Mooner Johnson- An Asshole By Any Other Name

 

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.

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6 Responses to “Mooner Johnson- An Asshole By Any Other Name”

  1. bj says:

    Sounds to me, like yer livin’ the Dream with yer critter companions ….”Asshole” has never seemed like a derogatory epithet to me. Prolly ’cause, like you I’ve been told I am one so many times, I kinda expect it now … and like you, if someone says “Hey … ASSHOLE!?” I begin answering before I turn to visually confirm I’m the one being spoken to. Never really HAS bothered me, that werd.
    Sounds to me like you shot the neighbor ‘boy’ what they used to call a “Goatsee” (check yer email for a preview). But ‘cept I don’t think yer narrow ass is skinny enough to shoot a FULL MOON Goatsee ….. “but that’s just ME ….. I ….. could be wrong …

  2. bj says:

    Sorry ….. misspeeled it …. “Goatse” from the Goatse Man circa 2000

  3. chrisinphx says:

    Pretty much every neighbor I’ve ever had as an adult has referred to me as “that asshole next door” at one point or another. My “You mind your damn bidnez and Ill worry about mine” outlook on life has been mistaken for rudeness on several occasions but it isn’t… well on some occasions maybe it is, but only in response :)

  4. squatlo says:

    Ah, the neighbors… when my kids were little we lived in a little subdivision and had neighbors that were all about getting in one another’s shit. One day my kids were playing on their swingset with the little girl from next door when the neighbor’s urchin told my daughter, “My daddy says your daddy doesn’t mow his grass often enough.”
    Well, my little darling ran in to tell me the bulletin from next door, not knowing that I’d go out to the neighbor’s kid and tell her to run home and tell HER daddy that if he wanted my grass mowed more often he could just bring his fat ass over and cut it whenever he got froggy and wanted to hop on it.
    The little girl smiled and ran off to spread the joy, and a few minutes later FatAss next door slammed shut their kitchen door, thus ending the day’s communications. I was known as “Asshole” to about four of our neighbors after that, those who belonged to the “committee”. Updates were conveyed via the one neighbor who loved playing a part on the committee but who considered herself a fellow “asshole at heart” as far as that guy and his ilk went.
    Good times.
    Mooner, don’t let your dogs call you Asshole, even in jest. Remind ’em you open the Alpo cans. Or that you cut stalks of dandelions for their dinner, whatever…

  5. admin says:

    Beej. I had to take a bath after opening that email, and I’m ever so grateful that I can’t do “that”. I’m starting to think that asshole is my middle name.

    Chris. Neighbors are usually assholes.

    Squat. Out of the mouths of babes… As for the dogs, the’re too fucking funny to censure.

  6. bj says:

    I was hoping MOONER’S Full Moon was more respectable than that ….. but sometimes you paint such a graphic picture with yer werdalizations …. well, again, that’s prolly just me …..

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