened with a start when both dogs jumped in the big tub with her. My sweetie pie pulled the Glock 9-MM Howitzer handgun that is her constant companion and came close to ending my dog problems.

“I could have shot them both, Mooner. Please tell them to stop sneaking up on me.”

I did, Squirt talked back at me and said that SAC Ellen has no sense of humor, Yoda thought that was funny and so I grounded them both. Ever a wise ass, my smart little female puppy talked my not so smart male puppy into shitting in my slippers. “Ground that, motherfucker,” she told me when I discovered the load in my lounging footwear.

I didn’t know that “snuck” isn’t a word, did you? I guess I was supposed to say that the dogs “sneaked” into the bathroom up there. But who gives a shit, I mean really? Snuck feels better in my mouth than sneaked.

I loaded Honor into the GTO along with her little Hello Kitty backpack to make the trip into town to meet at Book People. I keep the pack loaded with cat snacks, her Hello Kitty water bottle and a Governor Rick Perry rag doll filled with catnip.

Not much gives me the same tingle as watching the fucking cat shred a Rick Perry doll.

Since I hate being late for anything and I’m always early for everything, we got to the store at 11:15 am for my noon meeting. I was hungry, so I decided to spend the time eating. We drove north up Lamar from Book People and spotted an interesting sign to the right on 10th Street. The sign said, and in a quite simple eloquence seldom seen on modern signage, it said, “BACON!”

“Oh look, Honor—pig meat!” I whipped the GTO right and made the tight, curled driveway that hugged the little building. There were few cars in the small lot, so I found a safe spot for my prized goat. We aficionados call the old Pontiac GTO’s goats.

“Stay here and shred Pricky Perry, sweetie,” I told the fucking cat. “I want to see some serious damage when I get back to the car.” I pitched her the Perry doll and she immediately went to work towards fulfilling my wishes. She always starts on his crotch because that’s how Squirt taught her.

I walked inside the building and was in heaven. I had stumbled into a place where every menu had pig meat on it, and the sweet smell of bacon made my heart sing, my mouth water and my loins stir.

What is it about bacon that it sometimes gives me a woodie? I might should talk to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson about that one. Maybe my psycho therapist can shed some light on my pork meat attachments.

I was distracted by the mother and daughter in line in front of me as they ordered, and the loin stirrings eased into a stomach grumble. The mother ordered a bacon wedgie—your basic Cobb-style salad with extra bacon—and the offspring bacon waffles. I was next and decided upon a classic BLT, an order that received full approval from Emma, the appealing young woman behind the counter.

I got fries as a side, and since Emma had a tattoo I decided to give her one of my books. I love tattoos on a woman, and Emma had some tatts and reminded me of my Aunt Hilda. Quick smile that reaches from eyes to mouth and all the way to the heart, a sweet countenance and I could tell, tough as nails when need be. She made the required promise to do a book report when finished with

Full Rising Mooner, and I ate the best BLT sandwich in Austin, Texas with a huge mound of the second best French fries in town. Only mine are better fries than were those, and only because I have a potato frying secret (duck fat) that I refuse to share with anyone.

I am hereby giving the eatery, BACON!, my hearty endorsement. Should I be giving my “hardy” endorsement as well?

I took the small bit of bacon I’d set aside to give to Honor went out to the car. The Rick Perry doll looked like it had been passed over by a lawn mower, and there was little bits of fabric and catnip on every surface inside my GTO. As for the fucking cat, she was so stoned on the kitty khronic that she was languishing on her back making love to the car’s Hurst Four-Speed Shifter. She was purring loud enough to make my keys rattle when I put them into the ignition and I can now say that I know what love looks like on a cat’s face.

After cleaning the car I barely got to my appointment on time. Michael was a very nice man and quite supportive of my efforts as a writer. He said he is going to read my book (we’ll see) and handled the paperwork with aplomb. I’m certain that Michael’s name will be mentioned on these pages in the future.

I needed some fresh veggies, so I walked to the Whole Foods flagship store across the street from Book People, grabbed an artichoke, turnip greens and a tapioca pudding, and went to check out. The pudding wasn’t on my list, but I’m a sucker for good pudding and tapioca from Whole Foods is a favorite.

My checker-outer person was Hannah—a dark-haired beauty whose eyes melted my heart in the first second mine were caught in them. I forced my glaze away to avert a scene and noticed a nifty tattoo winking at me from beneath the sleeve of Hannah’s shirt. “Are those roses, Hannah?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s a hot air balloon and those are flowers on its side.”

OK, let’s stop the presses. I think I might be a sex addict. At least I know that I think like one. I don’t ever act out like a sex addict… Maybe I do. I mean when SAC Ellen is in town I’m like the cat with a head full of catnip, but Ellen’s my steady and not a random partner. I find every woman to be a unique creature yet I seem to find something sexy in every woman I meet. I’m thinking I should be bothered by that.

But I’m not, so fuck it. It’s Carta Blanca beer time somewhere, so I’ll see you manana, y’all.

Quincy Is First Guest Host; Thank-Q For Common Sense Is Here

Thursday, February 16th, 2012


So. Quincy, of Thank, Q For Common Sense, is a proud and thoughtful man. Quincy is a model for the man you want your daughter to marry. Q is a man I’m proud to call friend, and a friend to whom I look for sound judgments. I have been bugging the ever-loving-shit out of him to be a guest host here, and he has finally relented.

I know he held his nose when he hit the “Send” button on his email server to deliver the contents for this guest post. When his wife asked him, “Honey, are you sure your reputation can handle the association with Mooner Johnson?” and then said resignedly, “OK, Quincy, it’s your reputation,” I’m certain that Quincy’s mind was on a higher plane; I know that he hopes to inject some rational thought into the cesspool that is this bloggie.

But me, I don’t really give a shit how Quincy justified sinking to my level, I’m just glad he did. So it is now my great pleasure to provide you with something you never get here—Common Sense. Please welcome Quincy and his post titled:


Stop Choosing Emotions Over Common Sense

“First of all, I’m honored to grace the pages of This blog is simply pure entertainment. It’s “Blazing Saddles” meets “Seinfeld” with the hilarity and creativity of the writing. I some times wonder what even makes a man think some of the things that are printed here, but then I come to the only conclusion: it’s just the mind of Mooner. Well, I want to thank [him] for the opportunity to be immortalized within the walls of his humble, cyber abode.

When I first started my blog, it was called “Thank, Q for Common Sense” for a reason. I felt the desire to inject some “common sense” into the blogging world. Although people are welcomed to blog about whatever they would like, I thought there were too many blogs that lacked perspective. So many blogs seemed as if they were based on what the writer felt from the heart instead of from the brain.

I didn’t want to do that. I wanted my blog to be strictly based on logic and perspective because that’s how I try to live my life. Because of that, it gets frustrating to come across people who don’t have the same concept. I wish people would stop choosing emotions over common sense. Just because you like something or someone doesn’t mean that you should defend that idea/person at all costs.

I remember when the Chris Brown / Rihanna incident happened how so many people on Twitter were coming to his defense. “Well, we don’t know what Rihanna said to him that pissed him off.”

“Everyone deserves a second chance.”

“Leave Chris Brown alone.”

Really? So, simply because you like the guy (or you’re a fan), he isn’t guilty of anything? R. Kelly. Charlie Sheen. Lindsay Lohan. I can go on-and-on. These people have been accused of some heinous acts yet they’re even more popular than ever. Why? Because you like their music or they make you laugh in a sitcom or movie. Ummmm, okay.

Well, I think that’s what’s wrong with this country. We use our emotions to make decisons (which wind up being irrational). Everything offends us because we’re too emotional. It doesn’t matter if it’s a true statement or not because common sense isn’t factored into the equation. If it hurts our feelings, then we lash out. We’ll even lash out over something that has nothing to do with us. Twitter blew up a couple of days ago from people defending Whitney Houston’s substance abuse problem after her death. People who didn’t even know her were pissed off at just the mere thought that someone who was in rehab as recently as last year was speculated to have overdosed… because they like her music. I even had someone on Facebook get mad at me for not Liking her “We Love Whitney” fan page. I told her respectfully that I didn’t want to join the page which resulted in her Unliking my fan page.

Wow. Because I don’t feel the same way you do about a person, I’m of no use to you any more, huh? So be it.

People, I’m tired. I’m tired of being the person who tries to put myself in other people’s shoes to understand their point. I’m tired of stating a fact only to have it offend someone because it applies to them or someone they know. I’m tired of being the voice of reason in an unpopular situation.

Psych! No, I’m not. LOL! That stuff doesn’t affect me at all. In fact, that’s actually what drives my blog. The more ignorance I encounter, the more posts I type. I shall continue with my message because some things just need to be said. I will “blog ’til I fall” and hope that I can just get one person to stop and think. You don’t have to agree with me, but at least consider things from someone else’s perspective.

This country used to be mentally tough. What happened?”


This is Mooner again. See what I mean—isn’t that the logic you want your daughter to wake up to every morning? Don’t we all have one of those emotional dealies he spoke of in our life?

Thank you, Quincy, for being my first ever guest hoster—Thank-Q, Thank-Q, Thank-Q. Me, I’m grabbing an icy-cold Carta Blanca beer and joining Streaker Jones on the patio to smoke a dube. I think I need to reflect on why I still dream of a three-way with Marilyn Monroe and Anna Nicole Smith.

Manana, y’all.



Mooner Johnson- An Asshole By Any Other Name

Tuesday, February 14th, 2012


So. Happy Valentine’s Day, one and all. My V-day is a pisser as my sweetie is “on assignment” somefuckingwhere, and I have decided that I might actually be, an asshole. I’ve often thought it a possibility and if my skin weren’t as thick as an elephant’s hide, I’d have believed it when I was told any one of the thousands of times I’ve been told it.

“You’re an asshole,” might be one of the specific word strings said most to me by the most people. “Hands where I can see them,” would be a close second followed by, “Are you done yet?”

But the statement that I am an asshole would be number one on that Hit Parade. Do any of you remember that show—the one where each week they would live sing the week’s top pop music hits? It was on the radio first and then on NBC TV, I think. Or was it CBS? Doesn’t make a shit which one, it was sponsored by Camel ciggies—LSMFT. Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco.

OK, stop the presses because I just fritzerd my entire brain. I know it wasn’t Pall Mall or Kent that sponsored the TV show because it was one of the non-filtered brands, and Daddy smoked Pall Mall and I’d have remembered. For some reason I also have this niggling memory that the advertising agency for the show rigged which songs were the “hits” of the week.

Anyway, by the time I sat down for lunch yesterday, I had counted eleven times that I had been called an asshole and by seven different people. I’mma delete the three times the Squirt told me because she is neither a person, nor is she a reliable witness as to my assholedness. Assholenessess?

I think my little puppy calls me an asshole in the same manner as I call her a “little shitbird”[.] I choose to think of it as a term of endearment. Three from eleven assholes are eight, and one from seven people are six. So, I need to evaluate a half-dozen people having called me an asshole an average of 1.333333333333333334 times each, and all before the noon hour.

Here’s the breakdown. I first heard that I’m an asshole when I walked all the animals out to the road to get the newspaper. Rick Perry was feeling frisky, and my pet ostrich ran across the Ranch Road in front of a car. It was a neighbor’s son driving the car—a piss poor poker player who lost his family’s land to me in a poker game a few years back. The entire story is in my stupid fucking book that you can buy by clicking over there =======}}}}}}. But I will say here that the fishing dock sits on some of that land. All of the lake frontage and one of the wet creeks is on land formerly owned by this asshole.

The man slammed on his brakes and avoided hitting the 350-pound bird by ten car links on a 45 MPH roadway. I think he was just being an asshole for effect as he had way plenty time to safely stop. But that didn’t keep him from rolling his window down and shooting me the finger. “Keep your goddamn stupid bird out the road, asshole. Next time I won’t stop!”

“And next time I’ll send the pig in your way and fuck you all up.” With that, I spun around and dropped my shorts to my ankles and gave him what I call a “cracked smile moon with a Dead-eye Dick”[.] If you think on that one, it’ll come to you.

“You really are an asshole, Mooner Johnson. This just proves it.” That was said disgustedly, and he drove off.

We all laughed about the indecent on the way back to the house. When we got inside to the big, cozy kitchen table, Gram said, “What ch’all laughin’ ’bout? You sound like a sack a wild hydrangeas.”

That, of course, set more laughter in motion. When I got my giggles under control, I told the story about the Dead-eye Dick, and Gram almost fell out of her chair hooting. Mother had a quite different reaction. “Mooner, have you ever wondered if he was right? Maybe you are one.”

“Maybe he are one what, Mother?” Gram didn’t connect the dots right away.

“Well, you know that I won’t curse, but I think Mooner is what the neighbor boy called him.”

OK, first, the neighbor is hardly a boy—he’s my age. And second, he’s far from qualified to determine the voracity of his claim that I’m an asshole. He’s the one who lost his family ranch with a weak poker hand, not me. Besides, I’m letting his mother live on the homestead until she dies and I let him come visit.

Actually, I had to force her let him visit when she found out he called off 1,500 acres with waterfront while holding just a flush when there was a pair on the board. She plays way better poker than he ever could.

Which reminds me. I’m still major league pissed that I can’t play poker on the I-net. There’s some important legislation in the US Congress to legalize it, but it will give the individual states the right to ban it. I, of course, live in Texas, where the giant flaming fuckball named Governor Rick Perry resides. And they say I’m an asshole.

Anyway, Mother was going on and on about me being an asshole without saying the word asshole, and Gram had had enough of it. “OK, Mother, ya raised yersef a right proper little assholie an’ Mooner’s his name. Now shut yer yapper an’ pass me tha butter.”

Then the phone rang and I answered it to a solicitor for extended health care insurance. Whenever I get a first call from a phone salesperson, I always start the conversation with the following words, “You’ve got ten seconds to impress me starting… Now! Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five… Oh fuck it, goodbye.” Then I hang up on them.

I answered and hung up, grabbed a Carta Blanca beer from the friggie, and sat back down to my huevos rancheros. I always drink beer with the spicy, runny eggs with beans. The phone rang again, I answered, and it was the same guy. “You said I had ten seconds, asshole, and I’ve got four seconds left.”

I said, “No seconds for you shitwad, goodbye again.”

Aunt Hilda was sitting closest to the phone and when I hung up, she said to Dubbie-J—her shrunken head in a box—she said, “Mooner really can be an asshole, Dubbie-J. Don’t you think so?”

Apparently he did, and that brings up a problem with my prior calculations. If Dubbie-J called me an asshole, is that a person calling me asshole? Is a 150+ year-old shrunken head still a person?

Have you ever seen a shrunken head? They are really cool. Different head shrinking societies shrink them different ways, but this one was carefully crafted to produce the smallest possible results.

After I showered and dressed, I packed all the kids into the farm truck and headed to Callahan’s to get some provisions. Callahan’s is a nifty old fashioned farm store and one of my favorite places to shop. The animals love to shop there and everybody loves to watch them shop. I leave Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry outside in the truck for economic reasons. The last time I took my gay pig and ostrich inside, they got into a lovers’ spat in the medical section and I paid for $1,200 of damaged goods. They broke all the vials of veterinarian’s “death potion” or I’d have bought a few vials and put them to good use.

The dogs, Honor the fucking cat and I shopped and paid for our goods and returned to the truck. There was this big guy standing beside the truck and he didn’t look happy. “Is this your bird, asshole?”

Since he used the word asshole, I figured he was speaking to me. “Yes sir, he’s all mine. Magnificent specimen, don’t you think?”

“He just shit in the back of my pickup, and I think you need to buy me a new paint job.” This sounded like a threat, which brought the Squirt to my side.

“I’d like to suggest that you take a civil tone with me, sir. Otherwise the ten-pound predator now standing at your feet will give you cause for regret.”

Squirt snarled, revealing the set of miniature daggers set in her jaw. “She goes for your crotch first thing. Sometimes she releases when I tell her to, sometimes not. Sometimes I don’t tell her to release.”

The nice man and I reached a reasonable arrangement with his truck. I called Bobby over to the body shop where I get Gram’s Ferrari repaired. I have an open account there, and Bobby has three Ferrari parts cars in his yard to effect quick repairs. Bobby agreed to get the man right in to do the repairs.

I was feeling pretty chipper, so on the way to lunch from Callahan’s, I put the phone on Bluetooth and dialed by saying, “Call Rick Perry Campaign Headquarters.”

After three rings the truck cab filled with the sound of a young woman’s voice. “I know it’s you, asshole, we have caller ID service. Now go away before we get a restraining order on you.”

We all laughed and Squirt said, “Nice one, asshole.”

Manana, y’all.

Guest Blogger Bully; Yoda’s Still Homely

Monday, February 13th, 2012


So. I’m working my brain overtime to discover new ways to stimulate book sales. I’ve come up with another possibility—actually I came up with it two weeks ago—but as is typical with anything involving technology of any variety, I’m more lost than that time when Gram and Aunt Hilda were running from the bad guys over to Africa. That’s when they were Baptist missionaries as young women and had to be smuggled to safety by large African men in a dugout canoe.

That canoe trip is when Aunt Hilda went batty and, I think, when my Gram first exhibited her randinesses. Aunt Hilda came home talking to a shrunken head in a mahogany box, and Gram came home talking lusty thoughts about large mahogany-skinned African men. The complete story is in Full Rising Mooner, the book about which I am bitching about it’s marketing.

You know, the more I authorate the more I have doubts as to the likelihood that there really is a benevolent God. A loving God would make it easy to communicate between His peoples. That last sentence up in the previous paragraph is a perfect example in explanation of my doubts. I edited that fucking string of words five times and that was the best I could do. Since a book is not a person, I can’t say, “… Full Rising Mooner, the book whose marketing is perplexing me…” I’ve spent so much time with that book that it has assumed a life in my life, but it’s still just words.

In the last three years I have written the afore-over-mentioned book of 120,000 words, an endeavor that required me to keystroke more than 550,000 words before completion. That word count ignores all of my multiple self-edits, and includes only the rewritings required by my fancy-pants Editorators. I had already written 54,000 words of a second book before deciding to start this silly fucking webber and bloggie.

Since I postered the first bloggie story in March of 2010, I have pasted 1,636,8992 words herein to the pages hereof. Since Amin only counts words that show up when you guys read this mess, I’m guessing that I actually typed over 2,000,000 self-edited words. When I add onto this word count, I have emails, US Postal Service letters, my scribbles on my beloved Postie Notes and the reminders I scribble on the palms of my hands.

I took the time to calculate the sum total for all of this word smithing and I obtained a number that approximated 3,250,000 words. That, dear friends, is over a million words per year and about 2,900 words every day—a number that feels a touch light. And after writing more than 3 million words of self expression, I still lack any quality to my expressions. I work my ass off to say exactly, specifically and with great precision, what I mean to say. To no avails. Like what I was trying to say up there about the book.

Which reminds me that I had an idea that I will sell books directly from here and I can do personal autographs and dedications to the buyer—that’s the idea from two weeks ago. I’ll set up a Pay Pal dealie to insure safety for both buyer and seller alike, and I’ll be in business. My thought is that I’ll be so busy signing and mailing sold books that I’ll have little time to give books away. All I need to do to implement this plan is set up a Pay Pal account and get it plastered here. Easy-peasy!

Riiiiight. Did you notice when I said “I’ll” set up a Pay Pal dealie? As I said above, I had this idea fourteen days ago and I’ve been frustrating myself with it ever since. I’m almost frustrated enough to ask for help. Almost.

Which brings up another technologies point. After reaching a point just north of suicidal tendencies, I got help from BJ and Squatlo to get a photo of Yoda eating yard weeds postered. Since nobody commented, I’m going to paste it herein once more. Please notice how cute a truly ugly dog can be when photographed at the right angle, and in the soft light of late afternoon. Squirt says of her younger buddy, she told me, “You know, Bwana Mooner, he’s so ugly the flies won’t land on his ass.” This single photo is the only one from the hundreds I took of him and the Squirt grazing that was worth a shit. I literally wore the batteries down in the camera taking pictures, and that’s the only one that worked. This is the pic of Yoda eating a dandelion leaf from my hand, proof positive that he eats weeds like a goat.

 Oopsie, let me try again.

Yoda eats a dandelion

Now that prior reminder reminds me of another thing I need to remind us about. I want to have some guest bloggers here. I want some of my friends and enemies both to write stuff for me to put up. So far the only responses I’ve gotten to this request have been polite, “I’m not suited for your site.”

Who, in the fuck, is suited for this site? You think I’m suited for this site? Really? Do you truly think that my ramblings are suitable for print? And they say I’m crazy.

OK, I actually am crazy, which brings up my psycho therapy session from last Friday morning. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson was asking me how I feel about getting older and I of course asked what the fuck she was speaking to—did she mean does my body aches, or my thoughts of an early death or the abject fear I have that my pecker could stop working? If my pecker ever stops working I’ll have no reason to live.

“No, Mooner, you bat-shit loony bird, I’m speaking to your inappropriate behaviors. You’re at an age where you can’t maintain the pace required to be as crazy as you are. As the zoo keeper for your mental health, I feel obligated to recommend that you scale-back your proclivity to cause a ruckus.”

What the fuck? (That was me thinking to myself so I italicized it. I think was was the correct way to do it)

“What the fuck?” this time aloud. “Are you accusing me of getting into trouble on purpose?”

Her answer was a sweet smile, and a nod of her perfectly coiffed head. She has her hair cut into this pixie cut that has always been my favorite hair style. I’m not a long hair man, I like short hair on women.

“Bitch,” the best I could manage under the circumstances.

“Look, Mooner. How many more times can you be arrested and released unharmed? The Sheriff’s catch-and-release license is going to expire if Woozie ever loses an election, and you’ll be in some serious trouble.”

“Woozie will die with that star pinned to his chest, Sammie. Besides, you talk as though I do shit on purpose.”

My psycho therapist chewed on hep lip—an action that still springs my loins—and then gnawed on the fingernail of her left middle finger. My first ex-wife and mother of my children is a sexy little thing. Always was and likely always will be.

“Don’t look at me with those dewy eyes of yours, buster. If you think I’m falling for that Johnson charm again, you are crazy enough for Shoal Creek Mental Hospital.” Here she pointed to the buttons on her desk phone and said to me, she tells me, “I’ve got their emergency intake number on speed dial. I push button number 3 on this, and you’ll be the prize behind door number 7 in the close watch unit at the hospital.”

And now, dear friends, I have hit 1,286 words. I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

Invitation To Be A Guest Blogger; Rain Sex Better Than Make-up Sex

Friday, February 10th, 2012


So. It’s Friday and rainy and gloomy here to Austin, Texas, and I love it. We need rain and I need an excuse to stay inside, and I love rain anyway. Ever had sex in the rain?

One of my ex-wives, a woman of robust sexual proclivities who shall go herein unnamed, would get all hot and bothered with just the mention of rain in a weather forecast. We’d be watching the late news on TV and the weather guy would say, “… and there’s a ten-percent chance of light showers Saturday afternoon…” and the next thing I know I’m in the big shower stall with my eyes crossed.

Woman didn’t care about the temperature outside, wind velocities or any other inclemency attached to the rain. If it’s raining, she’s getting wet and laid. OK, wait. She’s getting laid wet. Actually, she used to say, “Just the thought of getting laid in the rain makes me wet,” so, maybe I should have said that, “If it’s raining, she’s getting wet and getting laid wetly.”

There was this one time we were out to the barn when a big Springtime thunderstorm rolled through. The barn had—still has—a full-metal jacket of corrugated roof and sides. She heard the pitty-pats of the first raindrops hit the side of the barn and she was all lathered up. “Come on, Mooner, let’s go the the pasture and screw in the grass.”

This was said with her hot breath on my neck and her hand jammed up and beneath the leg of my loose cotton shorts. I wear loose cotton shorts whenever I can. If I remember correctly, her hand was up the left leg of my shorts, and my initial reaction to those first pitter-pats of rain was a pecker expansion. We’d been married long enough at that moment for me to know how she got with inclement weather. In the time it took for her to squeeze me, me to issue a resultant moan and her to re squeeze, lightening flashed and lit up the dim barn and the thunder clapped and shook the metal covering almost simultaneously.

Now most of you are thinking the lightening would have been a discouragement, but you are wrong. “Oh, my God, Baby, let’s hurry outside,” she stammered with shaky breath. “You know how I love light shows.”

See, I told you. I dropped the pitchfork I was holding and grabbed her by the waist and kissed her hard. In that instant it started to hail. At first it was the small rock salt-sized pellets that I knew would make the pasture sex especially rewarding. But quickly the hail grew in size and was suddenly a waterfall of ice balls from golf-to-softball in size. The metal skin of the barn was like a thousand kettle drums as the hails pelted and hammered away.

“Hurry, Mooner,” she gasped and pulled me to the west wall where the wind was pushing the rain and hail in torrents. She quickly stripped and pulled me against her as she leaned against the metal.

“Holy shit,” she said when both the hail and her passion had passed. “That was better than using two vibrators.” When she said this her voice had a quiver like when you put a vibrator on your Adam’s apple. Of course she doesn’t have an Adam’s apple, I was using metaphor, but she did have a splendid neck. Creamy skin, and her big arteries would bulge and pulse when she was in heat.

Anyway, Rick “The Pompous Prick” Perry spoke to the right-wing Republicans gathering yesterday and promised to fight for the Tenth Amendment until his last breath. The Tenth is, of course, the “State’s Rights” amendment on the Bill of Rights, and what these silly fuckballs in state legislatures use to take away our rights in the name of family values.

His “last breath” comment caused me to cogitate a moment, and I ordered a sleeve of dry cleaners bags. I had the bags printed to say, “Executive Privilege Dry Cleaners- these bags are safe to put over your head.”

I’ll try to get someone to place them in Ricky’s closet.

Sister and Anna were over to dinner last night and we were discussing Lloyd’s coming visit and then the subject of gay rights. We all think that maybe it’s a good thing how the Christian right is pushing so hard and cruelly against gays and that the vitriolic nature of their attacks is awakening quiet America’s eyes. We’re starting to think that things are turning to the good on that front.

OK, stop. Somehow I have managed to kill the messenger and forgot to tell you what I intended to in this posting. If you check the prior posting to this one, you’ll notice that I managed to hang a photo of Yoda eating dandelions but not one of his acrobatic crappings. The weather is dismal and I can’t risk ruining the camera. So that pic will have to wait for the rain to pass—an event the weatherman says is likely a week away.

But, again, that’s good news since we need rain.

But here’s the deal. Brandini wrote about how smart it is to have/do guest bloggies at other guys’ webbers. I think that’s a great idea. Therefore, and herein requested, I am offering an open forum for anyfuckingbody to be a guest blogger. I’ll not censure, save for legalities and maybe dumb meannesses, and I’ll print every one of them.

That way we can cross-pollinate our readerships and gain critical masses. Come on, guys, step up to the plate! Maybe it’ll be you manana.

Yoda Grazes; Rick Perry Still Sucks

Friday, February 10th, 2012

So.  I’ve been screwing around with files all damn day yesterday and I finally found the photo of Yoda eating a dandelion out of my hand.  I took dozens of fucking photos but this is the only one that provides proof positive.  I have a bunch where the two slilly-assed dogs are grazing, but I’m not a photographer and you can’t tell what they’re doing.  I ran the batteries down on camera and Mooner both, but will recharge both and attempt to get Yoda doing an acrobatic crap for you.

After finding the photo, I found it had too many pixilations or whateverthefuck the image maker dealies are, and it wouldn’t poster here.  Then I called BJ and Bob to hep me, and Bob responded first.  Of course, I forgot to attach the photo to the first email and that added aggravation to all three lives.

Yoda is a mixed breed of Chihuahua and Whippet–that’s right, I said Whippet–and he’s so ugly he’s a real cutie pie.  In the background of this picture you’ll notice a close-cropped winter growth of dandelions, Texas winter grass and this little vining weed.  The close cropping is from Yoda and the Squirt grazing.

Yoda snags a d'lion leaf from Mooner

 Thanks, Bob and BJ.


When ADD Loses Focus; How To Write A Bad Bloggie

Thursday, February 9th, 2012


So. I got frustrated today and hopped into the GTO to go fix the problem. The problem is that after weeks of following procedures for getting my book for sale at the local bookstore, I am exactly where I started, when I started weeks ago, and that is no fucking where.

That has to make sense.

There’s this one guy who holds the golden key to unlock the gates to shelf space at the bookstore, and he is ignoring me. That or he is too busy to do this part of his job, or he is a right-wing fascist fuckball who won’t put my book in the store because of my politics. Whatever the reason, I find it unreasonable that the bookstore that touts itself as “local author friendly” is so very unfriendly with a local author.

In case things got out of hand, I left the cat and dogs behind. I can’t always find someone to pick them up from the jail right away and the Squirt says Yoda doesn’t like jail. As for the fucking cat, Honor would shred somebody’s arms and then I’d have to deal with that. Squirt likes jail, thinks of getting locked up as personal growth.

Anyway, I was alone and headed to the bookstore to pay my fee and get my book on the shelf for sale. Nope. Didn’t happen. I’m giving this little situation until the end of the week, and if we get no resolution by then, I’m gonna full-disclosure their asses.

After becoming ever more frustrated with the as yet unnamed bookstore, I left their parking lot and headed south on Lamar. At 5th Street I turned left and headed to Congress Avenue. I decided to eat lunch at one of the South Congress food trucks that are set on a gravel lot near Guerros Taco Bar. It’s a mobile food truck park, like a trailer park, but with food. Good food.

I turned onto Congress, crossed the river and headed up the hill. I got just a couple blocks when I noticed a young woman on a moped. She had a big mop of bright red hair tied into a tangled knot atop her head, she wore a black bomber jacket, a huge bug-eating grin, and a mini dress that exposed half-a-mile of creamy legs. I saw her approach in my left rear-view mirror and my eyes seemed to catch a glimpse of a Sharon Stone.

With my eyes on the rear-view, the GTO almost hit a parked car on my right, which reminds me. In its infinite wisdom, the City of Austin has installed these silly-assed reverse-angle parking spaces all along South Congress. Instead of pulling forward into a 45-degree angled slot head first, you drive past your chosen spot, stop and then back in place into a reverse-angle slot. I’ve heard all the reasons why this is a good plan to increase the numbers of slots and safety and all of that…

But that is the single dumbest parking dealie I have ever seen, and I’ve been to San Francisco and Rome.

The car I almost hit was an old Cadillac with its tail fins stuck a few feet into traffic. Obviously its owner has no more respect for this reverse angle silliness than do I. I swerved and honked, of course I honked, and scared the woman on the moped. She jumped off the seat and almost crashed. When she jumped off the seat I got a confirmed sighting of a Sharon Stone.

She regained control of the little motor bike and passed me with a flip of a bird and a screamed, “Fuck You, Asshole!”

I felt like an asshole for scaring her, so I followed her to apologize. I opened my window and waved at her six or eight times, but she kept looking back at me and speeding up. I’m tenacious if I’m a day over twenty-one, so I kept it up. I wanted to say, “I’m sorry if I scared you, maybe you should wear undies when you drive that thing, are you married?”

I’d followed her a mile or so south when a cop ahead of us pulled into the shopping center at Oltorff, and the redhead sped in after him. That’s when the red lights went off inside my skull and I passed the center, pulled into Habana and drove behind their building. Habana is a good place to eat, but not a trailer, so I watched until the cop sped past and I exited to drive back north up Congress.

Holy shit but this is starting to sound like an Incident Report. I didn’t get arrested but I did lose focus, and I ended up on this little one-block long street named College Avenue. On it is Lucy’s Fried Chicken, a new chicken joint. It’s this nifty little Austin funky place with a varied menu and nice staff. Will waited on me and was very helpful. He wasn’t afraid to say what he likes best from the menu and he wasn’t stuffy.

I got what they call Gizzers, a gizzard and liver combo basket of chicken fried wonderment. The meat was sweet and clean—soaked in buttermilk before frying to crisp perfection—and they were served with a spicy chipotle dipping sauce that was perfect. The also serve raw oysters and good sides and have daily specials that indicate not just cooks, but a chef resides in the kitchen.

OK, wait. They called them Lizards, not Gizzers. But who really gives a shit what they called them, they were great. I gave Will a copy of Full Rising Mooner and he promised to report back when finished.

Having successfully given one book away, I decided to push my luck and go for a second giveaway. I drove to Flipnotics coffee shop on Barton Springs, one of my favorite places in Austin. I could go on for hours about this place, but let me say that Chris was making coffee when I walked in. Chris is an author so I gave him a book and walked to the upstairs and in the back area and sat on the sofa.

There was a young man of maybe thirty holding court with three women. I think he was a writing coach or something and he was speaking rapid-fire and waving his arms, as if arm waving would add importance to the over-wrought erudite-ness of his patter. I couldn’t understand what he was trying to say, but he had the ladies full attentions. I decided to not bother them, finished my coffee and walked out.

Is this boring you as much as it is me? I realize that my mind has been focused since the third paragraph up there, and I’m starting to realize that I’m boring as shit without my ADHD. Which reminds me. Brandini over to My Private Idaho is a bloggie expert, and last week he wrote a smart story on proper blogging etiquette. He says that you need fewer than 500 words in each posting and that you have to put three photos or picto-graphics in each, or you lose readers.

This little ditty is already more than 1,300 words, and I don’t have a pic for you and couldn’t post a graphic to save Brandini’s life. Which in turn reminds me that I might have a pic to post. Squatlo accused me of dishonesty when I was talking about the dogs eating weeds. I’m going to go take a photo of some weed eating and I might get one of his acrobatic dog squats as well. I can get him to eat on command, but he’ll only shit at will.

If there is a photo attached after all of these too many words, I was successful. If not… I don’t know what if not. I’ll keep trying. Manana, y’all.

Mooner Not On New York Times Bestseller List; Lloyd Is Coming To Austin

Tuesday, February 7th, 2012


So. I’m trying to make an evaluation of my success as a writer and I’m completely lost with it. I was Googlelating around for some sort of criteria that would help me compare my results, and it was nothing if not frustrating.

In the publishing world, the standard for success is the New York Times Bestseller List. Getting on that list is the benchmark for authorating achievements. Ever the practical and self-honest man that I am, I know I’m not ever going to see my name on that particular list.

Unless, of course, they start counting the thousands of books I’ve given away as “sales”[.]

But I don’t think that’s how they mean you get sales. Maybe I could charge a penny for each book rather than give them away. Then again, that might not work either. I can’t tell you how many people have told me I couldn’t pay them to read my trashy book.

Then there would be success as a writer that comes from helping people. Like if I invented a cure for dumbass and I wrote a book for proctologists. There aren’t enough total asshole specialists to buy that book and put it on the bestseller list if all of them paid full price. But you could say the book was successful if some docs read it and saved lives resultantly.

My book won’t cure anything but insomnia so the helpful method of success doesn’t apply here. Which reminds me. I was talking with a guy on the phone about doing some roofing work out to the compost plant and he got all up in my ass about what I said about Jerry Jones a few days ago. “You got no right talking about Jer-Jones like that. He’s a true Texan and I think he looks just fine.”

Now me, I appreciate a man’s dedication to his football team in the face of a full-frontal attack, but I always make sure of my facts before shooting off my mouth. I make way aplenty fool of myself when I know about what I’m saying. I don’t need to be foolish on purpose. I responded to him, I said, “Well first thing, Roscoe, your boy was born in California—somewhere near to Los Angeles if my memory is clear—and he was raised up in Arkansas. That part was near Little Rock, again assuming my memory is un-muddled. He’s not a Texan by birth or raising.”

I gave that a few beats to sink in. “Then he went to the U of Hoggies and played football against my Texas Longhorns and for Coach Broyles, on a team that had many players and assistant coaches who have gone on to become outstanding head coaches. Those guys would include our very own Jimmy Johnson, Johnny Majors of Vol fame, Batty Barry Switzer, Ken Hatfield and Hayden Fry.”

Again I gave him a minute to digest before I continued with, “Your boy Jerry likely got his idiotic desire to be a head coach from his jealousy at having so many of those other guys become successful coaches. Since he was born with a silver shoe up his ass, he likely thinks anything he wants he can have. I’m not saying he hasn’t taken what his daddy gave him and done well with it in the business world, I’m just saying it wouldn’t be his concussions keeping him out of the White House.”

This got me a, “You’re a real asshole, Mooner Johnson. You need to take back what you said about his titties twitchin’ when he talks.”

“Well, Roscoe, I didn’t say that, I said his nipples twitch when he smiles, and I meant it. Be glad I didn’t tell you what his plastic surgeon asked him in the middle of the operation,” two, three, four.

“OK, smart guy, what did his plastic surgeon ask him in the middle of the operation?” Some people can’t feel the prick of the hook through the meat of the bait.

“Now Roscoe, you understand that they put you all the way out for facial surgeries, so they had to wake old Jer-Jones up to ask the question. Once he was awake enough that the doc felt he could get an intelligent answer, he said to Jerry, he asked, ‘Mr. Jones, after pulling your skin tight enough to get all the wrinkles out of your face, your belly button is in the middle of your chin. I can either cut it off and graft it onto the end of you pecker—we call that foreskin retatchment—or I can just leave it as a big dimple.’”

Two, three and four, “Me, and here I’m just guessing when I say that since old Jerry’s not sporting a big chin cleft, he’s got himself a nice, soft new pecker hood.”

Then my silly brain started fritzing around and I thought, out loud, “Hey, that’s funny. A new pecker head hood for the head pecker wood.”

It took a couple more calls to find a roofer and I got wondering about pecker hoods. I was violated with a hood removal as a newborn like most the rest of us white boys back in the day. I have always wondered what it would be like to have one. Daddy and granddaddy both had them and bitched about their care. “Gotta keep it real clean, Mooner, or your Gram won’t sleep in the same bed with me.”

I loved my grandfather with deep respect. He was the first Johnson in my direct lineage with the dreaded ADHD and ADD. Granddaddy died in a farming accident with a 1940’s era combine. The story is in the stupid fucking book I’m discussing, said book available over there ====}}}} on the Bloggie Roller. Those of you with knowledge of a 1940’s combine know how terrible his death must have been.

Which reminds me to tell you about the dogs. I had to cut back a touch on their food to keep them healthy, so they have started supplementing their diets with roughage from everywhere. These two fucking dogs are now eating anything that resembles salad components.

It first started when Yoda was outside taking a dump. He gets all hunched up like a dog except to the extreme when he shits. Remember that yoga stance where you put your hands on the ground and then rest your knees on your elbows and lift your feet off the ground? That’s what he does and sometimes he’s got that look on his face like that little Russian gymnast, Olga Carmichael or whateverthefuck her name was. You know that time when she’s all balled-up on the balance beam in some silly position and she’s shaking and sweating and grimacing?

That’s our Yoda when he does the number two, and it was Olga Korbut. The Russian girl was Olga Korbut, and Yoda was dumping a few weeks ago and his lost his balance and fell nose first into a pile of dandelions. The weather has been so mild that the dandies have come out early, and often. I had pulled a dozen or so and piled them up to collect later for composting.

Yoda’s nose was buried in the pile of weeds while he finished his business and he came out of the pile with a big leaf stuck to his nose. He sniffed it where it lay, liked what he smelled and decided to take a nibble.

I haven’t had to weed the patch of grass where the dogs shit since. Once they ate all the dandelions, they went on to eat the winter grass, small milk thistles—the babies before the sticker gets hard—and this little vine that grows close to the ground.

“How in the hell am I supposed to control your diets if the two of you eat every weed that grows on 3,000 acres?” I thought this a thoughtful question of the Squirt and Yoda.

“Fuck you, asshole,” Squirt responded. “Who the hell you think you are, anyway?”

“I’m the asshole who can stuff your fat ass in a gunny sack and take you for a swim. That’s who the fuck I am, you ungrateful little bitch.”

Squirt gave me a smile and turned to go eat some more weeds.

Which reminds me. I just got an email from my buddy Lloyd. Lloyd is the man I most admire in the entire world. He and his husband are coming to Austin in March and I’m way too fucking excited. I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

Mooner’s Best Ad Choice; Wake Up Tea Bag Party

Monday, February 6th, 2012


So. Here we all are. It’s the day after the super bowl and conversation around the Johnson family breakfast table centered not upon what must have been a boring game, but rather the advertisements. Adult Americans have now been brainwashed to pay extremely-close attention to Super Bowl ads because, and here I’ll quote one of the pretty faces from a morning network news shows, “These will be the smartest, funniest and most social-oriented ads of the year.”

Really? I think that the ads are better because advertisers have convinced us that they are the best.

I didn’t actually watch the game or the ads, but I did sit in the TV room with everyone else. I started a John Lescroart novel, Damage, after lunch and couldn’t manage to put it down. So I named myself “designated fetcher” for the game, parked myself closest to the kitchen, and sat to read. I went to fetch things for the others so they wouldn’t have to miss any action.

I’m a seriously fast reader—I devour words on the page—but I’m not a speed reader. I didn’t take an Evelyn Woods course to be a good, fast reader. I am, rather, an ADHD-fueled rocket reader. I can consume 2,000 words in a minute-and-a-half, but I can’t remember anything about them. My eyes jump all over the place so I am forced to read shit multiple times to maintain any shred of plot or circumstance. I can be reading and, as is often the case be distracted from the reading, and when I return to the book I can’t find my place.

I’ve always been this way and it has always been problematic. I think I’m lucky I’m creative and imaginative because as a scholar I’m dumb as a rock. Which brings up an issue I’d like to address. I want to address the issue to two groups of people. The first group are those folks who think there is no such thing as ADHD or ADD. Those of you who think ADHD is a liberal plot to authorize lazy and bad behaviors.

The second group I want to address are those of you who are pretenders and use ADHD and ADD as an excuse to be lazy and behave badly.

ADD is not the cause when you don’t do something because you don’t want to do it. ADHD is not the cause when you get drunk and make a fool of yourself. When you choose to not perform a promised task you are either lazy or you’re a lying asshole. When the only times you act out are times when you’re drunk, then you are an asshole and quite possibly an alcoholic asshole.

There are not, I think, as many people with actual ADD as there are impostors. Using a false diagnosis for ADD and ADHD has become the “my dog ate my homework” excuse for lazy, rude shitbrains. One of my customers told me once that he wanted to thank me for showing him how to get away with shit. He said, “Whenever I don’t want to do something I just go all scatter-brained and skip around subjects and then I’ll say something like, ‘Anyway,’ and I can get away with almost anything.”

I told the fuckball that his prices just increased by 25% and I thumped him on his nose. I had just been released from Sheriff Woozy Wozniac’s jail for accidentally making a scene at the car wash over to that place on Burnett Road, so I didn’t thump him hard enough to draw blood. But I did tell him that rather than tell people he has the ADHD he needed to tell them that he’s a lazy asshole.

Then when I got the call from my major competitor in the compost business asking me if the guy was a good customer, I said to him, I said, “Please take him off my hands.”

The other guy says, “Why, what’s the matter with him?” and I said, “Oh, nothing at all, he’s my best customer ever,” and than he says, “Thanks, Mooner.” When I hung up the phone I told Gnat to send the customer a letter telling him that after a review of his account, we have decided to put him on a cash only program.

Anyway, I’m sitting there reading my very good book. It’s about a wealthy San Francisco family who thinks they are above both the law, and the common man. An underwear commercial played and Gram and Mother started arguing over its appropriateness. “Didn’t show ‘is pecker, goddammit. Ruth-Ann swored ta me ya could see his pecker.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus, Gram, please don’t use that word. You know how it offends me.” This came from my mother with the back of her wrist placed dramatically to her forehead, and an equally dramatic scowl on her face.

“Oh quit yer bitchy-aching. Everbody inna room’s either got a pecker or needs one.”

Since everybody else in the room knew that Mother was speaking of Gram’s using the Lord’s name in vain and not her use of peckers, we smiled in unison as Mother fumed. And speaking of peckers, Mr. Dave turned out to be a huge Patriot fan, and a vocal one at that. He was wearing his official Patriots workout uniform of Tom Brady jersey, Pats cap and sweatpants. He was jumping up and down from his seat—a sturdy pecan wood chair that my grandfather made when lightening struck-down a big tree out back that was placed squarely in front of the big TV—and Mr. Dave’s eight pound pecker was bouncing around the loose cotton pants like a dog’s tail wagging inside a plastic bag.

I noticed that all the ladies were moaning and sighing every time he jumped up. I guess size really does matter and I was reminded how grateful I am to at least have that old Johnson charm.

I didn’t catch much of any of the commercials, but I went to the kitchen before halftime to get some platters of food ready for the break, and when I returned to the TV room to tell the others a voice caught my ear. I knew the voice but didn’t place it at first. The voice was speaking of America’s economic woes in the manner of a halftime speech, and it turned out to be Clint Eastwood narrating a Chrysler commercial about Detroit.

That commercial brought tears to my eyes. With the specific help of President Obama’s loan program and the amazing cooperation between company management and it’s UNION employees, Chrysler Corp. has returned from the brink of extinction to profitability. Government, big corporate interests and a unionized workforce joined hands to create a remarkable success, and they did it when many conservative voices predicted dismal failure.

Chrysler’s success can be a formula repeated in many other areas and industries. This wasn’t a Detroit phenomenon, this was an American dream scenario come true. You say our President’s economic programs are failures, I say fuck you, looka right here.

It wasn’t a perfect reunion between the company, union and the Administration but it was an honest one. Each side gave more than it wanted and ended with more than it dreamed possible. That’s what happens when people work together to move forward with specific, mutually agreeable goals in mind.

And that, dear friends, is why our Congress is stuck in reverse. We have factions controlling the House who find all positions not theirs disagreeable. They either want everything done their way or they want nothing done.

I say fuck them too. Wake up, assholes, America needs more successes like Chrysler. Manana, y’all.

Jerry Jones Admits Diminished Mental Capacity; Cowboys Owner Seeks Brain Donor

Saturday, February 4th, 2012


So. We were all sitting at the big breakfast table this morning, enjoying a delightful journey through the world of pig meat that only my mother could ruin. Fragrant sausage, bacon, Virginia ham, spicy Mexican chorizo, and this new English pork bangers recipe Dixie talked Streaker Jones into making. The porcine repast was supported by a cast of waffles, eggies of all varieties, and my famous potato cakes.

For those of you wondering what a banger might be, let me say that banger is British for bland.

Mother was reading the Saturday newspaper, editorial fashion, a habit of hers that is somewhat tolerated by the rest of us. The woman from whose loins I sprang uses these moments to make comparisons between stories in the paper and those of us in the family she considers to be of “low moral character”[.] Should I have said, “… from whom’s loins I sprang?”

To my mother, any Johnson family member and associate attending this morning’s breakfast not named Mother Johnson is of low moral character. Gram sexes with young boys, Aunt Hilda thinks that the shrunken head of a heathen African can talk, P-cubed runs with Gram, Mr. Dave is a gigolo, Squirt curses like a sailor, Yoda is so ugly he has to be the Devil’s spawn, Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are homo-sex-u-als, Streaker Jones and Dixie are involved in illegal business enterprise with me, and I… well, folks, I, quite simply, am me.

Some of Mother’s favorite news stories are when women teachers have illegal relationships with their students and the sting operations wherein the cops set a guy up thinking he’s meeting an underage girl for sex. These stories are fodder for Mother to lecture Gram and the P-cubed for their lust of barely-legal boys. I do admit that my randy old grandmother adds new dimensions to the term “cougar” and might have actually been the original model for it. But Gram and her best bud, Penelope Paxton-Parades, are strict enforcers of the eighteen is bare minimum rule.

“Oh quit yer bitchin’, ya old gasser baggie. We checks their ID an their teeth ever’ time,” Gram responded to today’s editorial chastisements. “Cain’t stand bad teeth, an’ yer startin’ ta git inta my short hairs.”

I’m reasonably sure that Gram meant “cross hairs” but why would anyone correct her?

Streaker Jones and Dixie caught their shit scoop with the story of a meth lab that blew up out in the country near Burnett, Texas. My mother doesn’t approve of any business enterprise that us illegal, and illegal is Streaker Jones middle name. Actually, Streaker Jones has no middle name, but illegal is his game. His and Dixie’s current project is breeding a new strain of sweaty toad. They think they can breed the little boogers to where you can lick them and not die.

Squirt had her chops busted over a story about the declining vocabularies of third graders. When Mother asked Squirt what she thought that might mean, Squirt said, “Who gives a shit? Those potato cakes are really fucking good.”

Another case where a different dog owner might feel compelled to correct his potty-mouthed puppy, yet I found humor and enlightenment in Squirt’s words.

My rasher of grief came from a very strange place. “Oh my, Mooner, would you listen to this. Jerry Jones just confided that he suffered more than fifty concussions while playing football at the University of Arkansas. He says he would have been President if he hadn’t played football. Now what do you think about that?”

“OK, first, I think that explains some things about Jerry Jones. Second, the little prick is always sticking his head where it doesn’t belong, so where’s the shock? Third, I think I’m glad I’ve already stopped liking the Cowboys because that kind of brain damage only gets worse, and I already can’t stand the sonofabitch.” I cogitated some more and said, “Besides, Jerry’s a right-wing Christian Republican. He’s never been more fucking qualified to lead that batch of shitballs than now that he’s lost his mind.”

I actually don’t know that Jerry is a right-wing Christian Republican shitball. I base my assumption on the simple fact that my mother likes him. Mother gravitates to her kind.

Anyway, I want to be interested in, and excited about, Sunday’s Super Bowl but I am, quite simply, not. I could not care less if it was with Jerry Jones’ Dallas Crybabies. Waaaaah, I had fifty concussions in college… Waaaaaah, Dallas lost an important game because of a bad call… Waaaah, I should have listened when my scouts told me Dez Bryant is a knuckle-head. Waaaaah, the plastic surgeon pulled the skin so tight on my face that every time I smile, my nipples twitch.

Fucking Jerry Jones. “I could have been President, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.”

I wanted the Forty-Niners and The Raiders this year. If BJ wasn’t my buddy, I’d have wanted the Niners and the Saints but that’s impossible since they’re both NFC. Hell, I’d be happy to watch them play a rematch of this year’s play-off game, only on a neutral field.

But as the Squirt and my Gram like to say, “Who gives a shit what you think, Mooner. It’s New England and The fucking Giants. Now pass the guacamole, and fetch me another Carta Blanca.

Manana, y’all.


Final Words On Catholicism; How About That Wisconsin Diocese?

Friday, February 3rd, 2012


So. Today is the last day that I’m saying anything about my quest for answers about Catholic Church dogma. I started this quest using the word “beliefs” instead of dogma, but the results of my research has beaten me like a dog, and I have come to realize that the entirety of Catholic rules are man made, not the Rule of God. Are those the origins of the word dogma—beaten like a dog and man?

That disappoints me for some reason. As you know, I was raised Baptist. In fact I have the distinction of being baptized twice in the same church by the same preacher—an events sequencing that was frowned upon by the church’s elite, including my own mother. I was saved and dunked the first time before puberty, a trip to Pastor Browningwell’s alter under the required repentant trance.

First time I was petrified of going to Hell—I was a sinner with my first breath of worldly air and never stopped sinning—and I was convinced that Jesus, sweet Jesus, was my only salvation. From that date until I was raped by my Boy Scout Leader—one of the same Deacons who approved of my baptism and membership into his church—I was a devout Baptist boy.

Post rape I was a changed man, and I didn’t even attend church until I fell in love at aged fourteen. She required me to rededicate myself before letting me fondle her breasts. I’d have become a fucking Catholic priest if that was a requirement to fondle her breasts.

Now you might think that I’m off the tracks here, but I’m not. See the Baptists have a hard-and-fast rule, a rule that says, “Once saved, always saved.” That’s right, folks, since I walked the aisle and honestly pledged my faith to Jesus, I can do nothing to that will put me in Hell. And since I walked the aisle twice, I figure I’ve got chairs reserved at both the right and left hands of Jesus.

As a Baptist myself, I can say with absolute surety that the Baptists make shit up. They might use the Bible as a false front man, but they just make shit up. They “interpret” Biblical words in ways to further their self interests.

As a somewhat-thinking man, I know that the very Bible itself is a confusing sequence of interpretations itself. If we believe the Bible, its oldest stories predate written language by thousands of years, which means that God’s original words had to be passed down through hundreds of generations of interpreters before anything was even written on rocks. If you then factor the changes of language that happened with all the wars and the transitory lifestyles of those olden days, you can only imagine how much of God’s Word was lost in translation.

As BJ said in a comment on an earlier post, the original religions served as the lawmakers for early civilizations. That vested power and authority into the religious leaders, many of whom were, simply put, the strongest. Not necessarily the smartest, nor the nicest.

Which raises another issue for me. Let’s say I’m the scribe for an early sect of Jews in the era before papyrus and lambskin paper. My fictional tribe actually pre-date formal Jewishness by a few hundred years. Here I sit with my limestone slabs, flint hammer and point. Maybe I’m smart and have invented a mallet using a rock tied to a stick with a catgut binding. I’m at the feet of our tribal leader and head Priestess, Remarka.

Remarka has grown old and wishes to pass her knowledge to her successor and I’m the clan’s scribe. I’m named scribe because I’m not strong enough to fight or hunt, and I’ve an artistic bent which lends itself to neat handwriting. Remarka has just finished dictating early Genesis and I’ve scribed my way to the fourth day.

The Priestess is growing weak, so she tells me to listen to the rest of Genesis while she has the strength. She doesn’t have time to wait for me to painstakingly scribe onto the stones, so she asks me to listen to the entire story and then write it all down. Remarka restarts the story with how God created Eve in Her image and then made man from an unnecessary flap of flesh that covered Eve’s butt crack. Early on God thought that assholes were going to be ugly and would need to be hidden under the fleshy cover, but She changed her mind. As a woman deity, God felt OK changing Her mind. This flesh became Adam’s pecker, and therefore was how man’s obsessions began.

I listen to the whole thing—all the way to when Remarka’s predecessor, Noahina, had saved all the living things in the Great Flood. Remarka sighs deeply and says to me, she says, “Lunarius, I want you to tell the clan that I name as my successor…”

The great High Priestess coughed, and without another word, she died. And the rest is history.

How many times did that sort of shit happen over ten thousand years? And have you ever thought of this? How fucking hard is it to erase a mistake from a stone tablet? “What do you mean you said ‘Jessia’ Master. I thought you said ‘Jesus’ was to be the Messiah’s name. Don’t worry, I’ll change that to Jessia” later.”

I actually feel a little dumb for thinking that I could find God’s hand in religion. Modern Christianity has killed spirituality and replaced it with the self-serving of the old men who rule each Christian cult.

I, for one, hope that there is a heaven. How cool would that be? But no God that I could trust would require me to act like a perfect contemporary Baptist or Catholic. My God isn’t an asshole.

This shit has absolutely worn me out. Manana, y’all.