Archive for April, 2012

How Many Servings Of Shit Today, Sir? A Fish Story

Monday, April 30th, 2012


So. Every time I think I have my life together to the point where I can relax with said life, somebody shits in my mess kit. It seems this has been a staple of my existence since that moment in time between my exit from my mother’s womb, and my first breath. If you’ll click over there ====}}}} to the Bloggie Roller and check out the many options for my book, Full Rising Mooner, you can see how to buy the silly fucking book wherein you’ll find the story as to what happened in those first few seconds of life that set the stage.

Buy the book and flip to Chapter Five for the story. From there you can see how life manages to stay interesting here to Loony Land. There are many other chapters and each is full of interesting things. In fact, when asked what they think after reading my book, most readers report, “Hmmm. Interesting.”

By way of background, many pestering things have been resolved over the last few years, things that put considerable tension into my life. The major issues were: I had the lower-peritoneal ass infection that turned into a systemic malady that nearly put me down, resolved with three ass operations; Dixie asked for early retirement as my translator and we found the Squirt to replace her; I was required to find a cat who would adopt me and Honor the fucking cat filled that bill; and I had a little legal issue not related to jail that is complete, no facts of which shall appear herein.

Oh yea, then there was that entire thingie where I was arrested for murder and jailed in the Loony Bin over to Shoal Creek Mental. That story is the backbone of Full Rising Mooner and I’ll say nothing more except to say that since I’m talking to you now, I obviously wasn’t fried in the electric chair.

Current problems on my plate include: The pending nuptials of Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh; the lack of sexing caused by the continued absence of SAC Ellen; and the simple fact that my mother is a right-wing christian religious republican shitball living under my roof and spouting her bullshit with regularity.

I’m dealing with these current items with integrity, pure thought and aplomb. The wedding is scheduled and on schedule thanks to Dixie—our newly-hired wedding planner—and in no large part because I’ve banished Rush Limbaugh to the neighbor’s pig farm. Ever since I brought Rick Perry home with his new titties, the giant hog won’t stay off him long enough to size the ostrich’s wedding dress. So I sent him next door for most of a month until the rehearsal dinner. The neighbor owes me a huge favor, an almost even trade.

Dixie is a pissy old bitch, but her organizational skills are a marvel, and she loves my lame brained ostrich. “Stay out of this, Mooner, and let me do my job,” my adorable Golden Retriever told me. “If you start fucking with it I’ll leave you at the alter.” Then she laughed, a sound not a distant cousin to a whinny.

As for my sexual needs, please allow me to say two words: Ivory Soap.

My Mother being an asshole is a thorny issue, but thorny issues are my middle name. I’ve been getting extra therapy to learn better ways to deal with my maternal unit and it seems to be helping. Instead of the usual thirty times per day, I only want to choke the life from her maybe twenty-two or three times. That’s real progress by any measure.

However, it was in a psycho therapy session that the most recent serving of shit hit my plate. I was laying on the leather couch in Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s office spilling my guts about how much pleasure I think would be derived with the actual choking of Mother with my bare hands. The couch is a big grape-colored jobbie with that soft tanning that isn’t suede but is just as soft. I think they call it “butter” tanning. I’ll check the receipt from when I bought it and let you know exactly what it’s called. I like to get comfy on my back with one foot hanging on the floor and the other draped over the back cushion. The leather makes a different sound than regular, stiff leather when you fidget around. Instead of “creaking” like typical stiff leather does, this couch almost moans.

This couch has induced numerous boners during therapeutic sessions.

“I don’t even know a way to tell you how good it is in my imagination to be squeezing Mother’s neck and watching her beady eyes start to pop out,” I was saying in that last session. “I was envisioning a giant zit that needed to be popped. It’s like I can feel her neck bones and tendons and shit oozing between my fingers as I apply more pressure.”

“Uh, Mooner, I’ve got something to tell you,” was the good doctor’s response to my confession. “Sit up and look at me because you won’t like this.”

I scrambled to my feet and jumped across the room to loom over her at her desk. I have never liked anything said to me that starts with, “Uh, Mooner, I’ve got something to tell you.” Never, no way has anything resembling good news followed those words.

I pointed my finger her direction and said to her, I said, “I will not go back to that fucking Loony Bin. I’m not planning Mother’s murder, just thinking how I’d do it. Planning would require me to write a date on the calendar, not just decide on a season. ‘Sometime this winter’ is not a plan.”

“Oh, sit down, dumbass, this is something different.” When I didn’t sit on command, she said, “If you don’t sit I will send you to Shoal Creek. Now sit!

I sat, thinking again what a comfortable piece of furniture it was. “I remember when I had to buy this couch for you,” I told her. “It was that time when I left the cooler of fish for you in your office and didn’t know you’d left town for a week.”

“No, Mooner, it was the time you brought Rush Limbaugh in for a session and he freaked out when I asked about his childhood. Your pig destroyed the furniture you bought after the fish incident and you bought the leather after that. Now shut up and listen to me.”

Here Dr. Sam fussed with her hair and adjusted the bracelet our children gave her. Anytime I see her mess with the thick gold rope she wears on her left wrist I know it’s something about her and not about me.

“Are you OK? Oh, god, you have cancer.” I try to not jump my conclusions but sometimes…

“Oh, I’m fine. It’s just that… I ah, well… Unh… Oh for shitsakes, Mooner, I’ve started dating a man and I wanted you to hear it from me and not on the street.”

“Huh?” my best response.

“Yes, and I need you to stay totally and completely out of it.”

I picked my chin off the floor and said, “Who is he? I’ll get Streaker Jones and Dixie to vet him. Is he a local boy or imported? You know Dixie has friends at INTERPOL.”

“Dammit, Mooner, listen!” Sammie almost yelled. “I want you to leave this alone. It’s been ten years since I even wanted to date a man and you remember what happened the last time, don’t you?”

When I didn’t answer, she asked again, “Well, don’t you?”

“Yea,” from me like I was a kid made by his mother to tell his father how he broke the house while daddy was at work. “I did some digging around and thought I found out that he was a serial killer and then you had me locked up over to the Loony Bin.”

“Yes, I locked you up at Shoal Creek to prevent him from pressing charges. And I can’t have you kidnapping any more men I might date. I need you to let this alone, Mooner. Com-pletely.”

That was this morning, that therapy session. I’ve already got my private investigator following her so I’ll have a name soon. Once I know who he is I can get to work.

I really don’t have time for this now but it’s my job to keep Sammie safe, and my first ex-wife needs my assistance. I just wish she’d wait until after the wedding to do this to me. My responsibility plate is already got shit falling off the sides.

Which reminds me. I’ve heard much of the stuff from the Presidential Roast, and I’m proud of my President. No corncob up his ass.

Manana, y’all.

Gnewbt Quits Race, Keeps Horse; How Do You Plan A Gay Wedding?

Thursday, April 26th, 2012


So. After yesterday’s Republican primaries, Gnewbt Gangreenich has decided that he can no longer stay the course and will be quitting the race for President. Old Gnewbt rides a dead political horse way longer than he sticks in the saddle of marriage. His ex-wife was still breathing and had a prognosis for a reasonable recovery yet he left her for dead in her hospital room for his next, younger filly.

But he kept riding his dead Presidential campaign after its cancer killed it in Iowa and it’s bones lay picked clean by Herr Schmidt Rommel. Maybe his conversion to catholicism will improve the imitation Pillsbury dough boy’s stamina with his wives as well. Then again, Mz. Callista might be certain to do as much preventative medicating as she can get under her hubby’s free-for-life best-in-America health care coverage.

Isn’t it interesting that when, as available choices, the republican party had Michelle “My husband is NOT Homosexual” Bachmann, Prick Perry, the other prick, Rick Santorum, Herman “Fucking a white woman ain’t extra-marital sex” Cain, and the Gnewbt as candidates, they chose Herr Rommel. Five solid, all the fucking way-to-the- right actual christians to pick from, and the republicans have chosen the pseudo christian, left-to-right-and-back-again flippy-flopper who started the universal health care program while Governor of Mash-yer-choo-coos.

That’s what Gram calls the Pilgrim State, Mashyerchoochoos. At least I can spell Gram’s version. I’m college educated and I can’t spell the actual name. Don’t give a shit that I can’t, but I can’t.

BTW, thanks for asking, but Gram managed to pass the dozen extra-large glass balls she got stuck up her ass when the cord broke on her anal beads. Assuming the word “pass” is appropriate for having said glass bullets shoot out like metal ball bearings from a surgical rubber slingshot. Broke her toilet bowl—the bottom only—shattered her dressing mirror, and one of the missiles hit Mr. Dave a glancing blow after it ricocheted off the Saltillo tile in Gram’s bathroom.

When we were kids, Streaker Jones figured out how to use surgical rubber, like what they use to tie you off for blood pressure, to make slingshots. We used to make surgical rubber slingshots and sell them to other kids—not our first business together but one of the more profitable of our childhood. His daddy was dating a nurse up to the big hospital and she would bring the rubber tubes to us as a way to his daddy’s heart. If you want to learn about Streaker Jones’ daddy—a Peyote Indian Medicine Man—buy my stupid fucking book. Click over there =====}}}}} to one of the linksters for Full Rising Mooner and check it out.

Which reminds me. Sometime in the last month I misnamed the title of my book inside one of the wordy writings here to Loonyland. Be the first to catch and comment with its location and win a prize. If you don’t have a book, I’ll send you one with a personalized inscription. If you have a book already, first allow me to say ”Thanks” and second let me state for the record that I’ll figure something out to send you.

Anyway, this one time Streaker Jones and I were in town with a bag of slingshots that we were selling at the middle school. We had a bunch of glass marbles as demonstration projectiles and we were shooting them at a watermelon at the sports field. Actually, this was long ago enough that it was a football field because football was all that played there. Nobody had ever heard of soccer.

We had the melon at about the fifty yard line and we were standing at the ten, plucking away. As I recall, the watermelon was from a farm down to Gonzales and taken in trade from a migrant worker who wanted one of our slingshots to hunt food. I don’t remember what we were charging, but if a kid could hit the melon with one shot we’d give him a discount and, obviously, the value approached that of a ripe, 12-pound watermelon. Streaker Jones is a brilliant marketing man and most of our smart marketing moves are his. To this day, our smart moves are usually his ideas.

We’re doing a brisk slingshot business and this big kid walks up to our group—high school age punk with a tall greaser haircut and pointy shoes with toe and heel taps. Had a wire clothes hanger-and-rubber band slingshot hanging out his back pocket.

“Hey punks, what’s that?” the hoodlum asked. Back then we called those guys hoodlums.

I told him and started my sales pitch while Streaker Jones took off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Streaker Jones has had a nose for trouble as long as I’ve known him. The kid yanked one of the slingshots from my hand and looked it over, stretching and aiming it at the other kids, trying to pop them with the empty leather basket. We used leather patches to hold the marbles.

When I offered a marble to shoot at the watermelon, he pushed my hand aside and said to me, he said, “Marbles are for queers. I got this,” at which time he fished a rusty ball bearing from his pocket, showed it to us all, and set it in the basket of the slingshot.

He stretched the bands and aimed and relaxed the taught surgical rubber bands several times. Then, he turned from the melon and aimed at the school and let her go. I didn’t see the projectile in the air, but I was looking at the big glass window at the main entry of the gymnasium when it shattered.

The hoodlum laughed like a hyena, big barks of, “Ha-ha-ha-ha!” He caught his breath and poked a finger in my chest and said, “Looks like you queers are in biiiiig trouble.”

Streaker Jones stepped to the big kid. “Nope. Yer gonna confess.”

The bully stripped his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves, and all the other kids gathered in a circle around the three of us. Me, I’d been to more than one of these rodeos and knew what was next.

“Uh, listen fella,” I told the kid. “You better do what he says. People always end up doing what Streaker Jones tells them to do.”

“Who’s gonna make me?” the bigger kid snarled at Streaker Jones.

“Me,” the response.

One Streaker Jones word, full of meaning.

“Let’s go,” the hoodlum said, and he bounced at Streaker Jones to kick a steel-capped pointy shoe at his nuts.

In the three seconds following the attempted goober kick, the big kid suffered a broken nose, dislocated thumb, a kidney bruised enough to make him piss blood, and an inch circle of hair and scalp missing above his eyes—a chunk of hairy flesh that was formerly the widow’s peak in his duck-tailed greaser haircut.

The big kid was on his side, whimpering in the fetal position, while clutching his broken nose with the broken hand, holding his good hand on his forehead to stop the bleeding. Scalp wounds bleed almost as bad as cut peckers.

My best friend stood over the bully and said, “Yul be tellin’ yer momma ya broke that window, an ya won’t be back over here no more.”

I’ve always hated the word “queer” when used in the context of bullies. My sister is lesbian, knew it from birth and has been proudly so her entire life. Streaker Jones took those kinds of things personally and he defended Sister’s gayness more times than did I.

Which reminds me. How many attendants are appropriate for a gay wedding? Are gay weddings different from heterosexual ceremonies? Sister and Anna eloped because Mother was such a shit about their nuptials, and I gave them both away to each other when we eloped out to Vegas. Gram was the Old Bat of Honor and the P-cubed was the ladies’ Flower Girl. Since Daddy had died and Anna the Amazon’s divorce from me was still wet with the Judge’s ink, it was appropriate for me to be stand-in Father of the Brides. Or was I Fathers of the Bride?

This whole wedding thing with Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh is bum fuddling me. The ostrich wants a dozen Bridesmaids and shit but the big pig doesn’t want anyone to stand up for him. I’ve designated Yoda to be his Best Man and after that I’m lost. Nobody actually likes Rush Limbaugh enough to stand at his side, and everyone wants to stand with the bird.

I’ve never actually planned an entire wedding, as many as I’ve attended and participated in. Somebody needs to help me with this shit. Need Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

You’ll Put Your Eye Out; Ted Nugent, Asshole

Tuesday, April 24th, 2012


So. We’re all sitting at the big breakfast table this morning having the first meal of the day. We’re all there and feeling fit and trim save for Gram, who is fidgeting like a school kid who needs to pee. She’s rolling from one butt cheek to the other and grimacing with each switch. Mother, as is her habit, has the newspaper in her possession and is reading us the highlights—as only she interprets which stories need highlighting.

“Oh, this story just disgusts me the way they’re treating that nice boy,” Mother said disgustedly. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

Now me, I know better than to assume my mother’s heart-felt compassion is ever directed at the truly deserving but Mr. Dave hasn’t been around long enough to see things clearly.

“Oh, I know, Mother Johnson, that poor child just went to the store for a bottle of sweet tea and that Zimmerman maniac killed him because he was wearing a sweatshirt.” Obviously Mr. Dave spoke to the Trevon Martin murder—most of the rest of the table knew his reckoning was dead wrong.

My mother harrumphed and lowered the paper enough to peer across the table at Mr. Dave. She wears those silly half-lens glasses to read, said silliness enhanced with the knowledge that she has another pair of half-lens glasses to use for distance. Her dark eyes stared a hole in Mr. Dave through the half-lenses for about five seconds—the anger behind smoldering in visible expression around those eyes. I could hear the rusty cogs of her brain grind as she thought, Think before you speak, Mother, Mr. Dave makes you happy. Let him live to fuck another day.

She smiled, a placating, mirthless thing and a smile I’m quite accustomed to view. “I’m not addressing poor Mr. Zimmerman’s situation, dear Mr. Dave, I’m reading how the Obama administration is persecuting poor Ted Nugent up in Alaska. They’re using an unfortunate hunting accident to get back at Teddy for telling Obama the truth.”

OK, first, in case you don’t know, the sawed-off shit for brains Nazi runt named Ted Nugent lives on a Central Texas compound up to near Waco—a two-hour drive north of Austin. Second, the “unfortunate hunting accident” Mother mentions is Mr. Nugent’s admitted violation of the laws of the State of Alaska regarding the murder of bears. For some idiotic reason it is lawful to kill one bear per year up to Alaska, a legal tenet I find appalling.

But our fine and upstanding Teddy wasn’t happy to kill just the one bear, he needed to slay a second to fill his blood lust. You would think that a man who is so “into guns and hunting”, as Nugent says about himself, that he would know how many bears he could legally kill in one state in one fucking year. He had to buy an out of state hunting license and get bear tags, right? I know that he knew he was breaking the law.

Gram twisted and grimaced in her chair, let out an airy fart, flipped cheeks and grimaced again before saying, “Ought ta pluck his nuts with a banjo string an’ make ‘im whistle Dixie fer killing a bear what don’t need it.” Gram twisted cheek-to-cheek a good half dozen times and said to me, she said, “Mooner, you got any a them repositories they give ya fer that ass detection ya had last year? I got a little sumthin’ stuck an I need some help.”

“Oh, sweet jesus, please don’t talk about that at the breakfast table, Gram, I can hardly keep my eggs down as it is with how they’re treating Ted.” Mother harrumphed once more and hid her face with the paper.

“I’m all out of those morphine suppositories, Gram, but I’ve got some little glycerin bullets that’ll clean you out in fifteen minutes.” When I had my lower peritoneal cavity infection last year, one of the medications I got was what I think was called “phenagrin” suppositories. Better than Quaaludes, but not what my grandmother needed even if I had them.

“Do I need to redo the week’s menu, Gram? Have I been fixing too many carbs?” I asked.

“Naw, I ain’t impacterated with no celery, grandson, I was fuckin’ round with them assholie beadies ya give me, anna string broke. Got most of a dozen a them glass balls stuck up my ass,” Gram informed the table. “Still feels kinda good, but I missed my mornin’ reconstitution an I’m gittin cranky.”

I had to ask, and I had to give her the anal beads for Christmas. “Those beads had a heavy nylon cord, Gram. How did you manage to break it?”

The words were still an echo in my mouth when regret filled my brain. I had to fucking ask.

“Well, heh-heh-heh, ya see Mr. Dave was doin’ that vibrator inna ass dealie he does, an I got ta thinking a how it might feel iffn we could git them glass balls clinking and jabberin’ all up in there an…”

“STOP!!!” Mother shouted. “Dear god in heaven, Gram Johnson, not one more word of it!”

My mother whirled from Gram to face me and said, “And you, Mooner Einstein Johnson, have you lost your mind? I raised you better than to give your grandmother sex tools.” Then she added, she said to the entire table, “Einstein my ass. He doesn’t have the brains god gave a grape,” deep, martyred breath, flustered rustle of newspaper, another deep breath, then, “A stupid grape.”

Reckmonster is back in town and she makes beaded jewelry and is quite good at it. She just returned from Trinket Maker Fest where she won an award for something she made. When things settle down for her, we’re going to discuss a new business to sell sex jewelry at in-home parties. My first ideas for our product line is matching anal beads and jeweled cock rings. Oh, and maybe we could connect a set of beads to a ring with a studded chain.

We could do custom fitting and charge for that as well. Hell, I might pay just to get sized if the saleslady had a light touch.

Anyway, I gave Gram a suppository and now I’m headed to town to buy a replacement bowl for the toilet in her bathroom. Anal beads should come with a warning that says, “Do not use after any meal containing pinto beans. Wear safety goggles to avoid eye injury.”

Manana, y’all.

Big Boobie Bonanza; Rick Perry Gets His Rack

Sunday, April 22nd, 2012


So. TGIF and all that shit. I took Rick Perry to the cosmetic surgeon to get his new rubber titties this morning and I just delivered him back to his bed in the master closet out here to the ranch. Moving a fully-stoned and groggy 350-pound ostrich when you can’t touch his chest is, if you will allow me just a touch of exaggeration, a gigantic pain in the ass.

Rick Perry shares said closeted bed with his gay lover and fiancée, Rush Limbaugh, and we had to rent a major appliance dolly to move Ricky from the surgery ward back here to the ranch. I gathered all our down comforters and pillows for padding, and loaded them, Rick Perry, the dogs and the fucking cat, and a cooler of Carta Blanca into the farm truck for the ride into town. Streaker Jones and Dixie met us at the doctor’s office to assist me. Streaker Jones to help me manhandle the big bird, and Dixie to play cowboy on the rest of the herd.

Those of you new to these parts need to know that Dixie is my now-retired Golden Retriever and original translator. Dixie chose the Squirt for adoption and tutored her to communicate with me and speak many other languages as well. I love Dixie—enough to set her free when she asked. She found a late-life interest in spores and all things fungi, so my former best dog and translator is now head assistant over to the lab at Streaker Jones Spores And More.

Now that I think on it, if you’d go buy my silly fucking book you could read all about my beloved Dixie. So click over there ====}}}} to the Bloggie Roller and check out all the Full Mooner Rising listings. There’s a book trailer, a third party review, and ways to buy it in paper and on Kindle.

Anyway, I locked Rush Limbaugh up in a hog pen over to the neighbor’s place to keep him off of the bird until his new breasts are healed. The way he acted the other day when we were trying out new boob sizes for Ricky, I decided the big pig needed to be kept at bay. And why don’t we say, “Kept away from bay?” Is “keep at bay” a nautical term or does it have to do with fox hunting?

I also think that some separation before the wedding will act as a pre-marital aid for my pet hog and ostrich. Then again, the way Rush attacked Rick in the kitchen the other morning left no room for extra ardor. I was getting the family’s thoughts on size for the new titties, and when we held a halved watermelon up to Rick’s chest, Rush Limbaugh lost it—threw Ricky to the floor and dry screwed him without any preamble.

We had a little party this morning while we waited for Ricky to be ready, and one of the Doctor’s receptionists fell in love with Streaker Jones. She’s one of the doctor’s “living show-and-tell mannequins” that he uses to demonstrate both before-and-after comparisons and also “see, these new titties feel just like original equipment breasts”[.] I had met her on Rick Perry’s first consultation visit with the doctor and I must say that the 36 Double-D’s are a remarkable difference from the little half-apples she had originally.

But I had to tell him, I told the doc, “Well, doc, I think these are some mighty fine titties—they have a firm but giving feel, a great shape, and I really like how you got the nipples pointing just a few degrees up to the North. However, since I’ve never felt a bosom this large that wasn’t artificial, I can’t give you a good result on that part of this comparison.”

I did like the way Melissa cooed at me and how her breath fluttered when I examined her breasts. This morning, and it had to be before seven am because we got checked in before six, I notice Melissa sitting over to her desk and giving Streaker Jones the moon-eyed look of a doe in heat—big brown eyes with a lustful look. Next thing I know, she’s sitting in Streaker Jones’ lap with him holding one big bazooma in each hand, and she’s saying, “… and I love it when you pinch this nipple and suck on that one at the same time.”

I wonder why I have to work so hard for love and my best buddy has it fall into his lap?

Anyway, my ostrich is goofy as all hell to start with, and redefines the word with a bill full of knockout meds. All my life we’ve had birds on the ranch—chickens and ducks and Guinea hens and doves and quail. Until now, I’ve never seen the first bird do anything I would call a smile. But Rick Perry has this giant, goofy shit-eating grin plastered to his mush, and his big bugged eyes are spinning around under half-mast eyelids the size of tea saucers. Reminds me of the old joke that goes, “Do you think Minnie Mouse is crazy?” two, three four, “I’m not certain of that, but she’s fucking Goofy for sure.”

We’ve got him on his side in the water bed and he’s so stoned that he can’t control his head. It’s difficult to control the thirty-pound bowling ball at the end of his long neck without drugs, but when he’s stoned it’s an impossible task. He keeps trying to lift it and you can see the muscles in his thick neck quiver with the effort and only get it a few inches off the pillow before it plops back down with a “plufft”[.]

The Squirt and Honor the fucking cat are in there now playing nurse and keeping him in bed. As big an ass pain as Squirt can be, she can always be counted on to do the right thing. When I left them a few minutes ago, the adorable puppy was singing to him in Swahili while the cat purred and rubbed against Rick Perry’s beak.

Have you ever heard “Stairway To Heaven” in Swahili?

Me, I’m roasting a goat for dinner with a big pot of ranchero-style pinto beans. I did a mole rub on the goat and the beans are in an open pot in the smoker with onions, jalapeño peppers and some pork belly. Mr. Dave wanted to try his hand at making some corn tortillas, so all the women are in the kitchen with him giving direction and support.

Maybe I have to work so hard for my loving because I don’t have a twelve-inch pecker in my pants like Mr. Dave. Then again, maybe it’s because I’m an ADHD-addled fuckbrain.

But who really gives a shit, right? I’ve got family and good friends for dinner, and a cooler full of icy-cold Carta Blanca. Manana, y’all.

Hurt Feelings; Let’s Go Fishing

Thursday, April 19th, 2012


So. My feelings are hurt. If you have been wondering why I haven’t posted since last Friday, it’s because my feelings got hurt. For the first ever time since I started this silly fucking website, I have plastered a posting that has gone without a single comment. I got all pissy and decided I wouldn’t post anything again until after I got at least one comment on the last posting. I’ve waited six days and still no comment.

For some stupid reason, this has hurt my feelings.

I’ve been really busy as well, but that has never stopped me from writing to you at any time before. And my feelings are incredibly difficult to hurt. If you have ADHD, you live with Gram and my mother, and you screw up as often as I do, having sensitive feelings would lead to serious contemplations of the afterlife. I’m told that long-suffering individuals have delicate sensibilities, and there is nothing delicate or sensible about me.

Since starting almost two years ago, I have pasted well over 500 entries herein, and every single one of them received at least one comment, until this last one. Some of the comments I didn’t post due to the nastiness contained therein, but all prior postings had comments. I’m trying to determine where these dumb, hurt feelings came from.

I’ve never felt that getting comments was important to me. I’ve never needed an “Atta boy” or even a “Good job, son” to be happy with myself. Pats on the back are wasted on me because I always look for the flattery behind them. Daddy was of the Old School and he taught me to keep a fine ear alerted to flattery. “You need to learn the difference between a square compliment and when someone’s blowing hot air up your skirt, son,” my father would often advise me. “Most times you can’t tell the difference, and most times it’s your hairy ass getting a windy kiss.”

Daddy always gave me good advice, and I have tried to take it. Then again, I did inherit my ADHD from him same as he had from Granddaddy. Sometimes the life lessons he taught me got mangled in the tangled and jumbled confusion between two ADHD-addled male brains.

There was this one time we were driving up to Amarillo to visit family when the muffler gasket broke on the car. The noise was deafening for the hundred miles we were required to drive before finding a mechanic shop to make a repair. When we stopped and were overcharged for the simple repair, Daddy said to me, he said, “I should’a checked that before we left—I knew it was ready to make trouble.” Then he said what I now think was meant to be, “Oh, well, like they always say, a stitch in time saves nine.” You know that old saying about preventative maintenance, right? Who knows whatinthefuck he actually said, because by the time I put the lesson to practice, I managed to destroy its intent.

When we got back home a week or so later and working the cattle, I had a chance to repeat the old saying back at my father. We had a heifer, a longhorn cow, that we were getting ready to breed to a longhorn bull. Back then the big-horned bovine were an oddity and somewhat rare. Having a quality fertile cow was of considerable value, and our cow had quality and was quite fertile. When we found her in the pasture, our old Hereford bull was on her back and deep into the short hairs.

“Goddammit!” Daddy yelled at the top of his voice. “I knew we should have put her in a pen by herself before we left for Amarillo.”

I watched the old bull enjoy himself for a few seconds and thought of Daddy’s advice about the muffler. I told him, I said, “Well you know what they always say, Daddy. A stick in the hiney takes the dime.”

My father looked at me like I’d lost my mind. He said, “You’re a damned strange kid, Mooner,” shook his head in bewilderment, and walked off to leave me with my thoughts.

I miss my father.

Anyway, I’m starting to think that my hurt feelings are coming from two places. First, once I started getting comments I got used to them—even started to read them and enjoy them. Once I got involved with the comments, I made friends with some of the commentators. So, I guess that my feelings are hurt because my friends have abandoned me—tossed me away like a snot-filled tissue.

Then again, maybe they are as busy as I am and are simply too preoccupied to fuck with my nonsense. Either way, I’m taking a break from all these wedding plans to take all the kids fishing. I’ve got the worms dug, a dozen pulled pork sandwiches in the p-nick basket and the Carta Blanca beer on ice. I’m hitching the wagon loaded with the basket and cooler onto Rick Perry. He needs to practice walking with a heavy dress and long train, so I thought having the ostrich pull the wagon down to the dock would work for that. Maybe I’ll let the dogs and the fucking cat ride to add extra ballast to the wagon.

Maybe someone will comment here, on this posting. Maybe somebody gives a shit and will get back to me. Either way, fuck it. I’ll still be back manana, y’all.

How Much Bosom Is Enough?; Breakfast With The Johnsons

Monday, April 16th, 2012


So. We are all way excited here to Austin, Texas. Wedding bells will soon be ringing for Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh, and we didn’t get the predicted nasty-assed weather I was worried would wreck my garden. Last year’s garden burned all the way out in early June because of the drought and very hot Winter and Spring seasons. Last year, it was so hot and dry that you could hear the plants crack and split.

Literally. I would be walking through my veggie plants and there would be “pops” and “snaps” all up and down the rows. It sounded like a tragic Rice Crispies commercial. It was a terrible sound that I never want to experience again. Last year’s crop was pounds as compared to our usual tons of harvested tomatoes, corn, peppers, egg plant, cukers and squash and beans and such. We usually have so much that we give basketfuls away to needy folks every week. But a year ago we were buying fresh produce at the store and what was available at farmer’s markets, and we didn’t put anything back, either canned or frozen.

This year I got a jump on things. I started seeds in the greenhouse in November and began planting the garden the first week in February. Normally that early plant date would mean everything would freeze a half-dozen times by mid-March, but times are no longer normal. The sad effects of global warming are everywhere and saddest to me are with food production.

Which reminds me. Click on the following linkster and go over to watch this short video at Squattie’s place. It is totally hilarious. The linkster is:

I wish they had included an anal probe reference in that vid for more complete accuracies, but it is a real gem as-is.

I have a guest bloggie running over to wherein I’m seeking advice about Rick Perry’s request for fake boobies. I’m not smart enough to link you directly to my guest post so you might as well read Lady Estrogen’s guest post while you’re there. Unlike me, Lady E can say things simply and directly so it’s a quick read compared to my trash.

Anyway, early results over to Q’s place indicate that I should buy fake titties as a wedding present for the boys, and that creates an entirely new problem. The wedding dress Ricky chose is form-fitting and has to be ordered a month in advance. That means I need to get him measured this week or no dress in time for the nuptials.

I am taking him to the tittie doctor in the morning to pick the size for his new melons but I’m not taking Rush. That pig is totally disgusting. We decided to get an idea of what size would look best on the big bird’s chest, so at breakfast we tried things out to get the family’s opinions. I had a cantaloupe halved, grapefruit, one of those small water melons and some large balloons.

As soon as I told the table of Johnsons and attending friends of my need, Mother pipes up with, “I will not participate in this heretical display of  heathenism. It’s bad enough that you allow those two pagans to live as homo-sex-u-als under our roof. But I will…NOT… be a part of this fiasco.”

Gram, who had a mouthful of Irish oatmeal sweetened with maple brown sugar, snapped her spoon on the table and caught Mother’s eyes. “Whuf hu footh uh dho tathi bafoufh?”

“Indeed, Mommy Dearest, please tell us what in the fuck you are talking about.” Translating for my wiry old grandmother is one of my favorite jobs.

Gram managed to swallow her oats to continue, “Jesus shit onna shingle, Mother Johnson, you ain’t never happy with not a goddamn thing in life. Book yersef tha afternoon with Mr. Dave an git a clock winding. Have him do that dealie he does with the vibrator in yer ass. Ya kin have my time slit.”

“Oh my,” Mother blushed, but said not another word.

Me, I wanted to tell Gram it’s a time slot and also to ask the giant-peckered Mr. Dave what his vibrator-in-the-ass trick is, but we were, after all, eating breakfast.

Anyway, Squirt was telling me what Rick told her were his opinions as I held the fruit to his chest. I started with the grapefruit and worked my way from smallest to larger. Ricky was standing next to me as I was seated at the big kitchen table with the fruit on the table to my right. Rush Limbaugh was standing to the side, on my right, eyeballing every move. I placed the grapefruit on Rick’s chest—adjusted them high-to-low, and with different spacings—while the pig stared and grunted at every move.

When I got the grapefruit into the most favorable position, Rick turned to face his lover for approval. “Snoink, snoogle.” The domesticated porcine language is unnerving to most people when they first encounter it. I’m used to it and usually unfazed.

“OK, Rush, I think you’re right, “ I said, “the grapefruit are just too small on this big boy’s chest.”

The pig smiled at me and gave his lover boy a soulful look. Love comes in all shapes and sizes in this life, folks, and a male 350-pound African ostrich in love with 550 pounds of domesticated hog fits them all.

Next we did the same with the cantaloupe. When Ricky turned to Rush, the big hog’s eyes sparkled, but again he said to us, he said, “Snoink, snoogle.”

“All right, Rushie, but we’re starting to get out of hand. More than a bucketful is wasted. Let’s try the watermelon.” I try to be a good father and provide solid advice for all my charges.

I worked with the big melon, a difficult job as each half weighed seven pounds. By the time I had them situated in just the right spot, my hands were slippery with the juice that was now running all down the front of the ostrich. I didn’t get Rick Perry turned even half way to face Rush Limbaugh when the pig made his alpha male sex announcement and mounted Rick Perry. He had Rick on the floor and was attacking the watermelons like a madman.

“Why that is terribly disgusting, Mr. Johnson. Doesn’t your hog know about foreplay?” Mr. Dave is a true gentleman, and this randy display unsettled him.

“Rush Limbaugh isn’t one to let anything stand in the way of his piggish appetites, Mr. Dave,” I told him. Then I added, “And it looks like the watermelon wins the prize.”

I may never eat watermelon again.

Manana, y’all.

Big Announcement Inside; Are You An Asshole? Find Out Here

Saturday, April 14th, 2012


So. Today’s posting subject is a secret that I’ve been attempting to hold tight to my chest for an entire fucking month. See, Quincy over to the Common Sense bloggie asked me to do a guest visit at his place, and after I wrote and submitted the posting to Sir Q, I realized that it disclosed to his readers things not herein predisclosed to you guys. Since I got Q’s dealie written early to meet deadlines, I didn’t want to say anything here to spoil the surprise over there.

It isn’t that I don’t like Quincy’s readers and buddies, it’s that I like you all better. Not that I won’t like Q’s readers any less in the future, it’s just that I don’t know most of them and some might be assholes—which isn’t my way to say that my buddy Q attracts assholes. Now I’m sounding like Political Correctness is my party line, an ill-fitting costume formel, as the French like to say. I don’t wear political correctness well.

OK, look. The guest posting by me is playing over to the Q’s place very soon—as in right now—and some of his readers should make their way over here to Loonyland. If some of them are assholes, I want to insure that I strictly enforce my personal code to insure I fully-disclose to those assholes that I think they are—in fucking fact—assholes.

What I’m trying to say is that I spend some amount of time with every one of my postings to drive the assholes away from my pages. I work hard to hurt your feelings if you are someone I consider to be an asshole. If you think that government SHOULD regulate every American woman’s choices for her own body yet you think that government SHOULD NOT insure that every American child gets the chance to have a free public education of the highest possible quality, then I know that you are an asshole.

If you think that my sister and her wife are sinners living in sin simply because they are lesbian—you, dear friend, are a fucking asshole. If you think that giant flaming asshole Zimmerman was justified when he committed murder down to Floriduh, then you too are a giant flaming asshole.

Asshole is a big word and has many meanings, so please allow me to narrowly refine said meanings to my personal use of the word asshole in this context. An asshole is a bigot. And, basically, a bigot is, “Any person who is intolerantly devoted to his own prejudices or beliefs, or/and one who treats the members of a group with intolerance and/or prejudice.”

And holy shit is my ADHD running at full throttle. My already disparate thoughts have become distracted. At this very instant: I’m talking to the people and bots who read over to Q’s place; I’m writing about a secret that I wanted to disclose herein a month ago but couldn’t because of the story I wrote for Q; I’m bitching about assholes; other things and such; and I am, for certain, thinking about sex.

Of the fifteen independent lines of thought currently running through my ADHD-addled brain, nine are centered on sex as the subject line. My main, and only, squeeze is somewhere in America teaching local law enforcement officers how to combat terroristic threats. As a Special Agent in Charge, US Department of Homeland Security, SAC Ellen has been spending way too little time in Austin to properly service me. Not getting sexed on a routine basis seems to cause my already frittered mind to become even more fritzed.

In my guest appearance at Quincy’s, I mention the fact that Rick Perry wants to get a boob job. Normally I would call getting a new set of fake titties “breast augmentation” surgery, but Rick Perry is so dumb I think boob job is a better fit. My big ostrich wants giant boobies because Rush Limbaugh, Ricky’s gay lover, is a breast man, and, OK, lets stop again. Maybe you should go over to Quincy’s place and read what I wrote there first, and then come back here. You can find Quincy at ThankQforCommonSense . The referenced story is running. At least I think it is.

Now that you are up to date it’s time to tell you the big secret. I want to announce here to the entire world that I, Mooner Johnson—father of both grooms—wish to announce that Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh will be wedded into holy matrimony in a ceremony to be held at the Johnson Family Ranch at five pm on Saturday the 26th of May.

Since the pig and ostrich have lived in the closet in an effort to keep the world blind to their homosexual affair for over a year now, a Coming-Out Party will be held on Saturday the 5th of May. This party will be in lieu of a bridal shower. I’m very excited about the wedding because the closet where these two lumpheads have been hiding is located in my bedroom.

Now that the cat is out of the handbag at Quincy’s place, I can start telling you guys all about wedding plans and all of that shit. As for Rick Perry’s boob job, I am going to attempt to trust the readers of Q’s bloggie to give me guidance.

Which reminds me. My tomato plants are already waist high and some chest high, and all are covered with tomatoes. The lovely little gems are as big as golf balls and the weird warm and wet winter weather has plastered a bumper crop of them to every fat plant. Today and Sunday we are scheduled for high winds, heavy rains and dense, large hailstorms. The Weather Service issued only its second way-in-advanced warning in history because these storms are going to be a bitch.

Mo-ther fuck-er.

Which reminds me of one last thing for today. If you think that Global Warming doesn’t exist or you think it is one of the more curious aspects of “god’s will”…

Then you, dear friend, are a right-wing republican goat-fucking braindead religious—and likely bigoted—asshole.

OK, I lied, as I have one more thing. America was founded by groups of people who held wildly differing political and religious viewpoints—all of whom, and each of whom as well—were persecuted for holding said viewpoints. All of those differing beliefs were merged into a basic document—the Constitution, with its attending Bill of Rights—that carefully explained that all men were created equal and that religion had no place in the government of those people. It stated that America was founded under god, not under YOUR god’s thumb.

These folks were mostly descendants of the Inquisition and all had lived under the tyrannical rules of Monarchy governments. They were told where to work, how to pray, where to live and they were not allowed to make decisions for themselves. Only the wealthiest or those of the ruling classes were even allowed to obtain educations. The greater common populations of the entire fucking world lived under those oppressions.

Our Forefathers fought a bloody war to separate America from those oppressions so that our people, We—those people—would never be faced with those oppressions again. Yet here we are in the year 2012 fighting for our freedoms once more. I have one simple question about this:


And one simple answer:


Manana, y’all.


Are You Smuggling Dead Fish Or Is Your Cat In Heat?; Rick Santorum Quits

Wednesday, April 11th, 2012


So. I’m flummoxed, and dear god how I love that word. Since I’m more than bewildered, way passed confused, and said simply, as I’m dumbfounded and baffled to the max, I am, therefore, flummoxed. Since I have a limited vocabulary of words whose meanings I truly understand, there are few words I can use that are as fully descriptive as the word flummoxed.

I mean, OK, I’ve got the words shit and fucked and asshole and republican down pat as far as knowing precisely all their meanings and literations. And don’t even start on me that literation isn’t a word. A literation is, “The iteration of a word when you don’t mean the simple repetition of said word but, rather, you are speaking to that word’s unique combination of meanings that allow it to be used repeatedly in the same sentence without being repetitive, and boring.” [Id.- Mooner’s Dictionary of New American Words]

Perfect example: “The ignorant shit, Rick Santorum, shit all over women yesterday when he made a shitty comment regarding a woman’s right to make decisions about her own body and shit.”

To belabor my point, try this: “The ignorant fuck, Rick Santorum, fucked all over women yesterday when he made a fuckheaded comment regarding a woman’s right to make decisions about her own body, and other fucked up stuff.”


I could go on and on and on with other examples but I’m too flummoxed to give a shit. If you haven’t gotten my point on that one, you’re a right-wing conservative christian fuckball and, as I said, I don’t really give a shit. And speaking of the pompous asshole, Rick Santorum, he is why I’m flummoxed. Specifically, his not winning the GOP Presidential bid to become their next candidate has me flummoxed.

And holy shit is my ADHD on fire this morning. Have you guys ever been around a female cat in heat? Hey-sus-fucking-christimino but that is an annoying trick Mother Nature pulled on us. I was awakened last nigh at 2:31 in the am by my fucking cat, Honor. I’m all asleep and dreaming about having three-way sex with Joan Rivers and the Queen of England. Under normal circumstances, I would find both of those ladies somewhat out of my price range.

But with SAC Ellen out of town twenty-eight of every thirty days, my dreamscapes have become more widely populated. Now I’m getting the message that dreamscapes isn’t a word. Bite my ass Microsoft Word.

In this dream last night I was in a field of fresh mowed hay. It was sweet alfalfa and it smelled of chlorophyll and retsin as I lay on my back in a soft pillow of grass. I had Joanie at my right side and Her Highness on my right. Each was snuggled up and both were naked as Jaybirds. I want to say that if my dream is accurate, the Queen has got herself quite a rack. And Joan’s skin is remarkable.

Anyway, the three of us were deciding how they were going to divvy-up their individual slices of Mooner when the rank odor of spoiled fish ass invaded. The terrible stink was followed by the Queen screeching like a banshee and Joanie trying to rub her ass in my face.

I awoke with a start and was startled to find the fucking cat was standing on my chest, and rubbing her swollen little kitty poontanger in my face. The sound she was making reminded me of what the lamenting of those Sirens of ancient Greece must have sounded like.

I’ve washed and scrubbed and shaved my face six times and I’ve still got the smell in my nose. At breakfast this morning, I asked the table what I can do to stop that cat madness. Other than, “Drown her,” the best ideas were to simply wait it out. This freshening event must have been what spurred Honor’s desire for a mate. I likely should have seen this coming.

I did see Rick Santoria’s dropping out of the race coming, but I’m flummoxed none the less. My flummoxing comes at Ricky’s hands. While I have always felt the Herr Schmidt Rommel would be the republican nominee, I have always wondered if the republicans were really that stupid.

He is, they are, and I’m flummoxed. Do enough Americans hate our President so much that they would vote for a two-faced, lying, job killing chickenshit asshole instead? Are there that many people who will ignore the fact that Obama has done a remarkable job in getting America’s ship righted, and focus on the stupid, fake issues? Are there enough women in America to vote this particular republican into office?

I keep asking myself these questions. I keep hoping the answers to all are, “No fucking way!”

Then I see a 350-pound woman wearing a leotard and belly shirt over to the hardware store. There are rolls of fat pinched above her waste by the tight fabric of the pants, and her camel toe has double chins. The belly shirt—a tight, white cotton tee-style shirt with a deep V neckline—says, “Nobama in 2012—No Mo Monkey Business.”

I was with Streaker Jones or I might have done something stupid myself.

“Let ‘er be, Mooner. She won’t unnerstand.”

Streaker Jones is right. And the answers to my questions is, “Oh, man, I hope not.”

Anyway, I’m headed to the cheese store to get some Limburger. I’m going to wipe a little smudge on my upper lip and hope it cancels out the smell of horny cat’s ass. Manana, y’all.


easter Update; A Pitch For German Grammar

Tuesday, April 10th, 2012


So. I’ve had time to think about all things easter 2012, and I’m ready to share with you guys. I must admit that my attitude towards all christians has been negatively influenced by the public displays of assholeness of some christians, and not all christians are assholes. If assholeness isn’t a word, it should be. The fact of being an asshole means that a person has a well of assholeness stored up in their rotten little soul. Acting from said well of assholeness is, likewise, putting said assholeness on display.

OK, stop. The actual displaying of assholeness by an asshole would be “showing his assholenesses”[.] I think English should be more akin to German in the grammatical sense of things. I think German is an easy language to understand because they go ahead an place all the modification words into the root word instead of making up new words to express the thought. Like the German word Donaudampfshiffahrtsgesellschaftskapitan. Or my personal favorite, Rindfleischetikettierungsuberwachungsaufgabenubertrangsgesetz. That second one is the word for “beef labeling regulation and delegation of supervision law” and it’s my favorite because…

“Rindfleischerosaschleimentikettierungsuberwachungsaufgabenubertrangsgesetz” is German for pink slime beef labeling regulation and delegation of supervision law. I’ve got your supercalifragilisticexpialidocious right here. And your fucking pink slime as well.

When attending easter services at Mother and Gram’s baptist church Sunday, I was reacquainted with the knowledge that not all christians—and even not all baptist christians—are assholes. The entire family and extended family from the Johnson ranch went to services yesterday. I rented a party bus and had Streaker Jones drive and then babysit the animals while the rest of us went inside the church. Streaker Jones will not enter a church of any kind and the animals were turned away at the door.

I wanted to be pissy about leaving the pets outside but they were nice in the rejection. They asked me why I thought it was a good idea to bring two dogs, a fucking cat, a 550-pound pig and his boyfriend—the 350-pounds of gay ostrich we call Rick Perry—into an easter church service.

“Well, I started, “the way I see it, if humans have a soul that needs saving, so do my pets. Except for Rush Limbaugh, each of these animals has a bigger heart than most of the people I know who attend this church, and since we baptists think that heart and soul are connected, and…”

The nice lady stopped me. “Oh, I see, Mr. Johnson. Well, how about I promise to put the salvation of your animals’ mortal souls on next week’s prayer list?”

“OK.” I was satisfied.

The nice lady was staring at my chest, turning her head sideways in an attempt to read my tee shirt. The hoodie I wore over the tee was covering the starts and finishes of the five lines of print.

“Sus wa sexu use shop feet?” she said. “I’ve never heard of that store before. Is it in the Domain?”

The Domain is the new high-end shopping area up to north Austin. It’s not a mall, it’s more like an imitation Rodeo Drive with anchor tenants. Her thinking my clothes came from there bespoke of the very high quality of the hemp cloth products made by our little company. I grabbed the sides of my hoodie, did an “open sessamee” and revealed the scarlet letters of my special easter message.

The nice lady stared at my chest, again, and was inclined to once more turn her head sideways in the viewing. “Does that say that je-sus was a homo-sex-u-al, Mr. Johnson?”

I guess they teach you to say homosexual like that at this baptist church. Mother says it that way every time, drawing it out like it’s a complete sentence with verb and noun and subject and modifiers and shit. I looked down at my own chest, cocking my head to the side as well. With my left index finger, I underlined the words as I read them upside down.

“Jesus was homosexual because he washed mens’ feet,” I read to her. “I should have said he was a bisexual because he washed the ladies feet as well.”

“Oh, dear. Your poor mother must be so proud of you, Mooner.” She clasped her hand to her heart just as my martyred mother does, and added, she said to me, “Yes, I can imagine your mother is glad you came today.”

We Johnsons and Johnson affiliates were given a wide berth to enter and take our seats. I led us to the third pew from the front, turned and invited our procession to sit. Mother entered first and moved the full length of the bench to take her place on the far aisle, followed by Mr. Dave, Gram and Aunt Hilda carrying Dubbie-J (Hilda’s shrunken-head-in-a-box), then the P-cubed looking mighty fine in a frilly pink sun dress, then Gnat and her beau, Sister’s wife Anna the Amazon, then Sister herownself, and then me.

After we sat, it dawned on me that I needed to tell the nice lady to add Dubbie-J to her prayer list. When I turned to look for her, an older gentleman behind me caught my attention, and said, “Mooner, who is that man seated with your mother? My wife thinks she knows him.”

“Well, sir, that is the famous Mr. Dave, famous for the Japanese eggplant-sized pecker he uses to service the genteel older ladies of Austin. Perhaps your wife has made his acquaintance at tea.” I looked at the wife and she had that classic “holy fucking shit, now I remember him” look, and it was literally plastered on her face.

I winked at the lady and said, “I think he has an opening Wednesday’s at three o’clock.”

When I turned back to face the front, the harsh noises of a whisper-fight were almost concussive on the back of my hoodie. The service started with the organist playing a stylized version of “I Walked Through the Garden Alone” and it was hushed and quiet—almost eerie. I liked it and was feeling calm. I wasn’t expecting to feel calmed.

Then the children’s choir walked to the stage and started singing “jesus Loves Me”[.]

My sister—my sweet, strong, kind and big hearted lesbian sister—started crying. Quietly and with fat tears rolling down her cheeks. She was holding Anna’s hand and reached for mine. She has the grip of a steel worker and I thought my knuckles would break from her grasp, and she cried through all four verses of the children’s song.

It dawned on me then that my sister still believes in the full-blown accept-jesus-as-your-savior-and-gain-everlasting-life stuff. When we were kids “jesus Loves Me” was always her favorite song. She sang it to herself whenever people called her queer or fag or lezzie, and that happened often. She told me that she found solace in the song’s words.

I was moved. I stood from my seat and turned to the sea of faces behind me. I opened my hoodie and displayed my tee shirt, turning once each to left, then right. I sat down.

There were no boos or angry words or even gasps at my shirt. I managed to take some air from the big chapel, but I didn’t disrupt it. The rest of the service went as Pastor Browningwell planned, but he made a concerted effort to avoid looking my way.

If jesus truly was the actual savior as christians think, then he loves all the children in the world. He loves the gay ones and the dumb ones and the different ones. If he doesn’t, he is an asshole.

Which reminds me. Why is ham a favored meat on easter tables? Me, I love me some ham and all things of the pork persuasion. But why ham on easter? Think about this one with me, OK? Since he was an oldie-times Jew, then jesus didn’t eat ham, right? Hogs eat slop just like crabs eat ocean slop, and bottom feeders are verboten in a Kosher diet.

So, again I ask you—why ham? Why not goat or rabbit, or maybe one of those big lizards that roam the sand dunes back to the Middle East? Do rabbits live back there? Maybe Jackrabbits could take the harsh conditions.

Isn’t ADHD fun?

I smoked our ham this year, and it was actually a whole smoked hog leggie. Yum-my! I drank too many beers and told too many stories and ate way too fucking much smoked pig. From the moment we walked out of church and until I went to bed easter night, I was waiting for the eruption from Mother. I expected her to go all ballistic on my ass about my tee shirt display. But not a single word.

Then again, she had Mr. Dave for the day and he likes everyone to stay chilled. Which reminds me. Little Timmy Tebow spoke to an area church easter to tell people to make more and bigger public displays of their faith. I’m too mellow to rant on that now, but know that the turnout was less than half of what they expected, so they sold less than half of the Tebow gear expected. I hope the church that sponsored the visit took it in the shorts on Tebow’s speaking fee.

Manana, yall.

pope Still A Prick And Geraldo Rivera Is A Dick; easter Wishes From Austin, Texas

Saturday, April 7th, 2012


So. Just when I thought I could move on to happy subjects and away from the hypocrisies and redundant bigotry of modern christian dogma, the flouncy old queen of all things catholic gives two speeches in a row that manage to refocus my attentions.

Please note: Until the bulk of christiandom stops persecuting gays, lesbians and transgenders too, and as long as they attempt to enforce legislation that takes away a woman’s right to make her own choices about all things her body—I choose to minimize all things christian by using the diminutive version of grammar when discussing them. Said another way, I will not acknowledge their names with capital letters. Won’t use capitols either.

That having been said, her royal highness, herr pope bentdick the sixteenth—chief fuhrer of the holy roman nazi church—spoke on Thursday to warn progressive catholic priests of the dangers of pushing modernized ideology. These progressives would like to see women as priests and allow women to make decisions about their own bodies without incurring the wrath of the church.

Why, during this holiest week of all holy weeks, the old Nazi fuckball decides to dress-down his church’s free thinkers and attack womens’ rights is way beyond my ability to reckon. (E)easter, I would think, is a time to take a happy swim in the pool of everlasting life. This should be when the pope’ster jumps in that pool and splashes its holy water on all who would listen. I was raised baptist, of the southern persuasion, and not catholic. But I know that baptists and catholics share the resurrection of jesus as the central theme and center post upon which their entire religions were born.

Holy shit but that was awkward. Let me try again. It is upon the rebirth and resurrection of jesus that all christian religious dogma are founded. Awkward once more, but accurate. To get to heaven, a christian must be a true believer that jesus died a most horrible death on the cross and was then reborn to go home to see his daddy, god. I remain unsure as to the specificities of mormon ideologies on this issue, but hold steadfast in my thought that mormons remain one little ‘m’ from the truth.

If it were true in the literal sense, that all we need to do to have everlasting life in heaven is believe in jesus as our saviour, then shouldn’t the pope be a little more focused on that? Rather than chastise some of the boys for thinking for themselves, might he have gotten more into the spirit of easter? Spanking the catholic bad boys could have waited until next week. I mean really, easter comes but once a year and bad boys are bad the whole year around.

However, the pope is an angry old shitball who reminds me of Mrs. Leticia Browningwell—wife of pastor Browningwell at Mother’s baptist church, and my teacher for several classes as a kid. Leticia was forced to teach Darwin’s theories in Junior High science class and she did everything possible to not do so. Her first attempt was to skip those chapters in the book, but Streaker Jones undid that effort. He produced a copy of the lesson plan, previously filed with Austin independent School District supervisors, that clearly showed a week’s worth of schooling on Darwin.

This happened the semester after Streaker Jones and I were expelled from Leticia’s Spanish class and sent to the AISD central offices for “evaluations”[.] That story is in my silly book, a handsome addition to any library and available over there ===}}}} to my Bloggie Roller. You can also see the book trailer and a flattering review.

OK, wait. the review flatters the book and not you. But me, I think you are the cat’s pajamas.

Actually, anybody who can read their way through 600 words of this crap is the pussy cat’s PJs to me. Which reminds me. Honor, my fucking cat, told the Squirt that she wants to be a mommy. Told the little puppy to tell me that she wants me to help her find a suitable suitor and arrange a tryst. It seems that listening to Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry have sex in the closet has stirred her maternal instincts.

The noises made by my gay pig and his likewise homosexual ostrich lover as they grunt and shriek don’t stir anything in me besides an occasional, “Ick! Was that what I thought it was?” But it seems that the fucking cat gets turned on.

I will say this about Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry as lovers. Those two boys are incredibly unabashed and unreserved with their lovemaking. Maybe uninhibited is a better word than unreserved. Compared to those two, the Marquis De Sade was unreserved and my ADHD is on fire. I’ve so many disparate thoughts spinning inside my thick skull I can hardly think.

I didn’t want one fucking cat in the first place, and I for certain don’t want a houseful of cats. I only have the one kitty because I wanted to avoid another stay at Shoal Creek Mental Hospital. You can read about the Loony Bin named Shoal Creek Mental Hospital in the book after you buy it. Now that I think about it, my book should be required reading for this bloggie. That way I wouldn’t need to take time to reference it as often as I do, and I’d not need to pimp it so much.

Which reminds me to tell you about my plans for easter. I’m actually going to church with Mother and Gram in the morning. That’s right, for the first time in decades I’m willingly—and willfully as well—attending a service at the baptist church. I’m wearing designer jeans with artfully pre- torn knees, a University of Texas burnt orange hoodie and sandals—all made of recycled hemp fabrics and other byproducts—and a tasteful knit polo shirt made of hemp as well.

The shirt is white to match the base color of my mother’s pretty sun dress, and the blood red printing matches the roses printed on Mother’s dress as well. The printing says, “Jesus was homosexual because he washed peoples’ feet.” My lesbian sister and her wife both have foot fetishes, so my baptist Mother thinks all people who share the same interest in feet are likewise, gay.

Maybe I should go barefoot to honor jesus for choosing to follow his heart and show his love for all men. Now that I think about it, the shirt might should have said jesus was bisexual. He washed womens’ feet as well.

The hoodie is in honor of Trevon Martin and in defiance of any right-wing shithead who thinks that child’s murder was justified by a clothing choice. And by the way—Fuck You, Geraldo Rivera, you chickenshit asswipe goat-fucking turd ball.

As for the pope’s second stupid speech, screw it. I’m going fishing. Manana, y’all.


Prejudice Begins At Home; Heterosexuals Suck Toes Too

Thursday, April 5th, 2012


So. The air at the Johnson family ranch has gotten so thick with estrogen that you could hack it with a Weed Eater. One of those big commercial jobbies with two strands of extra heavy plastic line. Like the lead-lined safety vest X-ray technicians wear to protect themselves from the deadly radiation, I’ve taken to wearing a thick hemp hooded sweatshirt, big sunglasses and an I-Pod while I’m inside the house.

I don’t know if it’s the Spring weather already turned into Summer’s high temperatures in early April, or if it’s just a bunch of crabby old gasbags fighting over Mr. Dave’s giant pecker. Things here to my place are what I think I can safely call “tense”[.]

I’ve tried to isolate myself from all this tension by wearing the protective gear. They kept trying to get me in the middle of things as a referee or a judge and I’m totally done with that shit. I work hard to play King Solomon and always cut the baby in half to keep everybody happy, and I always end up in the middle with everybody pissed at me.

But it’s too fucking hot for me to be all bundled up so I’m thinking about leaving the country. Then this morning I walked into the kitchen to start breakfast, and the entire fucking clutch of Johnson women were already there—sniping and shitting on each others’ feet. It seems Mr. Dave rose early to get ready for his annual physical this morning and the girls were fighting over who was fixing his breakfast.

Mr. Dave—a soft-spoken gentleman, and the very definition thereof—was trying to say something, but couldn’t get a word in edgewise. I pulled the I-Pod buds out of my ears to see if I could help him. I was listening to Led Zeppelin, and quite loud at that. I love LZ. “Wo-maaaaannnnnn!!! Na-nah na-na nah!”

“Hey, Dave my good man, how’s it hanging this morning?” I asked him.

“Heavy and low, Mr. Johnson, heavy and low.”

Those of you who read here routinely might suspect that the giant-peckered old geezer was speaking to the condition of said giant pecker. But Mr. Dave is a true gentleman and would never be so crude. It was obvious to me that he was addressing the blue mood and estrogen laden air I mentioned previously. “Let me see if I can help you,” I told him.

“Hey… Hey, ladies… You too, Gram, y’all listen up.” It was then I noticed that Gram had her Navy SEAL killing knife out of her pocket. “And put your knife away, Gram. I’ll not have you gutting my mother in the kitchen. Take her outside and then be sure to clean up after.”

The knife was once mine and the source for one of my arrests. But you have to buy my silly fucking book to hear anything else about that shit. Click over there =====}}}} to my Bloggie Roller and look at the book stuff. Otherwise, just know that when I got the knife back from the Sheriff’s Department, I gave it to Gram.

The gutting comment got me a look from Mother that said, “Dear god, why me?” Shortly after I got the look, she said the words. “Dear god, why me? It isn’t enough that I’m burdened with a homo-sex-u-al for a daughter, you had to give me this,” and here she flops both of her hands in my direction with the palms up. It was one of those “Ta-da!” motions but without any enthusiasm.

“I take it back, Gram. You can gut her where she stands.” I might have actually meant it.

“Ah, she ain’t wurth tha effert to stick a knife in her belly. Assides, Mr. Davie here is all mine when he gits back from tha doctor.”

“Well,” I addressed the entire kitchen, “Mr. Dave has his physical today, and that means he can’t have any breakfast save a glass of plain tea or some water. So you crazy old bat brains need to stop your bickering.”

“Thank you, Mr. Johnson, I’ve been trying to tell them that for the last hour.”

“Then I’ll have lunch waiting on you,” shouted by three of the women at the same time. Now they started in on a lunch menu. I looked at Mr. Dave and could only shrug my shoulders. “That, dear friend, is why I’m paying you the big bucks, sir.”

He looked at me with this deadpan look and said to me, he said, “We need to talk about a raise, Mr. Johnson. And combat pay.”

“You come back from your exam with a clean bill of health, and you got it.” Hell, I’d pay that old man double for the services he provides around here. Maybe I should sign him up to a long-term contract. His servicing all these old women has made my mostly unbearable hen house almost bearable.

That’s when Mother said something that really set me off. “Why are you wearing that gangster hood, Mooner. You’ll get yourself shot.”

At first it didn’t register with me. “What are you talking about, Mother. I’m wearing my UT hoodie.”

Then I got it and asked Gram if I could borrow her gutting knife. “You are so fucking clueless, Mother. That would be like me shooting you just because you’re a bigoted old Baptist shitbag wearing your pretty new Easter dress.”

Which reminded me. “I had the guys over to the hemp clothing factory make me a special Easter shirt to wear to church with you. It says “Jesus was homosexual because he washed peoples’ feet.”

Mother thinks that since Sister and Anna both have foot fetishes that all gay people have a thing for feet. I remember when I was married to Anna the Amazon—that was before she and Sister fell in love—she couldn’t get off unless I spent at least a little time sucking on her toes. She had big feet too, almost as big as my own.

Anyway, Mother thinks I’m joking about the shirt and attending church, both. She would be terribly wrong on both counts. I’m thinking I’ll wear the shirt with a hoodie. Manana, y’all.

Bumper Sticker Bozo; Please Buy My Book

Wednesday, April 4th, 2012


So. I’m starting to think Austin, Texas isn’t quite the paradise I have always known it to be. I had to make a trip in to town this morning and everywhere I went I saw signs that my Austin no longer exists. I realized that if I were to have pulled a Rip Van Winkle and gone to sleep for twenty years back in April of 1992, my trip to downtown Austin would have shocked me.

I’m not talking about the buildings here, folks, I’m speaking of the people. I also want to say that Austin has always had asshole right-wing Christian Republican rat fuckers, even back in the day. But back then, they were hard to find—you needed to wish an encounter with one of those shitheads to have an encounter with one.

Not today. Braindead exclusionary bigoted bastards are everywhere and out in plain sight. I was down to the Book People to see if they are selling any of my books, and I was almost run over in the parking lot by this woman in a big Chevy Suburban. Silly bitch is yakking on the fucking phone and I have to jump out of her way when she nearly squished me into a little Mini Cooper.

Man, but I really like the Mini Coopers—the new ones. I hear they’re made by BMW now and I think I want one. I’d get the souped-up version like when I was a kid. Had a buddy who had one and Lloyd had an MGB. I was always jealous of their rides.

Anyway, people talking on their fucking phones while driving stupidly is one of my pet peeves, so I followed the woman to where she parked, and waited for her to get out. I’m standing there already warmed up when I read a bumper sticker on her bigass truck. “Obozocare is for Monkeys,” it said, and it had a caricature of the President. A very unflattering caricature of President Obama.

I pulled my pocketknife out and stooped to scrape the offensive sticker off. I felt the truck waggle, like someone was getting out, and then I heard, “Exactly WHAT do you THINK you are Do-ING?”

Standing to my full height, I encountered a perfectly-dressed and outfitted matron of maybe thirty-five years. She wore big designer eyeglasses, designer jeans, a luxurious silk blouse—lipstick red with white piping—and she carried one of those giant Coach handbags. She was skinny everywhere except in her way-too-fucking big bosom.

“Well, LADY, first, I’m saving you from getting your ASS kicked by peeling this SHIT off your bumper,” I reached down and peeled the last of the sticker off. “Now, I’m going to tell you to turn your phone off and drive your fucking car when you are driving your fucking car. You almost hit me just now and you don’t even know it.”

That’s when she punched the numbers 9 and 11 into her phone and jumped back into the big Chevy. That’s the end of the incident for me. I walked into the bookstore and she was gone when I walked back out.

But being in the bookstore reminded me that I haven’t pimped my book here to Loonyland for at least a week, so I’m going to do so now. The following is the first chapter of my new book, Full Rising Mooner, a story I call Chapter One. Please read it and I’ll be back. And don’t get all pissy on me, it’s short.


Chapter One

All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them.”

–Galileo Galilei


“Alright, Mooner, say it like you’re speaking at an AA meeting. Truth, with full and total disclosure.”

“Oh, for shitsakes, Sammy, this is really dumb,” I respond.

My psycho therapist, and first ex-wife, gives me this laser-eyed look. “Let me put it like this. After the stupid stunt you pulled yesterday—do it my way, or I check you into Shoal Creek Mental Hospital.”

That’s not going to happen.

“My name is Mooner Johnson, and I’m a crazy man.”

When I take too long to gather my disparate thoughts to continue, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson gently prods with, “Now tell me about the craziness.”

“My name is Mooner and I’m a crazy man. I’m not lock away to the loonie bin and throw away the keys crazy—not the dangerous to Society sort of crazy. I’m the variety of crazy that makes for ten ex-wives and great campfire stories.”

It takes another minute to corral more thoughts, then I add, “Since I’m doing this exercise in the name of truth and full disclosure, I feel compelled to say that I am crazy enough to have been locked away to the mental hospital on several occasions, for short visits. I have also been diagnosed with the world’s only case of ‘Contagious Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.’ That one got me into the Guinness Book of World Records.”

Now I’m rolling, “US News and World Report named me The Most Inappropriate Man in the World, and that has gotten me terrific free press. I also killed a man, which got me arrested and charged with murder. But I was acquitted—self defense.”

I take a deep breath for a big finish. “I am sorry for every bad act I have ever performed. From this point forward, I hereby promise to be true to my conscience, think things through carefully before acting, always take other people into consideration, and I further promise to always do the right thing.”

Maybe that will satisfy the good doctor.

“Mooner, how can you still be so clueless after thirty years of intense therapy? Deal with your National Security issues and then do it again. And do it right this time.”

Of course it didn’t satisfy her. She’s never happy. “OK, fine.” I try again.

“My name is Mooner, and I’m a crazy, inappropriate and scatterbrained murdering fuckball, and I can’t focus.

“I apologize to everyone I have ever hurt, even though I didn’t mean to ever hurt anyone with purpose. Except for those times when I did intend to hurt, and I’m not even a little sorry for any of that.

“I wrote a book and terrorized Pulled Pork Publishing, LLC, its Publisher and employees, when they refused to print the book. We had a lawsuit that we settled with my agreement to a thorough vetting by National Security agencies, and Pulled Pork Publishing agreed to print three of my future books.”

Sam starts to prod me, so I add, “It was wrong to take the photographs of the Pulled Pork Publishing guy with the chicken.”

I take a deep breath to continue. “I promise to try to be a better man.”

In a rush, I add, “And not kill anybody else.”

As she has a thousand times before, my ex-wife therapist looks at me like I’m her biggest disappointment in life, and says, “Mooner, you are so fucking clueless. Begin your journal and bring it with you to every session, starting day-after tomorrow.”

Then she adds, “This journal is for you to write down anything that you think is part of your lunacy. Thoughts, your actions and even how you feel about other people’s actions. And do it on the computer, Mooner. I’m not going to try to interpret you scribbling on a stack of Post It Notes.”

I’m thinking about how good a cold Carta Blanca beer would taste when Dr. Sam I Am barks at me, “Dammit, Mooner, pay attention. Now say it again.”

”My name is Mooner Johnson, and I’m a crazy man.


I’m back now, and that didn’t hurt, did it? If that peaked your interest, you can go over there ====}}}} to the Bloggie Roller and see a book trailer, read a Four-Stars Clarion Review, and even buy a paper book or a Kindle version.

Me, I’m cracking an icy-cold Carta Blanca. Manana, y’all.



My Old Kentucky Assholes; Pack Mentality Always A Loser

Tuesday, April 3rd, 2012


So. Kentucky and their asshole coach won the men’s basketball championship last night and the asshole Kentucky fans showed us why I call them assholes. Not that Kentucky has cornered the market on asshole sports fans, it’s just that when a school like Kentucky finally gets a winner at some fucking thing, you’d think they would act more human. As bad as Kentucky’s football team is, you’d think their fans would happy celebrate a big win like this, rather than tear shit up.

Makes me wonder what these assholes do when they lose at shit. If they lost last night, I guess they go down to the soup kitchen and serve the hungry or head over to Big Brothers and Sisters and sign up for sponsorship. Maybe their brains are reverse-wired from normal brains. Maybe they reward good deeds with punishments and bad deeds with good cheer and support.

Maybe they are just assholes and assholes travel in packs for protection. Notice how it’s never the lone wolf who starts a riot? Have you noticed that schoolboy fights are never started when the lone new kid at school walks over to the pack of bullies to pick a fight? Nope, assholes are chickenshits, and chickenshits require critical mass to have any guts.

OK, except I just thought of this one example of the lone wolf picking the fight with the pack. It was seventh grade and back then Austin still had an open, active Air Force Base, and my junior high school had a pack of bullies. Our school’s bully pack was led by Jimmy Seigler. All the Seiglers were from Kentucky, which I hope is the reason this story popped into my head. Jimmy was the youngest Seigler brother of four and the fourth in succession to have been held back twice by the time he hit seventh grade. He was fifteen when we started my seventh grade and turned sixteen quickly after.

So, Jimmy Seigler was sixteen in January when Robert Meone started school with us. Now, let me back up for a second and tell you that the Seigler-led wolf pack didn’t ever mess with me or my group of friends. My best bud, Streaker Jones, was the baddest mother fucker in the entire Austin Independent School District when he hit third grade. High school bullies turned tail and hid when they heard Streaker Jones was looking for them.

Streaker Jones made certain that nobody at our school got beat up without good cause, so the Seigler pack had to make due with verbal intimidation. They’d call kids sissy and queer and all of that stupid shit, and they’d posture and act like imbeciles. But they didn’t beat kids up.

So, Robert Meone was the seventh grade son of an Air Force sergeant who transferred to Austin from Georgia in January. He was tall and rope thin and looked like a Praying Mantas. We were all in the Commons before school on Robert’s first day, gathered as we did every day before school. All the kids were standing in their groups acting the variety of dumb as only junior high kids can act. Robert walked into the big room, stopped and looked around at all the groups of kids, took his jacket off, folded it and placed it carefully on the floor.

I remember that the jacket was one of those silk bomber jackets worn by servicemen of the era, and it had a hand-stitched airplane embroidered on the back. It was a jacket for the Mosquito Squadron, a famous flying group from the Korean war. Robert’s daddy was the lead mechanic for that squadron during that war. OK, conflict, the Korean Conflict.

He just stood there with his long arms dangling at his side. He had quite long arms and they hung to his thighs. We were about twenty feet away and I must admit I was curious about this new kid’s strange behaviors. I said, “Let’s go meet the new guy,” and I took a step that direction.

Streaker Jones grabbed my arm and said, “Stop, Mooner. Watch this.”

I always did, and still do, whatever Streaker Jones tells or asks me to do. He is the smartest human I know and he has both saved me from serious harm and shown me some of the funniest things on earth. Meone just stood there relaxed, with hands at his side and what as an adult I would call a “bemused” look on his face.

The noise level of the Commons was gradually lowering—like the lights at the symphony when they want you to take your seat. The talk lowered to murmurs and whispers all around as the different kids started to notice the lone figure standing in the midst of all our established groups.

“Hey, everybody, look at the Air Force queer standing like a fencepost.” It was Jimmy Seigler. “Hey queer boy, what are you doing here?”

Robert turned to face the Seigler pack, and then he smiled. Didn’t say a word, but he smiled. A simple act of defiance that instantly enraged Seigler. With his pack of junior high thugs backing him up, Seigler moved across the Commons to where Meone stood smiling. Streaker Jones said, “Look at his hands, Mooner.”

I looked and saw two raw-boned fists covered with big scabs.

“Boy ‘s a fighter,” my friend said. “Looks like fun ta me.”

“I’m talking to you, Air Force queer boy,” Seigler said as he reached Robert’s post. “What you smiling at, queer boy?”

Robert looked him up, then down, and said, “Looks like a sack a shit to me. Are you the toughest they got here in Texas?”

Seigler clearly relished this moment because he was allowed to only fight when the other guy started it. That was a rule strictly enforced by Streaker Jones. The bully cast a sideways glance at Streaker Jones before answering, “I’m tough enough to kick your skinny Air Force queer ass.”

“OK, take the first shot,” Robert Meone told him. “My daddy only let’s me fight if I don’t throw the first punch.”

Seigler ripped his jacket off and threw it to the ground. It was a three-year letter jacket for the Auto Mechanics Club. Seigler was the only kid old enough to drive in seventh grade. He posed his fisted hands like a boxer and started circling Meone, looking for a spot to make his move. Meone didn’t even turn to follow as Seigler circled him. When he had walked all the way around, Seigler feinted a left jab and then threw a big, looping right hand. If it had landed, it might have broken bones.

If it had landed.

I’d never seen actual Asian martial arts before that morning. In less than ten seconds, Seigler was on the floor bleeding from his broken nose, and crying like a baby. His whimpers were the only sounds in the Commons. Jimmy had two fingers of his left hand bent and broken, looking like a cardboard tube from a wire pants hanger that had been twisted with pliers. He’d been punched in the nose, and kicked in his ribs—two broken and three separated—and if the asshole had any nuts, they would soon be swollen to the size of grapefruit.

Meone just stood there, his now re-bloodied fists hanging at his sides and the bemused look back on his face. After a couple minutes he broke the verbal silence. “Anyone else?”

The entire room looked over at Streaker Jones. “Welcome to Austin. I’m Streaker Jones and this here is Mooner.”

Robert Meone fast became one of our group. He was smart and funny as all get out. He had lived in many far away places and had great stories about Japan and Germany and England. His father was transferred less than six months after he arrived, and that explained Meone’s actions the first day at school.

“When you go to three different schools every year, you either eat the bear or the bear eats you. I decided to set the table and get dinner done early. I like to eat the bear, and I prefer my bear first thing of a day.”

He went on to say that he’d had his ass kicked for years until his daddy was shipped to Japan for fifth grade. There he learned martial arts and self defense. Once he knew how to fight, he made the conscious decision to not be picked on again.

And holy shit am I off the fucking tracks. Look, I love me some University of Texas sports teams, and I do mean I love them. I am a true fanatic. But when we won the football National Championship a few years ago, I didn’t go out and burn peoples’ homes or wreck their cars, I had celebratory sex a couple times to unwind from the high. And when we lost the championship game two years ago, I didn’t go looking for trouble then either. I went over to Roshandra’s house for some poor sweet baby action.

Roshandra is ex-wife number five and the best poor sweet baby partner ever. Roshandra could make me forget I had any problems.

Maybe folks up to Kentucky don’t like sex. Maybe they’d rather trash up the streets than have good sex. Maybe folks up to Kentucky don’t know how to have good sex. Hell, maybe all those rioters were toothless assholes incapable of getting laid. Hell, for all I know it was a bunch of fucking Seiglers up there getting into a pack and acting stupid.

I need a beer. Manana, y’all.