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


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.


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5 Responses to “Chose To Be Gay- No Way; Mermaids Baptize Dead Jewelers”

  1. squatlo says:

    Mermaids babtising Jewelers… I’m going to have my first shot of the day, courtesy of the twisted mind of a Texan I once met…

    Crazy fuck. Funniest mother fucker bloggin’…

  2. bj says:

    I’m actually looking forward to the End Of Days (or the end of MY days, whichever comes first). Been to the city, seen the elephant …. ready for something new and different …. and I ain’t never seen no shit like THAT! Could be interesting…… I intend to use the time I have left attempting to right my wrongs …. If ya’ get my meaning if ya’ catch my drift.
    I agree with your “Born This Way” philosophy and have seen practical applications of just that, over the span of my life. My EX brother-in-law (here we go again) was 11 when I started dating his sister and I knew within the first month that he was Gay. He didn’t come out to the family until he was a senior in High School. I have a great nephew who is 8 and reminds me so much of my EX brother-in-law it’s weird. His Daddy is one of those fundamentalist types who are all about “God’s” werd and constantly denigrates Homosexuals, people of color, Liberals, anyone different, etc.. I see troubled lives ahead …… just like when my EX brother-in-law came out some 33 years ago. My EX father-in-law still can’t accept his own Son for being “Born That Way”. I attribute that to self doubts he has about his own masculinity …. and as Yogi said “it’s deja vu all over again” comin’ around and goin’ around ….
    Wish I was goin’ fishin’ today ……..

  3. Q says:

    “give my balls razor burn” LOL! Mooner, where do you come up with this stuff? I also think people can be born gay although I think quite a few people choose to be.

  4. Granny Ook says:

    Mooner, Your granny’s mangled pronouncements alone make it worth reading this blog. I assume you have heard of the group that’s “gay-marrying” Mormons? I think live ones rather than dead. Although, when it comes to sex, it’s probably hard to tell the difference between a live one and a dead one…

  5. Squat. Just be sure you do the shooting. Beej tells me folks are loose with their sidearms in your neck of the woods.

    Beej. Dude. We are fellow travelers. My main problem is that I likely lack sufficient days to rectify all the wrongos. Isn’t it amazing how parents can turn their backs and hearts on their gay kids? My own mother treats Sister as if she’s a mutant. “I love you, daughter, but you’ll rot in hell as sure as I’m sitting here,” would be a common comment made by my mother.

    Jesus loves me, this I know… Riiiiight.

    Q. A mind is a terrible thing to waste so I insure that mine is terribly wasted. Maybe it’s the mushrooms or maybe the herbal suppliment. OK, might also be the Carta Blanca or even the multiple concussions.

    Personally, I don’t give a shit born, or bred. Man wants to love another man, love on, brother. All we need is love.

    Granny. Hey, baby, how’s it hanging? I’m thinking about putting my Reverend Certificate to use–that’s the one I got in a package dealie from Granada one time. I’mma start by wedding Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry and then move on to then marry Field Marshall Smitt Rommel to his major rival, Little Pricky Santoria. I’m speaking here of the namesakes of my pig and ostrich.

    Maybe I should marry Michele Bachmann and Sarah Palin to my ownself. I’ll print up marriage licenses and shit. Have them blessed with Mooner’s holy water and mail them off to my new brides. I think if I could get the three of us together I could talk them into making a Mooner sammich. Call me crazy, but something about the thought of that is loin stirring.

    I think I might be sick. Very sick. As for the Mormons, since they wear magic undies I wonder if it gives them magic in their drawers. “Time to swallow the magic wand, Mrs. Smith.”

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