Bumper Sticker Bozo; Please Buy My Book


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.



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7 Responses to “Bumper Sticker Bozo; Please Buy My Book”

  1. Katy Anders says:


    If I wasn’t a snack shop clerk, I’d make a promise like, “Every time you scratch off a bumper sticker, I’ll buy a copy of your book.”

    Sadly, I only earn like half a book an hour…

  2. mel says:

    Wow. Unfortunately, people like that are all over. How do you think I have been rear ended so many times. People and their self importance suck.

    Also, because of my self importance, I like to think I played a little part in why you posted chapter one today. That if my head needs some deflating .I am interested to know if I helped at all…and looking forward to hearing about the trifle. I’m making it too.

  3. Father-of-the-Year Nominee, Mooner Johnson says:

    Katy. Thanks for your support. As for offensive bumper stickers, I’m OK with self expression and free speech, but some things go way over the line. Email me and I’ll send you a personalization for your book. Do you sell soup at the snack bar?

    Mel. First, I’ll assume you mean auto crashes and not Ingrid’s second favorite position. My ex-wife was a wild one… OK, stop. Several of my exes were wild ones, but Ingrid was the wildest. But I was never wild enought to break her back or give her serious whiplash.

    As for placing the chapter hereinabove, you were the stimulation for that. I was so pissed about bumper sticker woman that I didn’t feel like writing. So I decided to cross-pollinate with you. Thanks for the assist.

  4. squatlo says:

    A few years ago I noticed a big Tahoe with a “McCain/Palin” bumpersticker on its ass-end, so when I pulled up beside it at the light I signalled for the guy driving the ‘bus’ to roll down his window (which no one fucking does anymore, they’re all electric, but we’re still calling it “rolling down the window” even though kids younger than ten can’t tell you WHY we use that verb… but I digress) Anyway, the guy looked confused and a little wary from his perch six or seven feet above my open Firebird T-Top. I said,
    “Excuse me, but did you know someone has put a McCain/Palin sticker on the back of your truck?”

    He looked puzzled and said, “I put it on there.”

    “Oh… I thought it was a prank or something. I’d be pissed, myself. Thought you didn’t know about it. Sorry…” and drove off…

    I’m sure it didn’t hit him until later that I’d just made an observation about his political leanings, (and I didn’t have to take a knife out to get his attention…)

    People driving while talking on cell phones make me crazier than I already am, though. You should carry around a stack of “Rick Perry Sucks” stickers for just such occasions.

  5. chrisinphx says:

    Atta Boy Mooner!!! I bet you were the highlight of that whores day.
    The Mr is set on moving us to Austin, he was there for work a few years back and its been his favorite place to be. I’m a little hesatent to move from one shit headed red state to an even red-er state. But the idea of wooded acrerage and no neighbors sounds like a little slice of heaven.

  6. admin says:

    Squat. Nothing more embarassing than a faded McCain/Palin bumper sticker on your ride. OK, except maybe for that one time I supported Hubert Humphrey. Old triple H was a decent human but I think not quite sharp enough to cut his way through big time politics.

    Chris. I’d love to have you guys as neighbors, but I hope you realize that it’s hotter and drier here than in Ari-fucking-zona. Hell, I’m thinking of moving to Flagstaff or some fucking where.

  7. squatlo says:

    I just read where McGovern was hospitalized today. There’s my first vote, and I’d still be happy to have that bumper sticker on my ride. Shit, I’m proud of every presidential vote I’ve ever cast, actually. Every single one of them deserved to win, and those who did were far better than the alternative would have been. Those who DIDN’T win only made us wish we’d worked harder on their behalf (specially after seeing the loyal opposition at work in the White House).

    but you know what? compared to today’s Republicans in Congress, I kinda miss Nixon… He was a friggin’ liberal compared to this clown posse.

    Beer o’clock, and all’s well.

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