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


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.”


“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.

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12 Responses to “Whole Foods Arboretum’s Scott Is Honest Man; Back In Town And Rubbing Pork”

  1. squatlo says:

    I’m just wondering if this Mary Poppins spell-popper works for non-lesbians, too. I figured it out a long time ago that Pussy Makes You Stupid (PMYS, for those unfamiliar with this concept) but have yet to find a way to stop going back for more ‘stupid’. Maybe I could sit up and chant from the Julie Andrews Songbook the next time I’ve got a tongue-vagina moment. Somehow I don’t think that will be seen as an endearing gesture on my part. I’ve been bitch-slapped for less. Often.
    So, glad you’re back. Coming over here for two days and only finding a link to my sarcastic remarks concerning your great generosity to a cancer charity has been painful. After re-reading my post I’ve wanted to beg forgiveness. I was a cynical shit. You did something ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY AWESOME, something most of us wouldn’t even consider, and deserved better than to get backhanded and teased over on my site. Mea culpa.

    But, having said that, I don’t care how much water we save, we can’t save Wales. Wales is pretty fucking “saved” already. God Save the Queen, and all. Wales is about as safe as you can get.

    Tilled the garden, Mooner. You caused this shit, talking about tomato plants in the ground. Dammit.

  2. squatlo says:

    My comment was CAPCHA’d because of the word PUSSY, Mooner. PUSSY gets me flagged. I can type shit, fuck, or The John Birch Society, and none of those profanities are flagged. PUSSY, that warm and fuzzy kitten reference, get’s the hook.


  3. squatlo says:

    Pussy Galore. That ought to be legal… Ian Fleming got it passed the censors fifty years ago…

  4. squatlo says:

    Past. Past the censors.

    and no, it didn’t get past your CAPCHA.

    I swear, sometimes I think you’re sitting there making this thing kick out my comments, then insisting I type in two words that are about as offensive as my original comment.

  5. Squattie. You can say fuck and bitch and poontang and such. But anything a church lady might say will be trapped.

  6. mel says:

    Ummm….what? I can’t even wrap my head around that kind of thinking. Maybe you should get those “Hi, my name is” stickers and they can write their orientation on them so that she knows who to stay away from. I can’t even think about it anymore because that kind of thinking makes my blood boil. My dear, dear grandfather will make comments about particular family members, and if there is anyway that man could anger me…that does. But he’s almost 90. I don’t think he will ever alter his thinking.

    NOW, I want to hear all about the food…in particular that trifle. I haven’t actually made it yet, and who knows, it could taste like dog food. I don’t know how, but you never know…

  7. mel says:

    And holy shit if I don’t have some anti abortion picketers at the corner.

  8. chrisinphx says:

    Now wait just a damn minute Mooner. The “Supercalafragilisticexpialadocious” gay recruitment defender is a closely guarded secret! How can I be expected to infiltrate and spread the gay if you give out all the loop holes to get out of it? I have a quota to maintain and I want that new toaster oven!

  9. Mel. Maybe we should brand the foreheads of gay folks and women adulterers too. Big red tattoos. We could use scarlet as the color and do big initials–like “L” for lesbian and “A” for promiscious women, and…

    Ooopsie! I think that one was tried in our historical past. Like the rack and the old four-hourses-tied-to-arms-and-legas dealie.

    I didn’t know you run a clinic from your house. How do you find time for all your activities, and how’d you get the zoning?

    Chris. Worry not. I gave her the Super-cal but neglicted to tell her the “click your heels” part.

  10. mel says:

    Damn..good thinkin’. It’s the effort that counts.

    And oh…I got mad skills. Funny thing…I didn’t even know there was a clinic.

  11. bj says:

    shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits

  12. bj says:

    George Denis Patrick Carlin would be disappointed: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kgZZ82tp5es


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