Archive for March, 2012

Today’s News Sucks; Let’s Go Fishing

Friday, March 30th, 2012

 

So. Today is Friday and I first want to shout out to Mel, the recipe maven found over there ===}}}} on the Bloggie Roller. Hang tough, sweetie, our thoughts are with you. Second, I want to thank BJ, also a B-Roller listee as Dumb Perignon, for a care package he sent. I’ve been missing Tennessee since I left in November after my visit, and he sent me some trinkets to ease the miss.

Is that how you say that? I’m assuming that missing is to actively miss, so wouldn’t a salve ease the miss? Or would it reduce the misses?

Today’s paper is, as Gram would say, “a real pippper”—Gram’s version of the word pip, and meaning someone or something difficult and not a dimple. Here are some of the items that caught my mother’s eye as she read us the front page.

“Senate blocks effort to end oil tax breaks,” reads item one. All the republicans and enough Democratic Senators from oil states voted to keep tax breaks for oil companies in place, thus proving my mother’s position that Democrats can be self-serving assholes too. Mother actually has a decent heart, she just misplaces it, and often. After reading this story to us at breakfast a couple hours ago, she said to me, she said, “Now, if we can just get a few of those smarter Democrats to keep up that sort good work, we can fix what’s wrong with America.”

“Fuck that. If all the asshole christians would move to Australia we’d fix things faster,” I told her. “We could plant a story that jesus is coming to Melbourne or down to the Outback this December. Then we’d cancel everybody’s passports while they’re over there and not let them back in.” I waited a beat and added, “You’ll like Australia.”

Mother looked at me like I’m the crazy one and said, “You’d miss me, Mooner.”

Next, she read the story with the headline “House approves republican budget”[.] I told her, “Of course they did. Those silly fuckwads want to kill as many social programs as fast as they can.”

“Those fine men are doing god’s work, son. They should be applauded.” With this, my mother grinned at me over the top of the folded newspaper. It was a shitty grin.

“Did I tell you that I’m going to start going to church again, Mother?” I delivered this with a shitty grin of my own. “I’m printing up tee shirts with each front saying, ‘I’m Mother Johnson’s Son, Mooner’ along with that photo of us at Sister and Anna’s wedding—you know, the one with us standing beside the two brides. Then each of the backs will say something different. Like, ‘A woman’s right to choose is sacred,’ or, “If your god is an asshole then fuck your god,” or my personal favorite, “If god didn’t want homosexuals then why did he make Dr. Marcus Bachmann?”

Mother’s face turned beet red, but she ignored me and read the next story. “Says here that conservatives distrust science more now than ever. The big trend appears to be with the better educated conservatives.”

Well fucking duh. College educated conservatives will always see a way to control uneducated conservatives, and use it like a hammer. That’s how they roll.

“And would you look at this! Mr. President Bush Senior has endorsed Mr. Mitt Romney. That’s quite a surprise,” Mother commented. Whenever Mother disapproves of a powerful or influential person, she calls them Mister with first and last names. Like Mr. Mooner Johnson. OK, except that for it’s Mooner Einstein Johnson on my account, and with no Mister.

Now me, I already knew why Mother was surprised at this, because I already knew my mother is a right-wing conservative christian fuckball. But I must admit that I enjoy, sometimes, hearing her confirm it. “Now why is that such a surprise, Mother. Herr Rommel is a fine christian man, isn’t he?”

Now I get a serious face peering over the top edge of the paper. “Mooner, you know that Mormons aren’t real christians. I’ll just never understand how they can believe in all of those silly miracles of theirs.”

Riiiight, I’m thinking to myself. “Riiiight,” now out loud. “It isn’t like the burning bush or fishes-and-loaves or rising from the dead, is it? Hell, that’s not even like parting the Red Sea, for shitsakes. Those Mormon miracles are just so silly.”

Have I told you guys my take on Mormons? Here’s my Mormon slogan: “Mormon- one little ‘r’ from the truth.”

“Mooner, are you still committing heresy on your Internet thing?” Now I’m getting “serious concern” look from Mother.

“Why of course I am, mommy dearest, it’s how I roll.” Sometimes I’m a funny guy. “Anything in particular concerning you?”

“She “Hmffed” and said, “I want you to start capitalizing god and jesus and all their pronouns like you’re required to do. What you are doing is blasphemous and I won’t allow it ANY… MORE!”

Sensing a chance to use compromise to the benefit of world peace, I said, “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll start capitalizing stuff again just as soon as you agree to be 100% supportive for gay rights.”

If you were to look at Mother’s face at this point you’d think she’d eaten a bucket of green quince. My guess was that her mouth and asshole were both pinched so tight you couldn’t drive a needle into them with a sledge hammer. “I’ll never endorse the devil’s deeds, Mooner Einstein Johnson. NEVER!”

“OK, and fine. And I’ll not endorse asshole gods.” Here I paused for effect, and affect as well. “Have you decided what you’ll be wearing to church Sunday?” Two, three four… “I want to wear a tee shirt that matches your dress. This Sunday’s shirt says, ‘Jesus Loves Homosexuals And Mormons Too!’ I can make it in any color you wear.”

I know I shouldn’t be so hard on my own mother, but I can’t seem to help myself. Just because she’s family doesn’t excuse her prejudice. So, fuck it, I’m taking the animals fishing now.

Manana, y’all.

pope Still A Two-Faced Prick; Lesbians Are Always Welcome In My Soup

Thursday, March 29th, 2012

 

So. I had hoped to get my pissiness with the fucking pope over, and done with, yesterday. But that silly old queen can’t stop saying stupid shit. He’s in Cuba if you haven’t been informed, and he’s continuing to accuse Castro of governing Cuber with the same dumbass rulings as the pope himself uses to rule the holy roman catholic church.

Please allow me to quote an Associated Press report of the popester’s speech yesterday as he addressed a crowd in Havana:

 

… benedict’s homily was a not-so-subtle jab at the island’s leadership… “Cuba and the world need change, but this will occur only if each one is in a position to seek truth and chooses the way of love, sowing reconciliation and fraternity,” benedict said.

… “There are those who wrongly interpret this search for the truth, leading them to irrationality and fanaticism; they close themselves up in ‘their truth’ and then try to impose it upon others,” he said from the alter… By Anne-Marie Garcia and Nicole Winfield, AP

 

Holy… fucking… shit! Is this guy for real?

This sounds like Fiddle Dee calling Fiddle Dumb lazy. When was the last time the catholic church and his holiness sought the truth and chose the way to reconciliation? Oh, right, that’s how they are handling the priest pedophile issues right now today. That’s right. They have been seeking that truth for fifty years so that they can make things right with victims and sow some fraternity.

Maybe the fraternity his holiness was talking about was the multitude of catholic fathers who rape children, and as for the sowing part, well I’ll let you fill in that blank.

And that whole second quote where he speaks of those who close themselves up inside their own truths and then try to force their beliefs on others… “Hello, popie bentdick, is anybody home? Do you ever look in the mirror, asshole? Have you listened to your shitty little mouthpiece, rick santorum?”

I think the old pope is sex deprived. Maybe sex depraved as well. You Have to be a true asshole to call other people fanatics for doings things you do yourself. He’s blasting Castro for holding the people of Cuba back from making civilized progress. At least the Cuban people are more advanced and civilized than they were 2,000 years ago, and catholic dogma is unchanged since before the Dark Ages.

At least Castro doesn’t wear pounds of stolen gold and flaunt it in front the descendants of the people his church murdered and plundered centuries ago when they stole that same gold At least Castro is honest about his motivations and intents and doesn’t attempt to use sorcery to confuse his people.

At least Castro is working to make things better for his people. Hell, I think old Fidel would make a better pope than benedict. At least Castro would tell catholics that he doesn’t give a shit about right and wrong or humanity or justice. At least Castro tells the Cuban people they’ll be getting fucked.

Which reminds me. I want to name a new addition to my Bloggie Roller. Her name is Katy Anders and her site is Lesbians In My Soup. Her site’s name reminds me of cooking with Sister and her wife in the kitchen with me. There was this one time when I wanted to make fish stew but not use any saffron, like in a Bouillabaisse. I like saffron but mostly in Indian food, so I guess I wanted to make something more akin to Cipollini. Except Cipollini always calls for Dungeness crabs and fuck that, I’m not paying $20 for five buck-worth of crab meat. If it costs more to ship seafood than it did to catch and get it to the shore, it won’t be on my table in Texas. Sister wanted me to use some fresh sardines in the soup and I made a tasteless lesbian joke re: the taste and smell of sardines.

I love my sister, but she can punch like a mule. In fact, she and her wife (my third ex-wife, Anna the Amazon) are my second choice as back up to Streaker Jones when I get into bar fights. You can buy my silly fucking book by clicking over there ====}}}} and you’ll find a story that proves that point. I think that story is in Chapter 12. You’ll learn all about smiting Johnsons. You’ll also learn about smitten Johnsons.

Katy reminds me of Sister except younger, and Sister looks like Demi Moore butt Katy reminds me of that Titanic actress, you know the one, right. Kate Winslett? Is that her name, Kate Winslett? Or is it the woman who played June Carter Cash? Not Sissy Spacek—she played Lowretti—I mean the other one. I’d try to date Katy under differing circumstances but I think I should stick to recommending her as a good reading resource. I’m guessing Katy packs a wallop too.

She’s got this one guy over there commenting on her site that I could almost swear was our old buddy Theo. Calls himself Teddy something. Katy’s got way plenty patience with dumass Teddy. Way more that I’d be able to show. Anyway, please hoist your Carta Blanca beers high and help me salute Katy.

Manana, y’all.

Mooner Decapitalizes Religion; Why Are We Still Fighting For Equal Rights?

Wednesday, March 28th, 2012

 

So. In big news today, the Pope has declared that Cuba should loosen it’s grip on peoples’ lives and the far right-wing christian fuckballs are now proven to be behind attempts to disenfranchise Black and Hispanic Americans from Democracy using gay rights as their weapon of choice. One of the silly “save marriage for christian heterosexuals” groups has been outed as waging war on gay people, and using gay people to provoke other minorities.

Of course, I’m assuming that gays really are a minority. I’m also starting to think that half of these religious zealots are actually gay people (here you need to think Dr. Marcus Bachmann for reference) who are ashamed of their true selves. I’m getting a new anti-anti-abortion sign made. One side will have my tried and true “A Woman’s Right To Choose Is Sacred” and on the other it’ll say “I’m Not Gay But I wish I Were”[.] Maybe I should say “…But I Wish I Was” since so many of those super christian cracker heads are somewhat thick.

And you know what, for me it’s now the pope, in lower-case from now on. Two-faced greedy fucking priest-rapist-protecting frilly dress wearing shitwad catholic asshole. How dare he call Cuba’s government oppressive when he himself oppressively governs over more human beings than have ever even inhabited Cuber. The holy roman catholic church has murdered, assassinated and burned at the stake more humans in their history than died in WWII—my conservative estimate. And they use the fear of god to wield their power like cannons.

Two-faced asshole pope.

And this shit down to Floriduh with the kid, murdered by a racist because he was Black, and how the right wingers are now attacking the kid’s character to justify it. Kid might have been an ax murderer for all I know, but the racist cop wannabe killed him in cold fucking blood because he was Black. Why would any man with a clear conscience want to try to make this kid look deserving to be murdered?

Wouldn’t it be nice if these topics weren’t on our minds. Wouldn’t it be nice to not have racism, human rights and religious hypocrisy at the forefront of the news? It’s 2012, for shitsakes. Why are we having to fight for funding for public schools? Why has the leading Republican Presidential candidate spent years killing American jobs for his own profit and calling it good for America?

I’d much rather be focusing my attentions onto feeding hungry people, being a good father to the menagerie of pets I husband, and rubbing my body parts on the body parts of a certain Special Agent In-Charge, US Department of Homeland Security.

SAC Ellen has been out of town so much lately that I’m getting some serious “squint” lines around my eyes. I’ve been forced to take matters into my own hands so often it looks like I have undertaken a hostile takeover of the company that makes Ivory Soap. I had to have the sink drain snake cleaned yesterday because of excess Ivory Soap residue inside the pipes.

Ugh. I’m sick of this shit. Maybe I need some mood-enhancements. Manana, y’all.

Lessons In Parenting; Hot Sauce Torches Breakfast Mood

Monday, March 26th, 2012

 

So. We were all at breakfast this morning enjoying pancakes, apple wood smoked bacon and a big fritatta with peppers, onions and strips of zucchini. I went to the walk-in pantry for a fresh jar of my homemade salsa for the eggies only to find the cupboard bare of tasty sauce picant.

“Moth-er fuck-er!” I was pissed. “Why didn’t somebody tell me we’re out of salsa?”

I walked back into the kitchen and waved the offending last jar at the table full of formerly laid-back diners. “Who took the next-to-the-last jar from the pantry without telling me?”

The kitchen air chilled with my harsh, frosty bitch. Everyone but Gram pulled a church mouse and picked quietly at their plates. Gram, however, didn’t.

“Shut yer yapper, ya pissy little shitbird. What was ya plannin’ ta do iffn ya knowed?”

I didn’t have a good answer to that question, but not having a good answer never stops me from having something stupid to say. “I have a right to know and you guys have a responsibility to tell me.”

“Awright, fuckball, we’s outta hot sauce. Now open tha last one an’ give it ta me. My eggies er dry ’cause ya left ’em in tha oven too long.”

I can always count on my Gram to straighten my ass right up. What real difference would it make to have known we were down to one jar of sauce made from fresh produce from our garden when we’re still six weeks out from having any produce from which to make a new batch? How much more would I have obsessed about it if I had known? Answer, an entire week’s worth.

“OK, sorry, guys. I should actually thank you for not telling me. Saved me anguishing over it for the last week. I had no idea we were so low. I was just in there a couple weeks ago and there were eight or ten jars in the pantry.”

Mother still had the front page of the newspaper clenched in her fist at what was now the midway point of Sunday breakfast. She said, “Says here that our dear, sweet ex-Vice President Cheney got a heart transplant. God bless him. And there were a dozen jars week before last and I took eleven to the church for the big Fiesta party last weekend.”

Huh? She stole eleven of the last twelve jars of MY hot sauce to feed a bunch of fucking Baptists? My “top-ten in the entire world, scorch-the-skin-off-your-lips hot sauce with a secret ingredient” hot sauce was consumed by a church full of fucking Baptists?

“You what???” I half yelled. “You stole MY hot sauce and took it to church?”

“Don’t you dare yell at your mother, Mooner Einstein Johnson. Show me some respect?”

I didn’t need the fiery-hot salsa to heat me up now. “Show you respect? Show you some fucking respect? Why, I’ll show you some…”

I didn’t get anything else out. Mr. Dave rose from his chair and pointed an elegant finger my way. “Sit, and zip your lip, Mr. Johnson. I don’t want to feel required to take you outside for a lesson in manners, but I most certainly will.”

I’d never noticed that Mr. Dave has elegant hands to match his elegant pecker. Long, slender fingers and perfectly manicured nails. Fitting, I guess, that a man with a giant pecker should have good hands to hold it with.

“But,” I started, then realized what I was doing. “Aw, shit on a dinner plate and call it fudge.” Now I looked at my own hands that I’d clenched into fists. “I’m sorry for being an asshole, everybody. And speaking of assholes, did they say if they could find a heart to exchange when they cut into Mr. Haliburton, or was the new heart an add-on rather than a replacement?”

Actually, old Dicky C must have had some semblance of a heart. The one issue he and I agree upon is his support for gay rights. Then again, his support likely stems from the simple fact that his own daughter is a lesbian. Funny how spawning and rearing a gay child can effect your world views. But who gives a shit how he got there. Dick Cheney had to have a little heart.

“And I’m sorry for what I said about your idol, Mother. He must have had some sort of heart before. I have a tendency to judge by content rather than by the cover.”

That was breakfast and now I’m fixing to give the kids another shaving lesson. The cuts on my scalp and nose have healed into fresh scars and I’m feeling brave. And Mother’s theft of my hot sauce has given me an idea. What if I tell Rick Perry he can have his breast implants if he and the other animals can raise the money? I think an ostrich getting giant rubber titties is very close to a really dumb idea, but I thought liquid paper was stupid too. We’ll jar hot sauce to sell and the kids will all participate in growing the veggies. I’ll let the ostrich sell the idea, and if he can convince the dogs and fucking cat to help him, I can teach teamwork, entrepreneurship, hard work and charity, and all in one gift basket.

Multi-tasker is my middle name, and better parenting through creative thought is my game. But maybe I should hide a stash of this season’s hot sauce over to SAC Ellen’s place. Manana, y’all.

Mother Nature- Myth or Magic; Fig Jam And Other Natural Disasters

Saturday, March 24th, 2012

 

So. Another day in short-term paradise. It’s absolutely beautiful here to Austin, Texas, and that scares the living shit right out of me. I’m starting to bear (bare?) convictions that Mother Nature is seriously pissed with the human race and that She has decided to make a point. I think She’s starting to fight back for our last 2,000 years of soiling Earth’s pristine nature, and the punishments will be viscious.

Which thoughts have at this very instant inspired an idea. What if Mother Nature is the one, the only, true and everlasting God? What if the Heavenly Spirit manifested Herself in the form of Earth Mommy? Since all the christian right-wing fuckwadders claim that it is their god who makes all the natural disasters happen, what if they are right about just that small part of their dogma?

If I imprint my mind with the basic supposition that God is Mother Nature, then I can more easily justify many of the bible’s more ridiculous stories. Burning bushes, parting seas, and great floods can actually make a little sense to me. I can see a pissed off Mother Nature bringing seven year plagues whereas a god of much larger scope would only bring natural disasters if he were an asshole. That god would be blaming humans for exhibiting the same flawed nature that god himself had created.

Only assholes punish others for their own mistakes.

Like Schmidt Rommel’s Etch-A-Sketch, maybe the Great Flood was Mother Nature’s most recent method to cleanse her sacred Earth of mankind’s ugly art. I’m not sure how we managed to fuck things up so badly all those years ago, but we must have done some sort of polluting. We hadn’t yet discovered oil and oil-smutting machines, and our worse water and soil pollutions were over-grazing and whenever some drunk bastard pissed upstream from the encampment.

If she was angry enough to flood the entire world back then, how pissed must Mother God be now that we have totally fucked things up? Which reminds me of something. It appears that the Feds are finally going to ban the practice of adding antibiotics into animal foods. What, in the hell, has taken so long?

Oh, that’s right, the Ag lobby is pretty fucking powerful. Greedy asswipe, right-wing corporate farming shitballs. Me, with how the mega-super-sized corporate farms are medicating and gene-altering our livestock, I’m thinking Mother Nature might be wise to stockpile another two each just in case.

Then again, where would a person even find and original chicken? I wonder what the first chicken looked like. If I bore rick santorum’s ideologies, I would wonder if god had invented all the animals and other shit by first casting the male of each species. Since I don’t think like that sanctimonious little prick, I’m left to imagine a few million years of evolution between chicken and egg.

OK, maybe a million years egg-to-chicken. But like my Gram always says, when she says, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Pass me one a them ranch eggies an a chicken taco. No, dammit, I said a chicken taco not a porkie one.”

Sister and her wife, Anna the Amazon, were over to make us all breakfast this morning. My sister makes Huevos Rancheros as well as they can be made, and I taught Anna how to make breakfast tacos when we were married to each other. Anna was, and still is, a terrible cook. But I taught her the taco tricks and Gram taught her how to can figs. She makes the most of those two recipes and Sister told me once that she thought she might hang herself if she had to even look at another jar of fig jam.

Not me. I can’t get enough of good fig preserves. Or jam—I never can remember the differences. Which reminds me. My good buddy, BJ from over to the Dumb Perrignon, is planting a fig tree up to Murphreesboro, Tn., and he needs an idea as to which varieties would do well there. If any of you guys have a suggestion, please let him/me know.

Screw it, I’m going fishing. Manana, y’all.

 

Good Parenting Skills Are Hard To Find; Telling Rick Perry “No”

Friday, March 23rd, 2012

 

So. It’s a beautiful day here, one of those gorgeous May days our Austin Chamber of Commerce loves to brag about. Only thing is that it’s still March and we had our March weather in January. At this rate we can expect July to hit mid-April and destroy my beautiful tomato plants. My tomatoes are already knee-to-waist high and have flower buds all over the place. It’ll be a bumper crop with decent weather until June.

I was listening to the news this morning and it seems like the Republican Presidential hopefuls have taken a new tactic to win the hearts of their voters. These silly shitballs have decided to support President Obama in order to gather votes. Tactic change one is from the great tactic changer his own self, Etchin’ Sketchin’ Schmidt Rommel. The Mittster’s lead political tactician has said that come general election time, they’ll just shake the red-and-graphite-colored-Chinese-made-plastic box, and wipe out all of his primary positions so that they can write an entirely new slate of positions.

In order to reverse all his extremist right-wing positions, the former Massachusetts Governor will be forced to more closely align himself with the President. Former Senator and all-around funny guy, Little Pricky Santoria, has taken the tack that Obama is a better President than Mitt-A-Sketch could ever be. Basically, the two front runners have decided to imitate and support the President.

That, dear friends, is fucking brilliant. It seems that the American voting public really is stupid enough to fall for anything, as long as you make it clear that you are a christian and a conservative christian at that. Mark my words here when I say that the next step is for them to steal President Obama’s successes as their own. They’ll say that the economy is getting better and take credit for it. They’ll be bragging about saving General Motors and how it was their plan that got Bin Laden.

And please note that I am still holding the high ground in my plan for marginalization of all things right-wing and christian fuckwad. I will continue to lower-case them and theirs with impunity until I feel I’ve made my points.

Have you ever wondered who in the fuck named Boston’s home state “Massachusetts” and decided to spell it like that? According to Wiki, it’s named after a Native American tribe’s words meaning “on a large hill” or something close to that.

Bullshit. Some silly-assed Pilgrim school marm who hadn’t been layed in thirty years named and spelled it to torture school kids. Maybe I should have said “…silly-assed school marm whom hadn’t been lain in thirty years…”[.] Who’s and whose and whom’s and layeds and lains have always been problematical for me.

Speaking of tomato plants, why don’t we say “tomatoe plants”[?] One tomato is a tomato and two are tomatoes right? Well, my garden is filled with not only many different individual tomato plants, but also plants of many different varieties of tomato. So why don’t I have tomatoe plants? Come on you prissy Grammar Police, conjugate your silly butts out of that one.

While back on my tomatoes, I had all of my charges out to the garden early this am to look things over and to provide some life lessons. As a newly-dedicated father… OK, stop again. As a father with newly-dedicated desires to be a better parent, I had the two dogs, the fucking cat, Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry out to the garden to tend the crops.

I wanted to teach them that you need to love and nurture Life’s creatures if you expect the best from them in return. Since the recent rains have caused the weeds to almost jump out the ground, I wanted to use weeding as the metaphorical hammer to drive my points home.

We were weeding and talking about life when Rick Perry squawked about something. It was obviously important to him because the big ostrich was running in circles and lashing his head up and down. I couldn’t understand a word of it, so I asked the Squirt to translate for all of us.

“Well,” the brown-furred and adorable little interpretor answered, “his feelings are hurt because he thinks you aren’t taking him seriously. He feels disrespected.”

Huh? How do you not seriously take a bird that shits a ten-pound bucket every movement and can break your leg with one swing of his bowling ball head. “The fuck is he talking about? I take all you guys seriously.”

I try to not have hurt feelings with my kids but it can be difficult. “I allow him and his gay lover—a 550-pound domesticated hog—to live in my bedroom closet, for shitsakes. How much more respect does he think I should give him?”

Squirt squawked at the ostrich, who then squawked at Rush Limbaugh, who oinked and squealed at Squirt, who then turned to me and said, “You are such an asshole. Why can’t Rick Perry have a boob job?”

“Oh, for the love of god, is that what this is all about? Is this because I think he needs to think things a little deeper before getting giant rubber titties?”

This subject came up at dinner the other night and I basically ignored it the same way I did when Rush Limbaugh asked me for a sex change operation a while back. I always feel that the “First Ignore” sales approach is the best tactic to use when your kids have hair-brained ideas. Make them bring it up more than a few times before you take them seriously. Give them time for deeper thinking before attempting serious discussions.

Then again, Rick Perry lacks the actual brain cells required to have deep thoughts. Which brings a question to mind. I never really paid any attention to this until I was adopted by my ostrich, but have you ever noticed that an ostrich egg is the same approximate size as a mature adult ostrich’s head? Have you ever noticed it’s the same with chickens and ducks and robins and all other birds?

Wait, I don’t mean that all birds lay ostrich eggs, but rather I mean that birds lay eggs the size of their own heads. Except for a Duck-billed Platypus. I’ve never seen their eggs but I bet they’re either smaller or larger than their heads. Would need to be.

Anyway, we all discussed the concept of a gay ostrich getting breast implants to please his boy friend. Seems Rush Limbaugh is a breast man. I always figured him for an ass man as he has his head up his own, and those of others, so much. But go figure.  My five kids voted four-to-zero in favor of me letting Rick get his titties.  The fucking cat abstained from voting.  Cats, I’m learning, are trouble makers. 

Anyway, we’re going fishing down to the dock, and Gram and the P-cubed are heading the Ferrari down to College Station to fish for a couple young Aggie Cadets. Here’s hoping we all bag our limits. Me and my bunch are cracking the icy-cold Carta Blanca beers and baiting some hooks.

Manana, y’all.

 

Rush Limbaugh And Rick Perry Attack Mooner; Gay Lovers Create Havoc

Thursday, March 22nd, 2012

 

So. I don’t have anything to say today. My ADHD has been turned to the 100% setting and my thoughts are more scattered and smothered than over-well hash browns up to the Waffle House. I haven’t been able to focus on any task for more than a few seconds’ time and I have already hurt myself twice because of it.

I was shaving my beautiful skull and sliced this big wart or cancerous growth off the top of my head. I had all the animals in the bathroom with me so that they could watch me shave. After tripping Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson the other day because Yoda and Squirt have poor leash training, I decided to be a better father and exhibit higher levels of parenting skills with my kids. I’ve decided to spend extra time parenting the menagerie of semi-domesticated animals I’ve chosen to husband.

Why is the act of caring for domesticated animals called “animal husbandry”[?] Except for maybe sheep herders and some of the cowboys I met up to Amarillo this one time, I don’t see a husband-wife relationship in raising dogs and cats and pigs and giant fucking birds. Should be called animal parentry.

Anyway, both dogs and the fucking cat were on the vanity top, Rush Limbaugh was lying on the floor like the pig he is, and Rick Perry was standing behind me—the actual cause for this first razor accident.

Which reminds me that I hurt myself three times during this current brain fritz. For new readers, a brain fritz is when my ADHD and/or ADD become so active that they cause my brain to go on the fritz. The first injury was suffered before the two shaving cuts as I was trying to teach my ostrich how to pee in the sink. I had him backed-up to the sink and was attempting to assist him with pointing his big bird pecker over the sink bowl to urinate. Rush Limbaugh lumbered into the bathroom and gave a loud snort when he saw me messing with Rick Perry’s genitalia. Ricky jumped and peed on my hands, and I jumped and knocked my funny bone on the towel rack. I guess Rush thought I was making a move on his lover boy.

When it came shaving lesson time, I had the big ostrich behind me at the mirror in the same pose a father makes with his son as he teaches him to tie a necktie. Except, of course, the ostrich has no actual arms and this was a shaving lesson. Rick Perry’s fat breast—a fat breast he told me last night at dinner that he wants to enhance with a surgical augmentation—is pushed flat against my back, and his big head is roaming all over the place. Owning an ostrich is often akin to having a two-year old child operate a twenty-pound bowling ball attached to the end of a six-foot rubber stick.

He’s poking his head in my face and circling around to see things from every angle, and he approaches from around my shoulders, and under my arms, and once from under and between my legs. When he came at me from between my legs, it looked as though I had a four-foot pecker with bald head, a beak and big bug eyes. I made mention of how it looked like I had a giant pecker with a brain of it’s own and everybody laughed.

“You wish,” the Squirt told me. Me, I was thinking that half that wish has been granted, and not, necessarily, to my benefit. I think Dr. Sam I. Am says it best on that issue. “Thinking men, Mooner, don’t think with their penis.”

I’ve always thought that two brains are better than one. I mean think about it. A hook and ladder firetruck has two drivers, right?

I’m there at the sink with most of my entire head slathered with shave gel. OK, wait, my head was slathered with gel, but the results were that I was lathered with the resulting foam from the gel application. I was shaving around, skipping from spot-to-spot in the typical fashion of an ADHD-addled fuck brain.

“You missed a spot, dumass,” Squirt informed me. “It’s no wonder you look like hell most of the time.”

This got more chuckles from my Peanut Gallery and caused me to try to focus better on my shaving. “How about I try to be systematic about this, guys? Everybody be still and quiet while I focus.”

Now they’re all rolling on the floor and vanity top, laughing at my dumb remark. I had to chuckle a bit myself. “OK, how about you all be still so I can imitate a man trying to focus?”

They did, and I started systematically dragging the razor over the left-center, upper-rear quadrant of my skull. On the third swipe, Rick Perry moved his head from under my elbow to get a better view, and I slashed the wart, or whatever, down to the scalp line.

Have you guys ever seen a scalp bleed from a dime-sized hole? The only thing that bleeds-out faster than a scalp is a pecker. If you want the details on pecker bleed-outs you need to go over there ===}}} to my Bloggie Roller and buy my fucking book. Full Rising Mooner has an entire chapter devoted to that story and subject. That Chapter alone is worth the price of admission.

So now I’ve got blood coursing through the suds on my cabeza, of course, and I’ve but half shaved. I told the guys that I needed to stop the bleeding, so the shaving lesson was over.

“Suck it up, sissy boy,” Squirt told me. “The pig will give you mouth-to-mouth if you faint from blood loss.”

My adorable little brown-furred puppy is for sure a Johnson, and mine without question. Everybody laughed, again, and I figured, I thought to myself, I thought, “Who gives a shit if I’ve got blood in my eyes. This is some funny shit.”

Remember that old Saturday Night Live skit with Dan Akroyd playing my beloved Julia Child cutting her hand artery when de-boning a chicken? I started my best Julia Child imitation as I instructed the animals on the proper shaving techniques employed by a prim and proper British gentleman. It was funny as all get out until I nicked the razor edge at the spot where my left nostril anchors itself to my upper lip.

“Sonofabitch!” I threw the razor at the wall. “Fucking cheap-ass razor!”

I left the vanity and went to stand in the shower to clean the mess off my head. I stood under the shower head, still in my shorts and white cotton socks, as the jets of water stung the gashes on my scalp and nose. “Fuck-ing cheap-ass made-in-fuck-ing Bangla-fucking-desh or whereeverthefuck fucking razors!”

Do women blame inanimate objects for their errors a much as we men do? Why is it that whenever I fuck shit up I always first try to blame the blameless? I pride myself for always taking the blame for my blunders, but I always first attempt to shame the razor.

And did you guys notice that I let a comment through the other day from God’s Child? She is one of my far-right wing catholic followers from back to when they infected my website and computer with virusi. Virusissi? She’d been away for awhile but has popped back into our lives. If you ever want to take a peek into one of “those” minds, read her comments. I’ll allow her to post the semi-civil stuff she writes but not the threats she tends to make. Threats are directed to a certain Special Agent in Charge, US Department of Homeland Security.

Me, I’m going shopping for some razors that are actually made in America. I’m shaving way too much of my skin now to trust an imported razor.

I guess not having anything to say can’t stop me from saying a whole lotta nothing. Manana, y’all.

 

Two Mango Tango; Not A Dancing With Stars Story

Tuesday, March 20th, 2012

 

So. I would like to first discuss a personal wonderment before moving on to more fruitful ruminations. For some strange reason, my “visitor” list has swelled by more than a thousand individual visitors since last Thursday. OK, wait. Maybe my list has swollen, or maybe it swoled. I’ve gone back to look for obvious reasons, I say obvious reasons because I lack the life skills needed to examine a dealie like that in depth.

If we were talking about my pecker and the issue was not that it had swelled or swollen or swoled, but rather it wouldn’t swell as needed, that issue would be one wherein my life skills would be expert in nature.

But this recent spike in new individual readers is intriguing. I mentioned it at breakfast this morning and Gram says to me, she says, “That whole bloggie dealio is a stranger ta me, Mooner. But it might be what ya said about Mashie Adderlson tha other day.”

Hunh? Mashie Adderlson? Oh, Ashley Madison. “Well, Gram, I didn’t put the website down for what they do, I simply used what they do as an example in support of gay marriage.”

Gram’s face was half buried in her oatmeal as she burrowed in to find the fat fig I placed in the bottom of her bowl, when she said, “Then maybe ya got’s yersef a bunch a new gay folks readin’ yer silly shit. Much as ya been yakin bout it, maybe they think yer one of ’em.”

Now Gram places her spoon beside her bowl and looks me up-and-down with a flinty-eyed squint. “I always wondered if yer mother was gonna make ya a homogous sexy gal tha way she was always fussin’ ’bout shit. Ya can be a sissy sometimes but I cain’t see ya with a bunch a peckers in yer yapper.”

Mother and Gram were always fighting about how Mother’s fussiness would make me gay. “Thanks, Gram, I think,” I told her. “But it’s “homosexual” not homogous sexy gal.”

Now I got a first stage evil eye, and, “Don’t chu be back-talkin’ me, Mooner Einstein Johnson. I wasn’t worried ya’d be a gay, I was worried ya’d be one a them crissed-up crank dressies an pertend ta be Marilyn Monroe. Hell, I might like ya more ya if’fn ya was gay. Course then I might hafta whip yer ass if’fn ya went after my men.”

How much do I love a woman who would rather me be gay, but not a cross-dressing female impersonator, and who wants to fistfight me over men? I got up from my chair and kissed the top of her knotty old skull. “I love you, Gram. Please don’t ever change.”

She whacked at me with a half-hearted swat and grabbed her spoon for more fig diving. Me, I’m eating my Irish rolled oats with a fresh mango—the subject of the rest of this discourse.

I went to the store yesterday to see what was on special, and one well-priced item was mangos. They were two-for-a-dollar, a stellar price in any of the last several decades, and they were large and smooth skinned. As I was washing it and getting it ready to slice this morning, I got to thinking about that price. “I only paid fifty cents for this mango,” I told everyone.

Mother said, “You didn’t go the the HEB did you, Mooner? Please don’t tell me you went to the HEB. After all of this homo-sex-u-al talk I want you to stay away from the HEB stores. All my friends from church shop at HEB and I don’t need you aggravating my life.”

HEB stores are owned by the HE Butt family who are Baptists and big Baptist church supporters. I have no reason to dislike or even distrust all of those Baptist Butts, but I have an extreme dislike for the Baptist assholes who guide the Baptist church. “You know I don’t shop at HEB, Mother. Why would I want to support the fucking Baptist Church?”

OK, stop. This isn’t a Baptist story or a gay story either one, this is an economics lesson. So, like I said, I only paid a half-buck for a giant, healthy mango and that got me to thinking about the costs of mango production—land cost, fertilization, weeding and tending, picking, processing, shipping and spoilage and all that other shit. The more I thought about it the more I appreciated affordable food.

This half-dollar mango weighed just over a half pound. I know this because I weighed the second mango purchased at two-for-a-dollar. Bottom line, I paid a dollar a pound for mangos that were grown in Guatemala, shipped 1,700 miles to a distribution warehouse and then reshipped to the store. Those mangos had to clear US Customs, a fact that reminds me that we have far greater control over the flood of cheap mangos across our borders than we do the flood of drugs.

Maybe that’s because a $Million worth of mangos is easy to spot. Maybe that’s because Border Agents aren’t bribed to turn their heads on illegal mango shipments.

Anyway, I got to wondering why mangos are only fifty cents and gas is, basically, $4.00/gallon. Gas and mangos have much in common as far as products go. Like oil, most mangos are imported to America from Third World countries. Each product is often produced using near-slave labor. They are difficult to ship—mangos since they bruise and spoil, and oil because it’s liquid and an environmental threat.

You know what? I’m in too good a mood to start ranting about the big oil companies,the assholes who run them and the politicians in their pockets. We got three-inches of rain last night and I’m feeling great. I’m headed back to the store for more mangos. I’m making Mel’s trifle recipe only with mango pudding. Manana, y’all.

Does God Really Hate Gays? Nope, She Doesn’t

Monday, March 19th, 2012

 

So. What a weekend, huh? Tornadoes ravaging Nebraska, eighty boiling degrees in Chicago and two feet of snow in Ari-fucking-zona, all on the same winter day. When asked if this might be evidence of man-effected global warming, Presidential hopeful and right-wing Christian fuckball, Rick Santorum, answered, “There must be concentrations of gays in Tuscon, Grand Platte and on Michigan Avenue. That’s homosexuals bringing god’s will to bear, not global warming.”

I made up that quote, but little Ricky put the words in my mouth. According to the former Senator from Pennsylvania, homosexuality is why America has any problems it has. For the life of me I cannot figure out how the gay folk of America have managed to ruin our country so terribly. Since that silly prick thinks that god is the cause of all events good, bad and even indifferent, his god must really hate homosexuals.

One of the toughest of these god thingies for me to digest is the concept that a growing population of homosexual Americans is causing god to ruin the institution of Marriage. I can get the gist of Santorum’s thinking on the weather dealie if I shut my eyes, imagine that an Evil Tinker Belle sprinkles my now bald head with Trixie Dust, drive a spike through my frontal lobe and then pretend to be Catholic. As a brain dead blind Catholic under the influence of mind-altering drugs, I can envision a god who might kill people and wreck innocent lives on purpose. Maybe I should say wreck things “with” purpose. I’m saying that this particular god is willful and has an agenda when he kills and maims and destroys.

If I imagine a god who is powerful enough to create all of the heavens and earth, but one who fucks up so badly that he can’t then control those creations, then I can envision a god with anger management issues. If I let my brain go that stupid, I can see this same god starting famines and wars, and stimulating tsunami waves, just for the entertainment value.

“Hey, Martha,” god tells his girlfriend. “Wanna see me trap a couple hundred miners three-thousand feet underground and at the same time how about I’ll send this asshole to a Jewish school over to Paris to kill some little kids? White folks will hate this one way better than when I sent that Army Sargent to slaughter those Afghani women and kids the other week.”

I wonder if god eats popcorn while he watches this shit?

Maybe god has this giant big-screen TV with like a million channels that he watches all at the same time. And Holy shit, god must have terrible ADHD if he can watch a million channels all at once. I know with the help of my ADHD I can watch six channels at the same time, but a million?

I mean, looka here, folks, just like Rick Santoria, our boy Hitler felt he was doing god’s work too. I beg anybody to find a distinguishable difference between Hitler’s justifications for his persecutions and those of today’s modern American Christian right-wing religious shitwads. Hell, I fucking dare you to show me. But since my lobotomy grew back and I’ve grown almost tolerant of Trixie Dust, I don’t think I can buy your bullshit.

My assessment of this theological theory is this: Any god who would kill kids for sport is an asshole god, and if you worship an asshole god, in my eyes that makes you an asshole. Asshole in, asshole out.

But this “gays kill marriage” scenario is so far off base that it makes my head swim. As a group, gay people want marriage to be a stronger institution by definition. While millions of straight people are logging on to Ashly Madison to find another person to help them desecrate their heterosexual marriages, gay people want to enter into marriages to sanctify their monogamous unions.

For every Liz Taylor, Mickey Rooney and Mooner Johnson with handfuls of failed marriages, there are Lloyds and Mikes—gay and married couples with long term, sound unions. For those of you asking, Liz, Mick and I sport more than two dozen marriages between us—the three of us each need two hands to count them.

Lloyd and Mike adopted two teen girls when Lloyd worked in mental health care way back. Both are now women with kids—Mike and Lloyd’s grandkids—and my friends are quite proud grandparents. All through the party Friday night, the grandkids were texting their granddads to tell them whatever it is that sixteen-year-old twin boys text these days.

Which brings up a question for Rick Santorum and his ilk. If gay people are so terrible for Society, why are so many of them Society’s best? And if you try to answer me with that “Well, god moves in mysterious ways” bullshit, I’m gonna thump your nose.

And by the way, I am making the conscious choice to use lower case g’s and h’s when speaking of gods. At least for now. This is my way of protesting against people who use their god to justify stupidity and hate. Maybe I’ll start saying Gay and Homosexual. Maybe I’ll capitalize everything that bugs the right-wing Christians, like Abortion, Condoms, Birth Control Pills, Blow Jobs, Public Education, Science and the likes. Maybe I’ll start lower-casing christians too. Take that, rick santorum, you right-wing asshole catholic semi-christian fuckball..

OK, Maybe I need medication.

Which reminds me. There was a big study done that has now concluded that when a pregnant mother takes crystal meth it can cause serious problems in the kid, assuming the kid gets born alive. No fucking kidding. Maybe those same scientists can do a study to find a connection between electrocutions and electricity.

But rick santorum and Silly Scientists aren’t the only ones who fuck shit up. I took the dogs over to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s house to help me mow the lawn and clean her pool for her. Those services are part of my payments to my ex-wife and therapist for her helping solve the four dimensional Rubik’s cube that is my mind.

“Let’s take the dogs for a walk,” I told her. “It’ll be good for all of us.”

I like to walk the dogs on pavement and sidewalks because it keeps their nails trimmed. I hate trimming their nails.

“You haven’t leash trained them well enough, Mooner, it’s frustrating to walk with both of them together. They’re always under foot and I worry that I’ll step on one of them, or that you’ll trip and crack your crazy skull.”

Well, I talked her into it, and yes, I fucked things up. There was a vulture eating on a dead rabbit in the street and I wanted Yoda to have a chance to chase the big bird, and I wasn’t paying attention to the rest of the world, and… And, well, Yoda got ahead of me and under Sammie’s feet and, “Boom! Down goes Sammie, down goes Sammie, down goes Sammie.”

Bashed and scraped knees, hands, shoulder and face, each packed with loose rocks and grit from the newly-paved street. A very nice Asian couple—Charlie and Jo Ann—saw my blunder and drove us all home. Jo Ann eyed me like I was a war criminal as she fussed over the doctor like a grandmother. Each time I tried to assist Sammie, Jo Ann would shoo me off with a look. I took her to an emergency clinic to discover that her wounds are only superficial while my wounds are deep, and wide.

“Why do you put up with him?” the ER Doc asked my ex-wife.

“Good question without any good answer,” was the answer.

Me, I’m thinking Dr. Sam I. Am will be speaking to me by the end of the week. Otherwise I think I need a discount on my therapy sessions. The one-sided conversations in psycho therapy don’t seem to be helping me.

Manana, y’all.

 

 

 

Truffles, Divans and Peench-yer-balls-an-all; Dinner Party A Big Success

Saturday, March 17th, 2012

 

So. It’s now early Saturday morning and after the big dinner party for Lloyd and Mike. I only got a couple hours sleep because I’m still all hyped-up over Lloyd’s visit and spending time with Mike and him and the other invited guests. I’d not met Mike before and I want to say here and now that Lloyd made a good match. I very much like Mike—dry wit, hard stand against stupid and a big heart.

Oh, and Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson asked me to say handsome as well. “Mooner, you inappropriate red neck fuckball, I know you’ll be blogging about this party. I want you to do two things. First, you make sure you say how handsome and photogenic Mike is as well as how sweet. Second, if you dare say one word about me trying to lose a pound before summer…”

Let me start by telling you who was there. Lloyd and his husband, Mike, Spike, Mark and Charlsa, Bruce, Gram, Mother, Aunt Hilda (and, of course Dubbie-J), Mr. Dave, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, the P-cubed, Squirt, Yoda and me. SAC Ellen got called away to supervise some emergency and so now she still hasn’t met Lloyd and Mike. OK, or Spike or Bruce, Charlsa or Mark either. SAC Ellen is our newest addition and knows the fewest.

Since full disclosure is my middle name, I want to say that I think I might have had impure motivations driving my thoughts about this party. I haven’t seen Lloyd in many years before last night, too many years in fact, and I think I wanted to relive my youth and feel young again. As much as I wanted to be with him to regain that solid connection we held long ago, I wanted to use Lloyd to help me turn the clock back.

I know I should feel selfish about that, and I might—maybe a touch.

Guests started arriving about 5:00, which was perfect. I’d managed to make enough trips back to the store to get everything I needed for the dinner. One of the things I needed was fruit and veggie cleaner. I wash everything with the citrus-based cleaner, even stuff from my own garden. The wash was the first of thirty items on my grocery list Thursday morning, first of twenty-two Thursday afternoon, and was first of ten for my initial trip Friday morning.

My variety of ADD enables me to take a grocery list of thirty items to the store, where I’ll purchase forty-six items, and arrive back to the house with twenty-two items on my list. OK, let’s be honest here. My variety of ADD allows me to need one simple item from the store—let’s say fruit and veggie cleaner for an example—wherein I head to the Whole Foods up to the Arboretum specifically to purchase the cleaner. I don’t need anything but the cleaner, still I take time to write a grocery list of one item on a Postie Note, and stick the Postie in my shirt pocket.

Since this will be the fifth fucking visit to the store with veggie cleaner on my list, I remove the list from my pocket a dozen times to read and remind myself why I’m headed to the store the fifth time. I get to Whole Foods, park, and my phone rings. It’s BJ calling to check in with me. He’s been missing in action for awhile and he called to catch up and let me know what’s been happening.

When I hang up from the call, I started thinking how much my feelings and senses of BJ mirror those I have for Lloyd. Two, way different backgrounds, completely different men, one I’ve known most of my life and one I recently met. Yet I share the same close affections for both. Each. Maybe I share the same affections for each.

I get out of my car and walk into the store. I always enter at the door by produce and they always have a display of whatever is hot and in-season right as you enter. It was Texas Ruby Reds, and they were my favorite style of reds. I favor citrus that are smallish, well shaped, and that have smooth skins. I find that thin-skinned and smooth citrus will be juicer and taste more like the fruit than if they have thick, deeply dimpled exteriors. Thick skin equals dry, pulpy citrus.

If you’ll select a grapefruit with thin, smooth skin that has a shape more like a good sweet onion than a globe, you’ll be a happy camper. And avoid any citrus that has a bell-shaped protrusion at its stem end, and holy shit have we digressed ourselves into the recycling bin.

As appetizers, we had guacamole with blue corn chips, a potted goat cheese that I bought already prepared, and a big slab of this Gorgonzola cheese that I love. I lay these out on the small table in the kitchen and had chairs and stools for seating. Lloyd and Mike hadn’t yet arrived so we were all getting to know each other and jerking towards the door whenever we heard a noise that might be our guests of honor.

Since I’m still processing the party in my thick skull, let me touch on the things not emotional. When everybody was there and all the intros and kisses and hugs enjoyed, I finished dinner prep and cooking. Everyone wanted to help and I let each help a little with something. I have always found that dinner tastes better when the guests have some part in the prep. Why that is will be one of the themes on my Postie Note list for my Monday psycho therapy session with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson. That list has six items so far.

We had scalloped potatoes and a pork loin roast with sour cherry sauce as meat and starch. If I have a criticism of the meal it would be that some people don’t share my love of just-medium pork. Some folks want their pork cooked way well and I don’t think I had enough cooked way well done.

Then, we had chilled asparagus with prosciutto, parma cheese curls and aged balsamic. The aged vinegar is so thick you can chew it and it has the same sensibilities as truffles to me. Then, I made a simple lemon vinaigrette that I used to marinate some onions, then I wet some arrugula with that and put a fistful beside the asparagus on its plate. I like the sweet-sour relationship that adds to the salad side of things.

OK, stop. If you are squeamish or have delicate sensibilities, please skip the rest of this paragraph and move down to the next. I’ll place the potentially offensive parts inside brackets. Go, leave. Shew…… [Guys, whenever I taste a new ingredient that knocks my socks off, I always have the same thought. Like the first time I tasted truffle at this place in Washington DC where it was a central character in a plate of pasta. I eat my initial fork-swirled mouthful of homemade linguine with black truffle, and that musky, earthy flavor hit my brain, and I thought, “Holy shit would this taste great on pussy!” I have this same, precise thought every fucking time I first taste a new treat. Like with the balsamic and crème brulee. Oh, and caviar. Have you ever tasted caviar-slathered pussy? If you are a gay man or a woman, have you ever tasted a caviar-slathered pecker? Wait, a second thinking doesn’t pair peckers and fish eggs. But aged balsamic vinegar and peckers… Yum-yum!]

So all through dinner we’re talking a few old stories and telling each other about our lives—that light jousting dinner repartee enjoyed by people who like each other. It wasn’t until after dinner that we brought out the heavy guns of nostalgia.

“Hey, Lloydie,” Gram pipes up. “Tell ’em ’bout that one time ya got all fucked up with them divans and tha peench-yer-balls-an-all.”

Huh? , I’m thinking.

Everyone at the table, and I mean humans and dogs alike, look my way for a translation. Me, even I’m needing a moment’s cogitation for this one. I’m thinking to myself, I’m thinking, “divans and pinch-your-balls-and-all?”

Huh?, again.

“Oh, I got it,” I said after a few seconds. “Lloyd, Gram wants you to tell everybody about the time you had your wisdom teeth removed and you almost OD’d on the Darvon and phenobarbital the dentist gave you for the pain.”

Lloyd told that story. And we told more stories. For hours.

I just hit 1,400 fucking words so let me close this for now. In my head I had wanted to reclaim a little youth and I just might have done it. But I got something way more than that. Near the end of the night I realized that with all the dozens of stories told by everyone, not a single story was competitive—none of us tried to one-up another of us. Every story was either a memory of something endearing about one of the others, or it was a self-deprecating story of some major fuck-up.

What I got, my big present, was a night of human connections. Heart warming, soul mending connections. And now I’m leaking tears like a Jerry Springer guest.

I’ve lots more to tell you about this and I will. And holy shit! I forgot to make the lemon trifle recipe Mel sent me! Shit, shit and shit some more! Mel, Mel baby. I am so sorry.

Manana, yall.

 

Whole Foods Arboretum’s Scott Is Honest Man; Back In Town And Rubbing Pork

Thursday, March 15th, 2012

 

So. I’m back from Dallas and happy to be so. Wait, I’m happy to so be. Fuck it, it’s good to be home. Dallas is OK, but it isn’t Eugene, Oregon and neither is it Austin.

I had an interesting experience that made me aware of another potential danger of sink peeing. Longtime readers know that I invented peeing in sinks to save water. I was sitting around this one time when I was locked up over to the Shoal Creek Loony Bin—stoned not on one of Gram’s mushroom potions, but rather an unhealthy dose of Haldol—and I had an idea. I calculated that if all men pee in sinks, we can save trillions of gallons of water every year. Actually if we enforced sink peeing worldwide, we could reduce total water consumption enough to save the wales.

That might be a grandiose statement and a likewise impertinent analogy, but flushing a simple pee with just a handful of water is a serious water-saving practice. If you buy my silly fucking book by clicking over there ====}}} and linking to the Full Rising Mooner shit, you can read the entire story and explanation of those sink-peeing programs.

Anyway, I was in my hotel room up to Dilly-Dally-Ass where I had all my stuff spread out on the bathroom vanity, Not all my stuff, but my bathroom stuff. When I checked out the room, I noticed that there was only one big bath towel and walked into the room to call housekeeping to get another. It always takes me two towels to dry after a shower because I have a giant head with a full mop of hair.

After hanging up the phone it dawned on me that I’m now bald and one towel would likely suit me, but I didn’t call back to cancel the order. I needed to pee, so I walked back into the bathroom where I noticed the vanity was way taller than normal, and the sink bowl was molded almost eight inches from the front edge. Aren’t you tired of “cultured marble” vanities with molded sinks? That shit is so 1970’s.

I’m six-four and I literally had to stand way up onto my my tippy-toes to get the right angle on my pecker dangle into the molded sink. I was slightly off balance, so I was bracing myself with my hands against the mirror. I enjoy peeing with no handsees in much the same way I do riding a bike without hands on the handle bars.

I remember this one time back to grade school when Woozie Wozniac—now AKA Sheriff Wozniac—was riding his bike with no handsees and crashed into a parked car. He did the infamous “crotch on the crossbar” dealie and we all laughed.

I’m taking a pee with no handsees in a bathroom at the Embassy Suites up to Dallas, and there is a loud bang on my door followed by the words, “Housekeeping, I’ve got your towel, sir.”

Did I mention that I was in that part of a pee where you get all the muscles relaxed and the flow is at its fullest? I jumped at the knock and peed all over the bathroom, and myself.

“Just leave it outside the door, please.”

“Are you OK, sir?” It was a pleasant voice, an accented woman’s voice—maybe Russian.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

I heard the plop of the towel on the floor and her steps as she left. I won’t bore you with the details, but I managed to spray the mirror and vanity, the wall up to the CFI plug, all of my toiletries including my new toothbrush, my hands, shirtsleeves, underwear and shorts, and my right leg from thigh to sandled foot.

“Mother fucker,” was the net of my assessments. I’m not always verbose.

I got back in town late last night and stopped at SAC Ellen’s place. She wasn’t there and I called her cell to find she was waiting for me at the ranch. I drove there where I was met with a kitchen full of demanding women. “What cha serving fer dinner Friday, Mooner? I’d lik some a them taters with the grass stains, an maybe them grapefruit drinks ya make.”

“You are a winner, you old gas bag. Potatoes Au Gratin are on the menu and I’ve got the grapefruits to make you a cocktail.”

I kissed my sinewy grandmother on the top of her head. “Now look, you need to promise me you won’t try to start anything with any of the gay men at my party, OK?” My grandmother thinks that she can turn a gay man straight given enough time and lube.

“Oh don’t chu worry ’bout that a bit. Lloyd an Mike is like family. Asides, Friday I’m booked with Mr. Dave fer tha night.”

“Ah, Mooner honey, may I have a word with you?” My mother was asking to get me aside. May I have a word with you is Mother speak for, “May I speak with you in private?”

“Let me kiss SAC Ellen properly and we’ll talk.”

We kissed, I gave her amazing butt a little grope, and she whispered in my ear, “I brought my stun gun, big boy. I hope you’re not sleepy.” Then she nipped my ear and swatted me off to talk to Mother.

“Mooner, I’m concerned about something” my mother told me when we had walked into the other room. “I was talking to Leticia at church yesterday, and Mrs. Browningwell told me something quite disturbing.”

Leticia is Pastor Browningwell’s wife and a Grade-A, First Class pain in the ass. “What’s the problem?” I asked.

“Well, her husband just got back from Nashville at the Southern Baptist headquarters there. It’s a lovely campus there, with dogwoods and…”

I cut her off with, “Might you tell me what it is that’s concerning you, Mother? I’ve still got four women to speak to before I can get to my sexing, and I’m already impatient.”

“Well, he was there getting some sensitivity training on today’s modern social issues, and…” she paused for effect. This pause is thematic with Mother and I never like whatever it is that follows.

“And, well, I may as well just come out and say it. Mooner, there are homo-sex-u-al people who actually act as recruiters. They trick and convince straight people to be… Well you know. I’m worried about Friday night.”

Huh?

“What the hell are you talking about?” Really, the the fuck is this woman saying?

“Mooner, there are homo-sex-u-als who will try to make me one. Are any of Mike and Lloyd’s friends, you know, like Sister and Anna?”

I just stared at her as my blood started to boil and my amazement factor swelled. My mother just asked me if any gay women will be attending Friday’s dinner party because she is worried that one of them will try to turn her gay. Jesus fucking Christ.

“OK.,” I gathered my thoughts. “Since I haven’t asked for my guests’ sexual preferences, let me give you a tried and true method to prevent your contacting the homosexuality from any of my guests. Are you ready?” I paused for effect.

“Don’t lick any vaginas and don’t let any women lick yours. If you accidentally find yourself with your tongue in a vagina, as soon as you take your tongue out, remember to say, “Supercalafragilisticexpialadocious” three times. That will break the spell.”

My mother looked at me like I was the one who had lost their mind. “Why won’t anyone take me seriously around here?”

She stormed off leaving me making a mental list of the many answers to her last question.

Anyway, today, Thursday, I went shopping at Whole Foods at the Arboretum to get ciabatta bread for the party. They bake the best in town and I needed two loaves. Whenever I check out most anywhere, I ask my attendant if they read. I’m constantly marketing my stupid book, and the people who check you out in retail stores are somewhat required to listen to you.

Today, Scott was my man. He’s tall and fit and I’d say handsome too, and likely one of the more honest young men I have met lately. Scott is the first of hundreds of retail register operators who said, “Not really,” when I asked them if they like to read.

Further probing by me led to the fact that he does like to read, just not enough to buy my book. I’m fine with that. I’d far rather you say you won’t likely purchase my book that lie to my face to get rid of me. Then again, getting rid of me can be difficult and I can understand a person resorting to lies to do so. Wait. To so do.

Oopsie, 500 words already, and I need to rub my pork. OK, wait again. I want to put a dry rub on my big pork roast so it will marinate for tomorrow.

Manana, y’all.

Squatlo Posts Mooner’s Head Shearing Pics; Mooner Remains Technologically Dumb

Monday, March 12th, 2012

So.  Bob posted ther pics for me over to Squatlo rant at:  w and ww Bob’s a Nice Guy, I Don’t Give a Shit What Anyone Says  .  Pop over and see the photos of my head shearing and also some of his smart prose.

 

Thanks, Bob, I think.

Another Photo Post Adventure; TV Sally Returns

Monday, March 12th, 2012

 

So. I got all of my hair shaved off at an event to raise money for children’s cancer treatment and cure. It was raining and the Squirt refused to wear her rain slicker, so I left all the animals home and went with Dr. Sam I. Am. She treats a few kids with cancer and wanted to be there for support and to take the photos of my shearing.

We got there at noon even though my shearing was scheduled for 2:00 pm. I checked in at Fado’s Irish Pub, which was crushed with Saint Balderick’s hair cutting participants and Saint Paddy’s Day celebrants both. We went early to eat first and ended next door at a place called STACK Burger Bar.

Let me say one thing about STACK’s. Hoo-yah! I had a hamburger—medium fucking rare—and a big mound of French fries. I got the truffle oil option for my fries and was rewarded with the new second-best fries in town. Had these been fried in duck fat before the light sprinkle of truffle oil, they’d be better than what I make.

Since I’m adding the truffle to my home fries, STACK fries will remain at number two no matter what. Dr, Sam had a grilled cheese with jalapeños and was quite happy with it. She did, however, eat nearly half of my crispy fries. I kept hoping that the truffled fries would spark a reminder of our better days together, but, and alas, it only reminded her that Austin has some truly great places to eat.

We ate what I would highly recommend you to eat at STACKS Burger Bar and returned next door for my shearing. The rain didn’t seem to dampen spirits, but a few of the people getting sheared were nervous. I wasn’t nervous even a little bit save my worry that my giant shaved head will scare kids. Or Special Agents in Charge for Homeland Security. SAC Ellen didn’t come home to Austin until Sunday, a full day after my scalping.

I dropped Sammie off at her house and headed back to the ranch. When I walked into the kitchen and removed my hooded rain slicker it was a strange dealie. Gram said, “Ya look lik that TV Sally fella, Mooner. I always thought he was a hot hunk a ass.”

OK, don’t you guys start thinking that my Gram’s hots for Telly Savalas transfers to hots for Mooner. Just know that my Gram has the hots for any man with a working pecker and not a Johnson.

OK, wait. That doesn’t sound quite right. Let me rephrase and say that Gram likes any man that isn’t family who can still get it up.

“Size don’t matter, Mooner. It’s tha density,” is my grandmother’s pecker mantra.

Mother’s response was quite different. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, son. You look like a serial killer, or a rapist. How will I ever explain this to my friends?”

“Tell them that I make house calls, Mother. Tell them I’ve got great bulk-densities.”

I can be a seriously funny sumbitch sometimes. After everybody made their initial comments, everybody wanted to feel it—my scalped noggin, a noggin that has been accused of having great denseness for many years.

“Feels like Velcro,” Aunt Hilda told me. “Maybe it’ll keep your hat on in the wind.”

I have trouble keeping my hat on my head on windy days. “That’s a sweet thought, Aunt Hilda,” I told her. “How about we shave Dubbie-J’s head for you?” Doubbie-J is Hilda’s shrunken head that’s housed in a mahogany box which never leaves her side.

“Oh, don’t be silly, Mooner,” Aunt Hilda giggled at me. “ Dubbie-J’s locks are his Hallmark.”

Indeed.

The first thing I wanted to do after the shearing was to shave my scalp clean and trim my beard into something, so I headed back to my room. Let me preface the following by telling you that I hate routine shaving and would never shave my face if there were no women in the world. That said, shaving my scalp was a trip. First thing I did was lather my head with shave cream, which made me look like a giant Q-Tip.

I had all the pets crammed into my bathroom to watch, and they were hooting at me. “You look like coconut lollipop with eyes, Bwana Mooner,” Squirt said. They all hooted some more.

Anyway, it took almost an hour to get the head part shaved, me shaving and the Squirt directing me. I tried to do it with the mirror and lacerated my scalp in the process. Having a dog who talks has definite advantages.

When I got to my beard, I was growing tired of shaving and said, “Fuck it. Let’s do a Van Dyke and shave my balls to be done with it.”

Now I’m bald on top and bald on the bottom with a week’s worth of Van Dyke in the middle. I’m going to attempt to post the pics of before, during and after the shearing for your pleasure. But first let me tell you two things.

First, I picked SAC Ellen up at noon Sunday and went hunting for a lunch place. We landed at Lucky J’s Chicken and waffles on Burnett Road across from Sue Patrick’s place. Holy fucking shit, guys. This is a great chicken and waffle joint. It’s like a dive bar except with great chicken and waffles. This is as good a place as STACKS Burger Bar except with chicken and waffles and a better atmosphere. Not that STACKS has bad ambiance, it’s just that I prefer joints to fine dining establishments.

The Lucky J waffle was something special, like a giant crepe grilled in a waffle iron. Great texture and chewiness that SAC Ellen and I both loved. The chicken was crisp and juicy and mighty tasty. They have dozens of different hot sauces and folks, we love us some hot sauce. This place says “Old Austin Hippie Joint” to me.

Hell, it’s only a couple miles from where the old Stallion Drive In used to be. I miss the Stallion and Lucky J’s might take some of that sting away.

The second thing is this. I’m leaving on a business trip to Dallas and won’t be back until the end of the week. So this will be all until then.

OK, here’s the pics, I hope. Manana, in several mananas, y’all.  Oh yes.  Please buy my book.

Fresh Scraped Skull Entertains Pets; Photos To Follow

Sunday, March 11th, 2012

 

So. I’m up early Sunday morning and even having lost an hour to DST, I’m a full five hours ahead of schedule. The reason I’m ahead of schedule is because I no longer possess a full head of hair. I had my head sheared for charity yesterday at the Saint Baldricks Foundation event, an action that left me looking like Rob Reiner.

I’ve always liked Rob starting when he was “Meathead” on All In The Family. He’s made some great movies and written great things too. And he’s a fine human being, so I’m OK that I look like him. I wish that I could say “People Magazine’s Best Looking Man of 1975, Rob Reiner”[.] We’re handsome SOB’s but not that handsome.

I grew a week’s beard in advance so that I could fart around with my looks after the shearing. The after-shearing results were not quite what I had in mind. But as soon as I got home I grabbed a sixer of Carta Blanca and headed to the bathroom to experiment.

OK, stop. I’m getting way fucking ahead of schedule on this train trip. Let me back up and first tell you why I was up five hours ahead of my planned wake-up call. I was asleep last night and dreaming about sex. This sex dream was one where I was on display at some sort of sex club. I was in a line-up of men and we were all standing in nothing but thongs and sneakers with, or without, white cotton socks.

I always wear nothing but white cotton socks due to a foot fungus problem that can only be controlled by wearing white cotton socks and then smearing mentholated petrol jelly on your toes. I tried all the expensive medications and treatments for twenty years and nothing helped heal my smoking hot, nasty and smelly feet.

The menthol grease trick was told to me by a Viet Nam vet I met at a taco truck a few years back. I was standing in line, wearing sandals to air out my blistered feet, and a man was standing at the counter at the end of the trailer eating fish tacos. At least I think I remember they were fish tacos. That particular taco trailer has great fish and smoked pork tacos both.

“Dude,” the man said, with that sound in his voice you hear in emergency rooms, “that’s some ugly fucking feet.”

“No doubt,” I answered, “and burn like a constant hot oil treatment.”

“Vicks Vapo Rub is the answer, dude.” He then went on to tell me about catching the Jungle Rot on his feet from slogging the muddy Terra Firma of Viet Nam when it was the rainy season. “And, Dude, it’s always the fucking rainy season in Nam.”

Anyway, I’m standing in this lineup of thonged and sneakered men at this sex club and the lady choosers are eyeballing us up and down. The men were arranged in order of descending heights except that Dr. Marcus Bachmann was out of order. One of the women remarked that Marcus was out of order and I said, “No shit?”

I was surprised at how tall and also overweight he was. I was second in line between Liam Neeson, the actor, and Milton Berle. Then was James Woods, Ron Jeremy and then Mr. Dave. I realized that except for Marcus and me, all the men on stage either had confirmed, or were reported to have, giant peckers. Me, I’ve seen Ronnie’s on screen a time or two and as for Mr. Dave, I’ve seen that thing in the flesh. For the rest, I’ll take rumor’s word for it.

I was proud to be standing in this line even if I didn’t measure up to their standards. The ladies were standing at the foot of the stage ogling us when the announcer says, “OK, ladies, lets start the bidding.”

Men were auctioned off starting with the short end of the sticks. I didn’t pay much attention to things until it got to be my turn on the block, but I did hear the word “thousand” quite often. “And what do we have to open bids on Mr. Mooner Johnson, ladies? Do I hear five dollars… Five smackeroos, anyone?”

I won’t bore you with the rest of the bidding part of this dream as it is unimportant. What I will tell you is this. The winning bidder was Mrs. Leticia Browningwell, my former school teacher and wife of The Right Reverend Dr. Browningwell who pastors Mother and Gram’s Baptist church. What the fuck she was doing in my dream is unsettling. I’ve had many nightmares wherein that old bag played a key role, but as I said, this was unsettling.

So, in the dream, Leticia says to me, she says, “Mooner, honey, do you know why I bought you?”

“No, Mrs. Browningwell,” I answered. I always call her Mrs. Browningwell to her face.

“Well, son, I want you to get down there and rub your head beard on my stuff.”

When I didn’t move fast enough, she said, “Do it right now, buster, or you’re off to Principle Gibson’s office.”

So, I jumped to the task and I was rubbing my newly-bald head over her thighs and pubic mound and Leticia was starting to lather up. If I had ever thought about it before this dream, I would have thought her to have a dry well, if you know what I mean, and if I had ever thought on the subject.

My head was starting to go from damp to slathered when I was awakened by giggling in my ears. Squirt, Yoda and Honor the fucking cat were licking my head and laughing their furry little asses off as they did.

“Honor says your head feels just like her own tongue, Bwana Mooner, ha- ha- ha.” The Squirt had tears in her eyes from the humor in my thick skull. “And Yoda thinks licking you head is like when he tried to eat sandpaper that one time the other week,” and she “ha-ha-ha’d” some more.

That was at three am and why I’m awake.

I took before, during and after pictures of my scalping and will get them posted here as soon as I can figure how to get them out of the fucking camera and off to Squatlo for processing. It’s been a few weeks and I can’t remember how to do it. Trying to do it is what I did for the first four hours I’ve been awake this morning.

But I’m in a good mood. It appears the rain is lifting for today and I’m ready to party! The pets are all stir crazy and want to go fishing and SAC Ellen will be in town for one full day. Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are in a new lovers’ spat over their sex toys and the fucking cat keeps shredding my dirty underwear out of boredom. I figure a few hours tormenting the fish will brighten all our moods.

After I shave my skull again, we’re going to the dock for some fun and games and then the SACster arrives for lunch to brighten my mood. I didn’t tell her I was shaving my head. She’s gonna be so surprised. Manana, y’all.

 

PS- please buy my fucking book, Full Rising Mooner, available by clicking over there ===}}}

Steady Rain Deadlogs Johnson Women; Mr. Dave’s Giant Pecker Remains Rock Solid In Downpour

Saturday, March 10th, 2012

 

So. After enduring three years of severe drought and excessive heat, Austin has become Seattle, Washington. Steady drizzle for days, and daily temperatures of 50 degree nights and 52 in what Washingtonians call “daylight” hours. Personally, I love it. I love the brisk, chilled wet air and the feeling of having the sky close on my head. I love the smells and sounds and the incipient eeriness of prolonged wet weather—that sense that something’s in the air tonight that I just can’t put a finger on.

The women in my life, however, don’t do well with weather imported from the Northwest Coastal regions. “Si ce n’est pas arreter de pleuvoir, and I mean right fucking now,” Squirt told me last night after her late trip to the backyard to take a dumper, “ich werde mich aufhangen.”

“Stop with all the dramatics, little lady, I don’t think you’ll really hang yourself if it keeps raining. We’re supposed to get a reprieve for an entire day next week before we get another ten days of this.” I always try to look at the bright side of things when I parent. “Maybe now you’ll wear the rain slicker Aunt Hilda made you. Yoda loves his.”

My adorable and batty old aunt made the dogs and cat rain slickers. Yoda loves his bright yellow rain gear so much I have to make him take it off. He and I love to frolic in the rain together. Of course the fucking cat shredded hers into a big pile of red rubberized cloth spaghetti. Honor loves to shred shit and most especially fabrics with stretchy give to them.

“I look like someone shit after eating a boxcar full of split pea soup in that thing, Bwana Mooner,” Squirt says of the admittedly weird green outfit. “I can’t be seen wearing that thing—I’ll end up on the Fashion Police and not on their Best Dressed list.”

“I think you look cute all dressed for bad weather, Sweetie. Like a steamed edamame bean.” I picked her little body up and kissed her full on the mouth. “I could just peel you and eat you right up.”

“Put me down, pervert, and get over that butt-fucking ugly rain coat.”

“Fine,” I told her, “don’t come belly aching to me if you catch a cold.”

Does getting wet really give you a cold? I’ve always wondered that. I know you can catch a chill, but can you really catch a cold by walking in the rain unprotected?

But the Squirtie isn’t the only Johnson woman out of sorts with this weather. Mr. Dave, of course, is unhappy with all the rain because the Johnson women are out of sorts with it.

“Business is way down since the rain started, Mr. Johnson. Do you know of some way to brighten the ladies’ spirits?” Mr. Dave asked me last night after supper.

“Well, Sir, I told him. “That’s why I’m paying your room and board and banking weekly checks to your account. Maybe if you wear a thong around the house more often you can take their minds off this miserable rain.”

Mr. Dave is the giant-peckered old geezer I hired to service the herd of Johnson women stabled here at the ranch. “Why don’t we get Gram to brew up a rainy day potion for you. See if she’s got any of that mushroom juice from the new strain Streaker Jones brought her last week. Just a sniff of that shit gives me wood. Maybe it’ll work on the girls.”

God’s truth, that new magic mushroom breed my best buddy bred gives me instant wood. Never seen anything like it. OK, I never had anything work on me better except for getting popped with a stun gun.

“Maybe we should do just that, Sir. Your mother is in quite a snit,” Mr. Dave reported.

His saying that made me wonder if I should be something other than happy at having procured, paid and housed a gigolo for my own mother. Should I be embarrassed or feel icky or something? When I tried to counsel with Gram about it she said, she told me, “Oh who gives a shit, fer shitsakes, Mooner. Long as that woman gits her a little tanger we’re all better off.”

Gram’s right. Mother with regular poontang is waaaaay better than Mother without booty calls. Then, I got to thinking that the girls haven’t fought over Mr. Dave since about the third consecutive day of this rain. That thought made me wonder. “Hey, Mr. Dave. This might be an indelicate question, but are you having any troubles getting it up?”

Mr. Dave Looked at me like I’m crazy, a look I’m quite accustomed to viewing. “Nope, between the wonderful diet of fresh fruit and vegetables you provide me and the Viagra prescriptions, I’m rock solid and ready to go. Wanna see?”

I had to grab his arms to prevent another personal exposure to his Japanese eggplant pecker. “I’ll take your word for it.”

OK, I need to stop. It’s time for me to go get my head shaved for St. Baldricks Foundation to cure cancer in kids. Manana, yall.

Bulls’ Balls And Bald Pates; Busy Week Ahead

Friday, March 9th, 2012

 

So. TFIF. What a week it’s been. I’ve had a very busy few days and next week will be busier still. I have to go to Dallas next week for a few days and this is advance warning that I’ll be absent from postings most of the week. However, this coming week of crazinesses will be crowned with the big dinner party for Lloyd and Mike and that will make all the hustle and bustle worth it.

Examine, if you will, my next eight days and we might as well start with today. OK, first of all it’s raining and will most days until next Friday. This is good from a global Central Texas weather perspective but not so from the Johnson family views. This is nut-cutting time for Gram and her crew, the season to snip the goodies from any boy cattle populating the herd in the west pasture. The rain turns these castrations into an indoor sport and likewise adds to the bitch factor in the house.

“I don’t see why you can’t just wait until after the rain stops to neuter your cows, Gram,” Mother started at our early Friday morning breakfast. Mother had to fucking start.

Gram fixed her daughter-in-law and my maternal parent with the beginnings of an Evil Eye. “Tha fuck you talkin’ about? Tha Farmers’ Almanac says it’s today, it’s to-fuckin-day. Now shut yer yapper and pass me tha butter.”

Gram’s fiery eyes remained fixed on Mother’s profile and I could see the flesh on that side of her face quiver with heat. The follow up remarks about nut cutting that might have come next were swallowed by my mother with a gulp of her coffee. Instead, she chose to level a blast at me.

“I was with Mildred Ross and Leticia Browningwell at the church after-school daycare yesterday afternoon, and I have been asked to speak with you, Mooner.”

“Here it comes,” I thought to myself. “Here it fucking comes.”

Mother, and daintily so, lifted a dram of fig preserves with her knife and touched it to a thumbnail-sized sliver of fresh biscuit top. I grow the figs on two old trees out back and Aunt Hilda makes the wonderful jam. Mother raised the tiny bite towards her mouth and paused at chin level. Her eyes went out of focus as she gazed into space somewhere. She sniffled—the early warning system and precursor that I think of as the “Martyr Alert!”–then carefully placed the biscuit bite back on her plate.

“Why, in god’s name, do you insist upon talking so much about homo-sex-ual-ity? Mildred says that almost every day you write something in that terrible Internet newspaper of yours about it. Or them.”

Here, she picks the bite back up and lays it into her mouth, where she will chew it with the same slow and deliberate motions a masticating cow uses to munch hay. When I see this behavior I know I’m within seconds of getting batshit angry. It happens every time.

“Isn’t it enough that I have to live with your sister and you with that pig and ostrich on my conscience? Do you have to turn our ranch into a den of sin and broadcast it to the world? I’m so embarrassed I could die.” This last line had enough dramatical delivery to earn an Oscar nod.

“What are you belly aching about?” I asked her.

“Don’t you play dumb with me, Mooner Einstein Johnson, you know perfectly well what I mean. You allow Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry to live in sin in your closet, your sister is married to your third ex-wife—your third ex-wife—and now you’re going to fill my house with homo-sex-uals next week and broadcast that fact all over town.”

OK, stop the fucking presses. I’m digressing my points something terrible. Today will be extra busy for me because I’ll now need to help Gram with cutting the cows since the operations will move inside the barn. That means that my schedule of previous plans will lose a good six hours. Wait, only lose four hours. Two hours were already on my schedule to clean and ready the bull balls for tonight’s dinner.

If you’ve never had mountain oysters you’ve missed a real treat. I cook them all the same ways as I cook chicken gizzards and tonight it’s with a light white flour fried jacket and cream gravy—like chicken fried steak. Yummy!

Saturday is a big day too. I’m going to get my hair shaved off for the Children’s Cancer Charity over to the Saint Baldricks head shaving dealie. They’ll be a hundred of us getting our manes whacked off for the kids. We’ll be at Fados Irish Pub down to West 4th Street. My time is 2:00 pm, but maybe I’ll go early and eat some Irish grub. I bet a lamb pie will be good for a rain-chilled lunch.

I’ll try to take some pictures and post them. I can’t wait to have an all skin head. I’m thinking I’ll look way cool.

SAC Ellen sees things somewhat differently. “You have a giant head, Mooner. You’ll look like a disco ball with a face on one side.”

Then she added, “If you want any sex with me after Saturday, you’d better get some grocery bags.”

SAC Ellen didn’t laugh when she delivered that line about the bags. I found myself wishing she’d laughed. At least she didn’t call me a two-bagger.

Sunday I’ll spend prepping for my Business trip and then off to Dallas for that business and then home late Thursday night. Friday night is the big Lloyd and Mike Party. That party, and my yakking about it to you guys, is what set Mother off at breakfast. Lloyd is my longtime buddy and number one good guy who happens to be gay. Some of the invited guests might also be gay. I don’t know and I don’t give a shit. They are Lloyd’s friends and that makes them my friends.

But Mother’s shitty attitude brings up a point. She did make me ask myself why I feel it necessary to tell you that Lloyd is gay? Why does it matter that Sister is gay and married to my third wife who, at least for now, is also gay? Why does it matter that Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are homosexuals living in my closet? Why does it matter that my pig and ostrich are gay lovers?

It’s the year 2012 for shitsakes, and it shouldn’t matter. Thirty years ago, whenever I spoke of a friend who was African American, I would say, “My black buddy Everett,” or, “My ex-wife Roshandra, the ebony-skinned beauty.” When I speak of the sinfully beautiful Roshandra now, I only mention her race if race is a subject line of the conversation.

It shouldn’t matter today that Sister is gay, but it does. It matters because my sister is still treated as a second class citizen and sexual orientation seems to be a major storyline of and to itself. It matters because the current crop of right-wing conservative Christian politicians are using the killing of gay rights as their battle flag. Since the economy—the same economy that the Republicans ruined—has been set onto the road to recovery by our Democratic President, and that same President has done so much to bring closure to the wars started by Bushkin and The Dickster, the Repubs have been forced to use different issues to attack.

Like a sleight-of-hand magician, these silly assholes have chosen to place gay rights and womens’ bodies on the ballot. And me, I won’t take that shit quietly. The same way I vocally protest against the anti-abortion protesters, I will vocally speak out against any anti-gay sentiment.

Until gays are afforded the equal rights they were granted under the Constitution, their gayness is an important fact.

So, in your face, motherfuckers!

And that includes you, Mother. Which reminds me. I think I’ll shave my balls to match my soon-to-be bald pate. You know, make sure the rug matches the drapes. And I’ll need some assistance to shave my big-assed head to keep it clean and shiny. How does a person see the top of their head to shave? That sounds like a new invention.

Mooner Johnson’s Bald Head Shaving Super Mirror Set. We could package it with a special shaved head after shave lotion. Hey, what if we made the lotion scent smell like sweaty balls. How fucking funny would that be?

Manana, y’all.

Separating The Psycho From His Therapy; Funny Joke Or Disrespect?

Wednesday, March 7th, 2012

 

So. I had an early morning psycho therapy session with the good doctor this am, but rather than sit/lay on the expensive leather couch in her office, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson had me bring the dogs to her house for my fifty-minute appointment. The couch is one of a five-piece set of leather covered sitting things purchased, as certainly as my name is Mooner Einstein Johnson, with my cash. There’s the couch, three mid-rise side chairs and her highness’ big chair.

Sam is a short thing—cute as a fucking button mind you, but short—and her big leather chair is throne-like. She uses it to gain physical stature in therapy. This fucking chair has more hydrolics than one of those “63 Chevy Lowriders. Makes this “shisssshhh” sound as she raises and lowers it for effects during therapy sessions.

I don’t know why she needs a chair like this to gain stature. She looks ten feet tall when she stands atop my bruised and battered ego.

“Come to my house for your morning session, Mooner, and bring the dogs,” she told me. “I need to assess the status of your parenting skills and there’s quite a bit of yard work to be done.”

I wasn’t surprised that she wanted me to come over to work in her yard. We’ve been having our Spring this Winter in Austin, Texas and shit is growing on trees.

OK, stop the presses. Try this. The weather has been so nice that the trees and other shit are growing and, subsequently, require my attentions. Doing Sammie’s yard work is the premium I pay to retain her psychiatric services. Yard work plus $195/hour for a regular session.

I actually like the yard work. Everything out to the ranch is done with tractors or other riding machines and I enjoy pushing a lawn mower. My first job was mowing yards and it has stuck with me. There was this one house over to west Austin—lady’s husband was an airline pilot and she was a retired flight attendant—and the husband was gone quite often. I was something like eleven, maybe twelve, and since I hadn’t yet been raped by my Baptist Deacon Boy Scout Leader, I was still all starry-eyed and happy and shit.

This nice lady always had a cold Fresca and a sandwich waiting for me when I finished mowing her yard. The sandwich might change from ham to roast beef or chicken salad, but the beverage was always Fresca. Fresca was a weird drink to me—not quite grapefruit and just a hint of that icky artificial sweetener taste—and I asked her once, I asked, “Why Fresca?”

In answer, she kissed the top of my sweaty head and said, “Covers the smell of vodka. Want some?”

For shit sakes, Mooner, get your ass back on track. Nobody wants to hear about the first proposition you got from an adult woman.

So, I asked the Squirt to tell Honor the fucking cat to behave herself and loaded Squirt and Yoda into the GTO for the trip to Sam’s place. Squirt was reliving the story about that one time where the landscape crew worker in Sam’s neighborhood started some shit and she clamped her mouthful of very sharp teeth to the man’s crotch. We giggled and laughed about the story until we got over to near the Planned Parenthood offices near Sammie’s house.

“Let’s do a drive-by on Catholic Anti-Abortion Lady, Bwana Mooner.” Squirt was dancing around in the limited space allowed by her driving harness.

“Je vais prendre le volant, Mssr., y el flash de su culo!” my adorable little puppy was now bouncing like a jumping jack.

“I can’t give you the wheel on that busy street, Sweetie, you can barely stay out of the ditches out in the country with no traffic. I can’t take a chance of you wrecking my GTO. How about we park across the street and you can blow the horn to get her attention?”

That satisfied her. We mooned the Catholic lady, stopped at the neighborhood donut place for a dozen glazed, and drove the last mile to Sam’s. She was standing at the open garage door as we got there, hands on hips—curvy, tight hips—and the look that says “Why me?” was already screwed onto her face.

I parked the Goat and we disembarked. “Hi ya, Sammie baby, how’s it hanging?”

“I’m about ready to hang your name on a door of the Close Watch Unit at Shoal Creek Mental Hospital, moron,” she answered. “Why me, dear god, why me?”

I tried to ignore this semi-tirade as I searched my brain for what is was that had already set her off. There’s no way that she could know that I’m teaching the Squirt how to drive and Yoda how to moon, and I haven’t been arrested for months.

“Planned Parenthood just called me.. again… and have asked that I get you under control. They think you make matters worse when you agitate their regular protesters.”

“I’m just trying to help. And how did they know to call you?”

“Can’t say, Sweetie. And while I’m up your dumb ass, stop saying psychotherapy as two words. I know you think it’s funny but the humor left that joke twenty years ago. I’m really tired of explaining it to my cohorts.”

I didn’t say, “Too fucking bad, it’s still hilarious,” out loud, but I thought it.

“You might think it’s fucking hilarious, you crazy redneck fuckball, but my colleagues are starting to question my ability to effect change in severely damaged patients.” Here she gave me the dead-eye. Dr. Sam I. Am learned it from Gram. “And if they stop referring to me I’ll simply have to raise your rates by another 25% to offset the losses.”

And I simply have to stop thinking out loud. I noticed how sexy Sammie was when angry and I started to think about how much fun make-up sex was back when we were together.

“Don’t even think about it, Mooner Einstein Johnson. I wouldn’t have sex with you using Snooki’s vagina.” She laughed at her own lame joke and said, “Come on, let’s take a walk before you do your chores.”

I leashed the puppies into their harness with mild trepidations. While I’ve spent hundreds of hours teaching the dogs important shit, like how to burp and fart the National Anthem and mooning and fishing and driving, I’ve not spent much time on leash training. As I slipped the walking harness on Squirt’s back I said to her, I whispered in her ear, “Look, Squirtie, you tell Yoda to follow your lead and then you follow mine, I’ll let you drive home once we get off of Ranch Road 620.”

“Well… I get to drive and you have to feed me lettuce leaves like I’m a queen while I watch The Bachelor tonight.” Squirt fixed me with an unwavering gaze. “Deal?”

Another of the things I’ve found time to teach Squirt is how to negotiate a personal services contract. “Deal,” I told her, and we shook on it.

OK, now let’s stop here and reflect for a moment. I just typed the 1,200th word of this posting and I can’t even remember my point for starting. A look at the first paragraph tells me it had something to do with this morning’s psycho therapy session over to Sammie’s house, but for the life of me I cannot remember the moral to this stupid fucking story.

Ugh.

How about I tell you this. I hate The Bachelor TV show, and Squirt knows it. That’s why she chose it, to get my goat and have some fun at my expense. What she doesn’t know is that I know she doesn’t like it either. I’m planning to wash three heads of Romaine lettuce—big, fat heads from our winter garden—and I’ll sit at her feet and spend the entire hour feeding it to her, and that reminds me of what I wanted to tell you.

It’s only March 7th and my cool weather garden is browning out! I’ve already planted summer veggies and the lettuces are all petering out and everything else looks tepid at best. I wanted to tell you that the next time I hear some fucking asshole politician tell me that there is no global warming, I’m going to give them a chunk of my ass. I’m sick of this shit.

Oh, and by the way, did you notice that the Republicans are keeping the Transportation Bill from passing by trying to add their tacky fucking amendments onto it, just like they keep doing?

November is coming, you right-wing Republican Christian conservative smog loving fuckballs.

Beware the Ides (minus 9) of November! Manana, y’all.

Guess Who Is Coming To Dinner; Regular Sex Regulates, Part Dos

Tuesday, March 6th, 2012

So. It’s only Tuesday and my already action-packed week has gotten more actioned. Actionerated? Actionalized? Wait, that one would modify on the packed part, right? So, to print a self retraction, please allow me to say that my already action-packed week has gotten more action-packeded.

Oh, for shitsakes. Action-packederated? Maybe this is one of those “tablespoon fulls versus tablespoons full” sort of dealies. See, that spoons thing is ruled by the Grammar Police to mean that when taking the steps to create multiple spoon fulls, a person would take one spoon—a singular grammatical event—and fill it multiple times. Thusly, the baker or lemonade maker has added tablespoon fulls of sugar to whateverthefuck it is they were baking/mixing.

The Grammatik Polizei, however, do not have the dreaded ADHD or even it’s little brother, ADD. Nope. You cannot make it passed the short-form application for the Grammar Pobos if you suffer from any of the Attention Deficit maladies. If you could, a person would be granted an option to use either tablespoons full or tablespoon fulls.

In way of elucidation please allow me to expound. Say you’re me, an altogether confusing supposition yet the perfect scenario for this exposition, and you’ve taken on the task to make lemonade by the glass. “Why by the glass?” you might ask, and legitimately so. By the glass because each of the Johnson family lemonade drinkers likes their ade at differing levels of sweetness. And we all know that it takes awhile for good, low-refinement sugars to dissolve even in lemon juice.

OK, wait. I actually make quart batches of lemonade when making it for the family. Nobody can drink just one glass of my lemonade. I have a secret—a splash of Limoncella—that makes my le jus de citron sucre’ simply adorable. That’s what Aunt Hilda calls it, adorable.

For Gram, a tart old tart from the word “Go”[,] I place only six tablespoon fulls of sugar into her batch. Aunt Hilda gets ten spoons with an extra jolt of Lemoncella and Mother gets nine. Me, I like three sugars and three liquors.

Imagine now as Mixologist Mooner stands at his big kitchen counter. I’ve got a dozen each quart jars of fresh squoze lemon juice sitting on the counter in front of me along with twenty-eight each tablespoons, eight each booze jiggers and one of those rubberized jar lid grippers. I’m constantly screwing jar lids on more tightly than my dry hands can remove. I have a large bottle of Limoncella and a big bag of raw turbinado sugar standing by. You’ll notice the absence of water at this juncture of lemonading, and that’s because my other secret is to give each drinker a bottle of chilled San Peligrino bubble water. Dilute and bubblize at will, that’s my motto.

I approach Gram’s quart jar—I know it’s Gram’s because it has a label that says “Gram” in emerald green. I fill the six tablespoons (notice please that I said tablespoonS) with sugar and pour Limoncella into two jiggers, again notice jiggerS.

I dump the tablespoons one-by-one into the jar and then in goes the liquid. I fancy myself a dashing bartender, so I take a shot glass in each hand and pour both Limoncellas at the same time, and with a flourish. Then, and once more with a flourish, I wipe the spilled sticky Limoncellas from the counter top with the pre wetted cotton dish towel at the ready, and always to my left hand side.

I’m a tad bit obsessive and a touch compulsive as well, so the towel must always be already wet and always at my left hand. I know it’s a sign of just how fucking nuts I am to admit that not only do I suffer from the ADHD but that I also endure the tortures of the dreaded OCD.

But I take heart in the knowledge that the OCD is a self-imposed solution to some of the worst symptoms of the ADHD. By having compulsives I can limit a few distractions. Like when I’m taking one fucking tablespoon with which I’m to fill with sugar nine times to place into Aunt Hilda’s lemonade jar. The emerald green ink on Aunt Hilda’s jar label is imprinted with “Aunt Hilda and Dubbie-J” so as to acknowledge the shrunken-head-in-a-box that has been Hilda’s constant companion since she and Gram were abducted while girls.

The two sisters were in the old Congo nation as Baptist missionaries and had to be spirited to safety wrapped in blankets and smuggled in the bottom of a big wooden canoe. I’m too busy to tell the entire story, so go over there ===}}}} and buy my fucking book to read all about it. I’ll be glad you did.

Here I am, filling and counting as I fill the tablespoon and dump it nine times into Hilda’s jar. Something catches my eye from outside the big windows over the sink. It looks like Yoda is trying to lick the paint off the small smoker by the fire pit. That damned dog really is half goat. I caught him last night taking a dirty wooden spoon out of the dishwasher. He grabbed the spoon and took off like a shot to the back of the house. He’s a smart little shit, he learns right from wrong, but as I said he’s half goat and can’t help but eat anything.

So, we’re sitting at dinner last night. I fixed a pork loin with sour cherry gravy because my buddy Lloyd and his man Mike are coming to visit next week. I’m so excited to see them that I could shit myself. Almost did. I can’t decide on a menu to fix so I’m going through different things to see what I want to cook for them. We’ll have a small crowd of Lloyd’s other Austin friends out for dinner and Lloyd is a good cook. I wish to prepare something different but not BBQ’d pig innards or smoked grass carp. I’ve learned my lessons there.

I had everything on the table to eat and I started to cut the meat to order. Like with our lemonade, our cuts of meat vary among family members. Gram likes thick slabs and Mother wants hers in wafer-thin sheets. I made prosciutto-wrapped asparagus that I bake quick and high with salt, pepper and olive oil. I serve them with a shaving of Parma Reggie cheese and a drop of 20-year old balsamic vinegar, and that first bite might be the best ten seconds of eating ever.

OK, except for crème brulee’, which is the best however long it takes to eat it of eating ever.

I’m cutting Mother’s pork, concentrating to cut thin slices all the way through the roast when, “Spi-toosh!” and then, “Pfft, pft, pfft!”

Aunt Hilda spit lemonade like a sperm whale out his blow hole. “Oh, for the love of god, Mooner Honey. This is so sour it turned my mouth inside out.”

“I’m sorry, Auntie. I guess I got distracted when I made yours. That silly katoika, Yoda, was eating the back yard.” I looked around the table. “Oh, that’s Greek for goat, and maybe everyone should take a small taste of their lemonade to avoid the sperm whale act.”

Sometimes my ADHD can even overrule my OCD’s. But you get my point about tablespoons. Same thing with full bags and bladder fulls and shit.

Maybe I’ll make Lloyd and Mike lemonade and a big lemon cake. I need to get with Melanie for a recipe. If I was a gay man, would I mate lemonade with lemon cake or would my more sophisticated palate require a beverage somewhat less “complimentary” to the pastry? Like chicory coffee from Nawlins or maybe a bourbon and milk cocktail.

And why is a mixed drink a “cocktail” like you stirred it with your pecker. Maybe that’s why James Bond insists on have his martinis shaken only.

I might be decomposing now, so I’ll see you manana, y’all.

Why I don’t Own A Handgun; I Am, However, Shopping For A Nuke

Monday, March 5th, 2012

 

So. I don’t know if you guys have been keeping up with events over to Iran. If you have, you know that the conservative religious factions puppeted by the one, the only—the O-fucking-riginal—Ayatollah Khomeini—have gained control of government. The conservatives lost much of their power over the last decade and a more moderate have emerged, assuming you can say that any Muslim extremist is more “moderate” than another, and their current President has shown to be the most moderate of them all.

It has been this moderate President from among all of those conservative right-wing religious zealots who has given the rest of us a thin shred of hope that things will approach stability in that region. When combined with the Arab Spring movements, the moderation of the extreme conservative pogrom-based inclinations in Iran have been heartening for those of us seeking some limited vision of world peace.

But, and alas, the arch conservatives have won a contentious dogfight for control of Iran’s central government, an action that has, effectively, granted the Ayatollah total fucking control. That batshit crazy shitball will now be making decisions about Iran’s pursuit of a nuclear bomb, pursuits to infiltrate America’s borders to reign terror, and put Iranian women back into conservative garb and stuff their semi-Westernized asses back into the rear seats on society’s bus.

As the extreme tenants of conservative Muslim control eased over the last ten years, Iran could have been almost looked at as a model for how to change an autocratic, religious-based oppressive society into a more civilized one. By lessening the conservatives Koran-based ideologies and letting people enjoy increasing freedoms of choice, Iran’s economy improved and the standard of living enjoyed a remarkable up-tick.

Iran’s increasing moderation away from conservative religious fundamentalism had an interesting, and to me amazing, side benefit. A never-before-seen middle class began to form and emerge from the abject poverty. Abject poverty was the norm for typical Iranian citizens under the Shaw, as he and his family and a few chosen buddies controlled the huge share of Iran’s wealth and privilege. Iranian society was controlled by extremes—mega wealth and abject poverty.

When the Shaw was ousted, the only thing that really changed at first was that the Shaw and friends were replaced by the conservative religious clerics. Those assholes took control of the power and wealth and the common citizens remained the poor masses.

But things were getting better for everyone in Iran until now, with this recent conservative party win.

Is this shit funny yet? Has anybody reading this mess gotten a glimpse at where I’m going here?

Let me say it this way. Change the word “Iran” and replace it with America. Change Muslim for Christian and trade your Bible for the Koran.

But you don’t need to change the words “conservative” or “right-wing” or “autocratic” or “fuckwad” or “middle class” to get my drifts. And you don’t need to be a genius to see that America’s right-wing religious conservatives are trying to do the same thing here as what happened in Iran. Hell, Prick Santoria and Mitt The Schmidt Romney look at Iran with stars twinkling in their eyes.

Wake… The Fuck Up, America. There isn’t one degree of separation between the Ayatollah and his henchmen and America’s conservative Christians. They each want absolute power to rule lives based upon their personal religion. They want women put back in their proper place and they want to take America back to times where it was “Great”.

Mitt Romney is a fucking Robber Baron, folks, and Rick Santorum thinks Senator Joe McCarthy was a liberal. Mitt wants to return to the times when the foundations of America’s wealth were built on the skeletons of its burned-out workers. Rick Santorum actually said that he wants religion to rule government.

He actually said it. Are you not pissed and angry and really fucking scared that a major contender for President has publicly stated that he wants to overrule the Constitution? He said he wants gay people in their place. Do you know what he’s actually saying there?

Ugh. It turns my stomach to think that one of those two asswipes could be my President.

Fuck it. I’m going fishing. Manana, y’all.

Chose To Be Gay- No Way; Mermaids Baptize Dead Jewelers

Saturday, March 3rd, 2012

 

So. I was at breakfast this morning with the entire family and we were discussing several articles from today’s newspaper.

OK, stop. I have already laid a foundation of half truths and deceptions. For starters, the breakfast table was set for six actual Johnson—the entire blood family—five place settings for Johnson family pets were organized, and an additional six sets of silver and coffee mugs were laid out for extended family members having no Johnson blood in their veins.

Actually, the Johnson family blood isn’t really Johnson blood. It’s Smith blood turned Johnson. You can buy my book, Full Rising Mooner, by clicking over there ===}}}, if you want the story on that dealio.

Of course, now that I think about it, Sister’s wife Anna the Amazon has no Johnson blood in her veins even though she was married to me before falling in love with my sister. At least I think she actually loved me first and didn’t use me to get to Sister.

I remember how I felt when Anna first told me, she said, “Mooner, Honey—she called me Honey—we need to talk.”

As I recall it, she did all the talking and I did a bunch of gulping and “Huh?’ing” and “Hmm’ing” and, I must admit, boo-fucking-hooing. I didn’t take it well at first as I saw it as a failing on my part, a theory that was reinforced by others.

“If you would have taken that girl to church, Mooner Einstein Johnson, she wouldn’t have turned on you,” was Mother’s initial assessment. “You can blame yourself for turning her into a homo-sex-u-al. You better thank the good lord that he didn’t let you go astray yourself, son. I know I pray every night that you don’t move to California to live in sin with that homo-sex-u-al friend of yours.”

Mother always says it like that, homo-sex-u-al, and usually with a look on her face that says, “I think the cob up my ass just pinched my liver.”

Me, I think every heterosexual spouse or mate of a person who comes out of the closet, subsequent to the relationship, goes through a season of self doubt and reflection. I did blame myself for awhile, but not for long. I’m lucky, I have lived with a gay woman her entire life, my sister, and Sister came out of the womb a card-carrying lesbian.

Sister was born lesbian, a fact. My guess is that most, if not every fucking time, homosexuals are born that way. I do think it’s possible to choose to be gay. I think this is possible because there was a time when I wished to be gay. For awhile I thought it was his gay-ness that makes my buddy Lloyd such a good man. As I’ve told you before, Lloyd is the best man I have ever met, and I was feeling like I wasn’t such a good man this one time, so I thought to myself, I was thinking, “Hey, maybe I’ll be a better man if I’m gay.”

I actually think I could be gay if it wasn’t for the part about having sex with men. I wouldn’t stick my own pecker in my mouth much less yours. Of course, I also have terrible taste in clothes and hair and while I like Judy Garland, Barbara Streisand, Diana Ross, Lizzy Taylor, and Lady Gaga, I don’t adore and worship them.

OK, now that I think this through, I’d make a terrible gay man. I’d dress badly, choose UT football over a Celine Dion concert, and I wouldn’t suck dicks. I’d be ostracized by my peers and called heretical. Sort of like how things are now, except without all the multiple pecker play.

Before I regress from this digression, please allow me to say this. Does anybody really think that a heterosexual man wakes up one day and thinks to himself, “You know what? I think I’d like to suck Bobby’s dick, maybe get him to take me doggy-style, tug my hair, slap my ass and give my balls razor burn and shit.”

Don’t kid yourself, Senator Santorum, you were born with those desires.

Anyway, as I was saying before I interrupted myself and you as well, we had a full table at breakfast, and Gram had the front section of the paper. As Johnson Family matriarch, she is granted first choice with the newspaper and today she chose the front.

“Looka here, Mooner. It sez that them quinny nonna piggy farmers down to Bulova been fightin’ over land with rocks and dynermite.” Gram put the paper down and looked me in the eyes. “Says here they was fightin’ over land a cause tha price a them special piggies done tripled.”

For those of you not skilled at translating my Gram’s fractured English, quinoa farmers in Bolivia have been fighting over some of the limited land suitable for growing the unique grain. Seems it’s one of the trendy “super foods” and prices are straining the fabric of Bolivian quinoa farming society.

My own thoughts were, “Rocks, and dynamite. Rocks… and dynamite.”

I wasn’t fully finished with those thoughts when she said, “Holy fuckin’ shit! Them silly mermaids done been Baptizin’ dead jewelers.”

Gram lowers the paper again, and claimed my eyes with her own. “What tha fuck, Mooner? Tha whole entire world’s done gone off the deep pockets.”

Gram’s right. I think that the Mormons Baptizing dead Jews might just be the sign for that end of days dealie. I’m thinking that I need to tidy up my business before the shit hits the fan. I just don’t know where to start. I need to make a trip to the country’s best burger joints, BBQ houses and purveyors of crème brulee, and that will take a good year of daily efforts.

Visits to all my friends needs to be packaged therein, and visits to places I want to see.

Ugh. The thoughts of it are overwhelming.

But who really gives a shit? Here’s my take on the end of the world. To me, the end of the world is no different than the end of my own life. It’s exactly the same fucking thing, only bigger and slightly more complicated.

I know that I will die at some point in time and I know there’s no way to prevent it. Fine, I can live with that. I’m not going to make myself bonkers and ruin what time I have left living with worries of dying. I’ll do my best to enjoy every fucking minute of conscious breathing I have left and I’m working hard to leave without too many regrets.

Same thing with this earth. We know that every planet is going to suffer some kind of catastrophic calamity of some sort at some time. It might be billions of years from now or, it might be this Christmastime, but good old Mother Earth has numbered days.

You know what? Fuck this. I’m taking SAC Ellen and the pets fishing.

Manana, y’all.