Guest Blogger Bully; Yoda’s Still Homely

 

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.

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9 Responses to “Guest Blogger Bully; Yoda’s Still Homely”

  1. mel says:

    First of all, I think Yoda is adorable. I wish I had pets that would eat dandelions for me. Secondly…I would love to do.a guest post….as soon as my mind starts working a bit more normally (because right now I can’t remember if I tied my shoes…notice the lack of posts on my part lately? That would be why.). I have some excellent hospital stories I could tell. And other stories of other natures…I will keep you posted. You know where to find me.

  2. squatlo says:

    One mo’ thang… two days ago I had an episode of computer mutiny that made me think an entire basketball game full of files had been eaten by cybergods. I called my lovely (and dangerous) wife in a panic, explained that I had just been fucked by the computer gods, and began to charge around the house in a snit because I was receiving internet orders for photos that were suddenly “missing”… meaning refunds, pissed off parents, and really bad bidness vibes. Meanwhile, she sat down, did a reboot on the computer, and saved everything. Again. She rescues me daily like that.

    But the reason I’m telling you this is because while she was fixing my computer issues, I lost track of what I was doing and took my second shower within an hour of one another. Just fucking forgot I’d already bathed. Who does that who hasn’t had a stroke or been hit on the head? Swear to god, I was barely dry from the first one before I stripped, jumped in and took another. It wasn’t until I was shampooing my head before deja vu kicked in and I realized I’d been there/done that already.

    You aren’t the only one with “issues”, man…

  3. Me. Why wait until your minds is working normally? I’d never write shit if normalcy was my litmus test. I’m a little gunshy of hospital stories and if you’ve made it that far in the book you know why. But you, my little kidney-stoned darling, are welcome anytime.

    Squat. OK, first, fuck you. I was attempting to take a pic with the one hand and feed the beast with the other. If you had given me good instructions in the first place…

    OK, I’d have still fucked stuff all to hell and back, but I’d felt better doing it.

    As for Beej, you need to be careful what you wish for. I happened to mention how much I like pork products before coming you way, and you saw how that turned out. Price for Appilacian pork bellies spiked in early November and have been holding steady.

    Squat, again. Your computer problem is one of normalcy. That shower dealie, however, is not. I was reading a study that was done on one of the recent Antarctic eploration dealies that says longterm exposure to icy temperatures can bring on early dementia, hearing loss and advanced flaccid pecker disorder.

    I would have thought that the hearing or pecker stiffening would be the first symptoms to show. Be sweet to your wife. You’ll be needing more than your laptop rebooted.

  4. Q says:

    I don’t have a dog, but when I did, he never ate anything that wasn’t meat. Conceited mutt. I’m not sure how many words I’ve typed on my site and I’m not sure if I want to know. Then again, I use Blogger and they don’t really tell you much when it comes to analytics. They keep everything a secret there and what they do reveal, you have to take their word for it.

  5. Q. Blogger sounds like the Pope.

  6. mel says:

    I meant me normal. I can hardly form a sentence at the moment. My nine year old is writing all of my comments as she is the only one who can understand what I’m mumbling.

  7. mel says:

    By the way…I kid about my kid. She will not be old enough to go anywhere near your blog ever. I have had far too much shoved on my plate in the last week and I need to get to eating, then when I am full, I can fully concentrate on a magnificent guest blog post just for you…deal??

  8. Mel. OK, first of all, you need to lock your daughter away from me in all my derivations. Second, whenever you’re ready, come on down.

  9. mel says:

    First of all..SO ALREADY DONE! Second, you got it, buddy!

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