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


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.


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6 Responses to “Jerry Jones Admits Diminished Mental Capacity; Cowboys Owner Seeks Brain Donor”

  1. mel says:

    Somehow I think that having a meal with your family would be both terrifying and fascinating as hell all at the same time. And all that pork…swoon! Thank you once again for making me laugh. I too could give a shit about the super bowl, BUT, seeing as how Tom Brady pulled that awesome punt on Tim Tebow and his Broncos on third down (yes I am still going on about that because every time I think about it I smile. And I need to smile more.) I would love to see them win. I am also looking forward to watching Madonna be totally out of place and sucking. She’s fine and all, but not exactly what I think of when the subject of the Super Bowl Halftime Show comes up. And the commercials will probably suck too, because they have for the past couple of years. But whatever…I’m gonna eat spicy boneless wings and be happy that I made it through another week.

  2. Mel. How’s it hanging, baby? Every meal in this house is the pendulum’s swing. I think Madonna and Jer-Jones share a plastic surgeon, if you know what I mean. Self-important people bore me, and those two are prime examples.

  3. bj says:

    I’m not at all surprised by the number of concussions J.J. CLAIMS to have had. In fact, I’d venture to say he prolly suffered more than a few more while he was (still is) under the influence of a previously prior concussion … I’ma watch the game with the fellas and my son’s bringin’ a couple of his rowdy friends so I just finished cleaning my pistols and put two fresh 9 volt batteries in the ‘Baton’. I went to Slick Pig yesterday and picked up fitty of their wings. Ya’ ‘member that Beer Store next door to Slick Pig? I slud in there and bought a case of (now) Icy Cold Carta Blanca for the occasion. My neighbor’s bringin’ Toots wings, my son’s bringin’ Hooters wings, and about 1 o’clock I’ll be firin’ up the Big Green Egg out back to HOT smoke MY wings! Celery, Blue Cheese dip, Ranch, Herdez Hot, Publix Spinach/Artichoke, and homemade Onion Dip with all the crackers ‘n chippings rounds out the bill of fair for the afternoon/evening. None of us gives a fuck who wins, either, and I won’t be watching the Firestone Half-Ass Show (prolly be rollin’ a few more by that time) as I find Madonna’s werk …. “reductive”
    I’d like to repeat myself …. Mooner you are One More FUNNY Fucker …. and today’s piece is some of your best werk! Enjoy yer day!

  4. bj says:

    “Banger is British … for BLAND”! LMFAO

  5. squatlo says:

    Damn funny post, you silly bastard! I ‘specially liked the part where you sum up Jerry Jones to your momster. To a Tee.

    I think the pregame show started two days ago, so I’m already over the Stupor Bowl. I’d be hard pressed to care less, since I don’t have a horse in the race (even though about half a dozen former Vols litter the lineups of both teams). If I tune in it’ll be to watch the commercials and to wonder why the only major network that doesn’t carry NFL Football gets to host the “big game” as it’s called in non-sponsor commercials. How many commercials have we suffered through in the past three weeks touting the “big game” ’cause they aren’t allowed to say “Super Bowl”? What a crock.
    Hey, Mooner, just read where Tebow is considering a career in politics. Stand back, Prick Perry, we have an actual devine candidate for office!

  6. Q says:

    50 concussions? Who counted? I predicted Eagles/Steelers before the season started, but as you can see, I was way off. Maybe I have a concussion or 50 from my playing days.

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