Archive for May, 2012

Mooner Proves Global Warming; Fuck Rick Perry Anyway

Thursday, May 31st, 2012


So. Either Global Warming is a factual existence creating unusual weather patterns across the globe or I’m becoming a crotchety old bastard with little patience for the heat. While the truth is that I’m becoming crankier as the calendar pages flip, it is truer still that the weather is more extreme and unpredictable than ever before.

As a scientist, my musings re: Global Warming are not based solely upon the mountains of research and measurements made by other distinguished scientists worldwide. Streaker Jones has taught me that empirical scientists use data gathered by others only for doing comparisons to their own collected data and observations. Just because some guy over to Poland tells you it hurts to zip your pecker in a metal zipper, you, as an empirical scientist, must test his theorem before making rash statements thereupon.

To review my studies re: metal zippers versus penile flesh and skin, go over there ====}}}}} and buy my stupid fucking book, Full Rising Mooner. You’ll find that study contained in the pages of Chapter 21 as I recall. Which reminds me that some of history’s greatest scientific discoveries have been made at the cost of the scientists’ health. Like the guy way back who first put an unopened can of pork-and-beans in the campfire or that guy who flew with feathers waxed to his fake wings and got too close to the sun.

Sometimes scientists are required to make sacrifices for their art. And let me tell you that science is art—art at every level from sub-molecular to universal. If art is the creation of beautiful things or thoughts, then science is art. And like regular art, the beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. Just like Jackson Pollock is a sloppy house painter to me yet a critically acclaimed virtuoso to others, Einstein’s Theory of Relativity is a stunningly beautiful string of thoughts that led to atomic bombs.

OK, I’m not getting ready to tell you that I’m on Albert E.’s team in the science league, but I have been making some calculations and observations that prove Global Warming is factual. As a thoughtful scientist, I have used a non-typical double blind testing/evaluation method to prove my ideas. The first series of tests involve the garden—plant date changes, rainfall and temps and so on—and the second set involves my scrotum.

When I was a boy, our garden was run by my grandmother under the auspices of the Farmers Almanac. Gram would study the Almanac and tell us what to plant when, when to water or fertilize and how to plan harvest chores. When you can and preserve an acre’s worth of tomatoes every year you need to do some planning.

For years, hell decades, Gram’s predictions and plans were spot on. Save an occasional freak storm, the Almanac was a dependable guide. Now the Farmers Almanac is so undependable it’s best used as toilet paper. And it makes shitty toilet paper.

You can’t depend on any historical data for rain or temperatures or bugs or blights. We usually plant the bulk of our summer garden in late March. Miss the last freeze, average date March 8th, and catch all the historically great spring rains. But the last eight years have been drought years and our last freezes have come in January.

For that fucking matter, our typical first 90-degree day has moved from May back to March. This year I planted summer veggies starting February 10th and we had a week of 90-degree weather in early March that wilted everything to the ground. Most all of it perked back up when we got our spring rains six weeks early, but see what I mean?

It’s too hot in May for the tomato blooms to set because they need overnight temps under 70-degrees. We’ve only had two nights under 70 since the last week in March. At the breakfast table this morning we we enjoying a plate of sliced Cherokee purples with our scrambled eggies when I read an article about the effects of Global Warming on several endangered species. New readers should know that I took the newspaper from Mother’s hands because, simply said, she’s an asshole.

After reading the article to the table, I made a comment about how Global Warming has effected the big family garden. Gram pointed a finger skyward—a hint that she wants to speak as soon as she has swallowed most of her mouthful of food—and then redirected the knobby digit my way.

“I blaimt you fer tha problems inna garden, Mooner. Wasn’t ’till I give it ta you ta wrangle afore it got all fuckered up.” Gram speared another slab of tomato and dropped it in her mouth, chewed, and with purple tomato juice on her lips added, she said, “I was gonna kick yer skinny ass fer ya an then I recollected ’bout how all them seals was getting’ squished when tha gravy was fallin’ off inta tha ocean. That’s tha blame onna oil men, Mooner. That shit ain’t yer fault.”

I answered, “Well, the glaciers are melting alarmingly fast, Gram, but it’s not just the oilmen causing the problem…” I stopped without adding additional reasons for Global Warming. I needed to quit while I was out of the doghouse for a decade of under-performing homegrown produce. And speaking of the garden, I got up from the table and headed out to smash stink bugs.

The black, hard shelled smelly little fuckers have arrived a full month early this year and they’re into everything. Only effective way to kill them is to slap them between your bare hands. (Be sure to wash afterwards and don’t touch any sensitive skin with those dirty hands.) It was while killing stink bugs that the second observational tool of my Global Warming studies came into play.

Like I’ve said, it’s hot and terribly humid here and especially so today. We’d been out to the garden for a couple hours and the sun had started beating down, heating the water-soaked air into a fetid stew. I was sweating head-to-toe and all my clothes were soaked. I was in the rows of okra and there were a cluster of stinkers at my ten o’clock and three feet over my head. As I reached to slap the buggies, I felt a tug on my thighs and then the sound duct tape makes when you peel it off a balloon.

“Bbrrruuuupppt,” the sound, followed by, “Sonofabitch that hurt!” almost shouted by me. My scrotum had stuck to my leg again and reaching to squish the stinkers had ripped it loose.

Now, as a scientist I’m required to not jump conclusions when the evidence is thin, but you notice I said that my scrotum had stuck to my leg again, as in another time after a previous time. The additional observational weight to my conclusion was observed last Saturday night. SAC Ellen was in town and just for the one night. We had a nice dinner but sat outside in the heat because my date has been, “Somewhere cold.” Anytime she leaves the country she won’t tell me where she was.

National security can be aggravating.

Anyway, she owed me a blow job from her last visit, and she offered to pay up before we got to the serious sexing. Seeing as I’m always up for a blow job, I said to her, I said, “Sure,” and I slipped out of my shorts and undies and splayed out on the bed. SAC Ellen started working kisses from my neck down to blow job country, doing little lip tugs at my skin as she went. I felt her secure my scrotum with her lips and then the pressure as she tugged. She tugged repeatedly and started to grunt with the effort.

“Holy shit, Mooner, your nut sack has rooted to your leg. We need to call a plumber.”

We laughed and discussed creative ways to unstick things and then debated whether she’d want her mouth on any of it when they came unstuck. So I hopped up and showered and returned to successful relationships, and I woke up Sunday morning thinking about how Global Warming had negatively effected my sex life.

I think I’m on to something here. I think I have discovered an entirely new area of detestation caused by Global Warming. But before I can make any bold statements I need to find more hard evidence. Have any of you guys had Global Warming effect your sex lives?

Manana, y’all.


Reflections On Memorial Day 2012; Diddling The Fiddler

Tuesday, May 29th, 2012


So. Memorial Day 2012, the day of this year we honor the brave men and women who have died in the service of our country, is in its last hour. This has always been a confusing holiday for me because it took me until I was a semi-adult man—facing the military draft an possible deportment to Viet Nam—that I fully grasped what it is that Memorial Day memorializes.

The root cause for my confusions was the simple fact that we had Memorial Day, July 4th and Veterans Day where each was, at least in my eyes, a military holiday. Marching bands played all the same J.P. Sousa marches and service anthems at the parades, veterans would wear their old uniforms, and silly-assed politicians would make mostly the same speech at each holidays’ events.

Now, before I go on I need to once more credit Squatlo for planting the seeds of irrelevance that connected the following divergent concepts. He printed a story about a congressman from Arizona who has received repeated endorsements from a faux Nazi organization that he repeatedly refused to comment on those endorsements. He wouldn’t say he didn’t accept Nazi support, wouldn’t say he disagrees with their principals or even acknowledge that he had their support. He simply repeated the same candidate’s talking point over and over. Like a Chatty Kathy doll with but one phrase on call to it’s pull string, this man sounds stupid. And mean.

His refusal to acknowledge negative personal issues with the re-puking of talking point vomit is becoming a trend with the far-right lunatic fringe. Go over to Squatties place and check out the videos of the Arizona and Colorado pols I’m talking about. Be sure to file your nails first—you don’t want to scar your scalp from the ensuing head scratching.

Like I was saying, it took me awhile to be able to distinguish between the three military holidays because politician’s speeches were identical at each holiday’s events. My daddy and granddaddy were each veterans of one the world’s two big wars and we attended every veteran’s holiday event while they were alive. Of all those speeches only one ever stuck in my head. I wish I could remember the man’s name but I can’t. He was a WWII veteran who had fought in Africa and then through D-Day in France and the Battle of the Bulge. I remember that he was a hero whose uniform was covered with medals. He was fiercely American and as anti war as am I. I guess I can’t remember his name because he lost his election.

I remember his speech was different from all the others. He didn’t boast of American military muscle and make bully pulpit threats at our “enemies”[,] and he didn’t promise an ever-increasing budget for the Pentagon. What he said that stuck with me were his personal reasons for fighting in WWII. He said he fought because:


  1. His country was attacked by outside forces that wanted to impose their will on America.
  2. The leaders of those attacking countries were fascists who viscously oppressed any opposing views, used religious-based laws to regulate morals and developed a ruling class populated with a small number of politicians and industrial executives. Hitler and the others murdered their detractors, and brutally so.
  3. The invading countries’ common citizens—those masses not belonging to the ruling class—were all relegated to be non-union worker bees with fixed wages, and were destined to fuel the wealth of the ruling class and to be the cannon fodder of war.


On the way home from the parade and speeches, I asked Daddy what the man had meant about oppressing opposing views. He told me that the Nazis would go so far as to kill anyone who didn’t follow their rules even if a person couldn’t follow the rules if they wanted to. Jews and homosexuals were killed just for being what they are, and communists and Jew sympathizers were killed for what they believed. He said that German school kids were were immersed in the government’s religious-based propaganda. Schools were required to teach one curriculum, and children were encouraged to participate in “Little Nazi” clubs and organizations. There was no teaching of differing views.

“Free thinkers were considered to be criminals, Mooner,” my father told me. “If you didn’t follow the party line in every phase of your life, you’d be ostracized or killed.”

To conclude his speech, the anti-war hero veteran said this: “What makes America great is our inclusive society, our acceptance—hell, our encouragement—of differing views. Christians and Jews, Democrats and republicans, black and white, hawks and doves—we all have the same, identical opportunity to live freely in America. No one of us can tell the others what to think, what to worship or how to act. The majority can’t oppress the minority on the basis of race or religion or political affiliation. A lone man with a different religious belief can’t be burned at the stake in America.”

The last of this man’s words that rang in my head were: “Hitler and Hirohito and Mussolini were fascists. Those men sought to invade the United States of America and eliminate our freedoms of choice and speech, and then impose their control over our every thought and act. It is only when faced with such invaders that we should ever again go to war.”

As I reflect upon Memorial Day 2012, I think that hero’s words are as powerful today as when I first heard them forty years ago.

Historians will tell you that the Roman Empire didn’t collapse and die from outside invaders. Rome died because its ruling class became so self important and corrupt that its citizens and slaves couldn’t, wouldn’t continue to feed its wanton desires. The men at the top became so greedy and self absorbed that they had no empathy for the common man, the sick or the elderly. They didn’t care about the education of Rome’s masses, only that the privileged got the best education available. They only provided health care to common citizens when they served in the Roman Army. If you had no family to care for you when you got too old to work or too crazy to support yourself, you begged on the street and died a pauper’s death.

Rome was conquered by home-grown invaders, men without empathy to other men with different beliefs or situations or conditions. Rulers who only wanted to impose their will.

I doubt that the WWII anti-war hero veteran ever expected America to be invaded by homegrown fascists. I doubt he could have envisioned an exclusionary America where a strong education system goes severely under funded and begins to fail our children. He didn’t envision our returning vets living homeless in the streets because there aren’t adequate mental health and reentry programs to serve them. I know he didn’t see a future where, on purpose and with educated forethought, we denied quality health care to all Americans and our sick and elderly are facing routine cuts to their life support services.

What brought this hero’s speech to mind yesterday was the speech a Texas congressman made yesterday. He bragged about American veterans and praised their patriotism and thanked them, “From the bottom of my heart,” for their faithful service. He told the rest of us that we need to be grateful to our vets and that we should NEVER forget to show our thanks to our vets for their service to our country.

The congressman from Texas who gave that speech is a tea bag right-winger from the Dallas area. Since his election to the US Congress he has banded with his brethren to vote for every increase in military spending and voted for every reduction to veteran’s benefits to hit the floor of the House. That two-faced motherfucker has the balls to tell veterans how much he appreciates their service while making the decision to put them on the streets.

Look, I’m tired and losing the ability to better-connect the dots on this and I’m going to bed. I’ll stop by saying this one more thing. America is under siege from within, our social fabric is unraveling faster than a $3.00 sweater. Our right-wing christian politicians have grabbed the loose thread, and with their eyes pinched shut to the consequences, they are pulling with all their might.

God bless our veterans, our elderly and infirm. How about we Americans bless them too.

Manana, yall.

More On Beers With God; Yoda Is A Goat

Saturday, May 26th, 2012


So. The advertising blitzkrieg for this fall’s elections is gathering steam and I, quite simply, don’t give a shit. Other than poker shows and sporting events and an occasional newscast, I have stopped watching TV. The regularly-scheduled pablum drives me nuts and HBO and Showtime are in reruns. So I don’t have to listen to all the bullshit attack ads infesting the airwaves.

OK, one paragraph in and I’ve already lied to you. I admitedly was watching American Idol and only because Joshua Ledet—a soulful kid with an actual voice who moved me to tears a few times—was the show’s front runner. But once again, the program is misnamed and the one actual pop artist was voted off the show. They need to rename it America Idolizes Pretty Boys With Guitars. I refused to watch this year’s final shows and only know that the guitar-toting pretty boy won because Mother beat me to the newspaper yesterday morning.

I slept late after my extended visit with god the night before, sleeping the sleep of the blessed. I think anyone god calls “Dude” has to be blessed and I know for a fact that god doesn’t call Pat Robertson dude. I learned that my mother set an early alarm so that she could be waiting out to the Ranch Road for the paper to arrive—her effort to control the news. With all the rain we’ve had combined with hot temps, the mo-squeeters are out in abundances. Gram calls them mo-squeeters and right now there is mo of the pesky little fuckers than I can recall ever having this early in the year.

I think if I was a terrorist I’d find a way to use skeeters to bring down my enemy. Plant something in the little bastards salivary glands that turns victims into Modern American christian conservatives. Some sort of gene altering substances. If we all thought the same things as those silly assholes, our society would crumble faster than you can say, “Roman Empire.” We’d be so dumb after two generations that we’d be eating our own young.

I rolled out of bed, let the animals outside to perform their rituals and brushed my teeth before heading to the big kitchen for coffee. I like to grab a cup right away and take it on my walk to get the newspaper.

“Ya don’t need ta fetch tha paper, Mooner. Yer sassy-ass mother headed out three hours back. She’s not back in a few, we’ll need to call the shurff.” Gram took a sip of her moonshine laced milk glass, the drink a morning ritual as long as I’ve known the old bag, and said, “Bugs is so bad she’ll be needin’ hersef a trans-gluin, anna dose a quit-yer-ninnie too.”

“I think you might be right. Maybe the Sheriff can bring the transfusion and quinine when he comes to inspect the scene of the crime. The skeeters are swarming and a person’s only got so much blood.”

Mother and I share the same O-negative blood and I started wondering if I gave her a few pints of mine to replace what the mosquitoes steal if it would effect her politics. I heard the sound of tires on the gravel driveway between the back door and the barn, then two doors slamming shut. The paper lady, Guadalupe Morales-Sanchez, opened the door for Mother to enter. She was patting Mother’s back and saying, “You’ll be OK, mamasita, jus’ don’ scratch nothing.”

My mother was quite a sight. She was blistered from head-to-her open-toe sandaled feet, the bites angry red whelps. “Betcha can’t stick a quarter anywheres on her ass an not hit a bumper,” Gram giggled. “Who’s got a quarter?”

“Jesus, Mother, but you’re a mess,” I told her. “Can I get you anything?”

“You can get the Ivory soap and wash your filthy mouth,” an admonishment in return for my concern. She threw the unwrapped newspaper at my chest, and as the loose sheets of newsprint fluttered to the floor, said to me, she said, “This is all you’re fault, Mooner. You are an ungrateful, sacrilegious disappointment to me—have been all your rotten life.”

Mother looked around the table of Johnsons and Johnson friends for a second, got nothing but giggles at her plight. She took the twenty paces from where she scolded me to the arched doorway to her side of the house. She stopped and whirled on the room, and pointed her finger at me, then in turn at Gram, P-cubed, Aunt Hilda, Sister and Anna. “You, Mooner, and you and you and especially you two lesbians, are all going to Hell.” Mother glared at us each in turn, then said, Oh, and Phillip Phillips won Idol.”

After pronouncing our group sentence of eternity down to Hell, Mother whipped back around and disappeared down the hall. “Don’t take much ta twist her panties in a wad, does it?” Gram drained her moonshine milk glass and set it carefully back on the stoneware coaster I made for her birthday when I was a kid. It was made of brownish rough clay, shaped like a small lilly pad and in my handwriting said, “Best gramother in the world”.

Gram started laughing again and giggled out, “I bet she’s got a dose a tha ceptamorgalitus from them mo-squeeters. Er maybe the delaria or the dispensaries.”

Huh? I got the malaria part but the other two maladies escaped me for a second. “What are you yapping about old woman, malaria and what?” Then it came to me, “Oh, malaria and encephalitis and dysentery. I don’t think you can get the runs from the skeeters, Gram, but the others would be of concern.”

“Don’t you be talkin’ back ta me, sonny boy. When me an’ Hilda was kidnappered by the big, strong handsome Afrikin boys I got bit by one a them tootsie fly thingies an had tha squirts fer a month.”

Here, again, is a time when you need to go buy my book, Full Rising Mooner, and read the whole story about Gram and Aunt Hilda’s Baptist mission to The Congo. You’ll be glad you did and so will I. Only 187,562 more sales and I’ll break even on the book.

The rest of the morning went without incident and I need to update you on the wedding plans. There will be no wedding this weekend but there may be a wedding in the future. I brought Rush Limbaugh home for a visit this morning and for the first time since last week, the ostrich didn’t try to peck his eyes out or bash his brains with his iron hard ostrich head. Squirt tells me that Ricky has softened a little since catching the big pig porking the neighbor’s hogs, so I let Rush stay out in the corral and he’ll go fishing with us, which is what is next on the agenda after I finish with you guys.

Oh, and get this. Yoda has started biting chunks out of my big green tomatoes. He’ll disappear, prancing down the tomato rows like a show dog at Westminster. When he finds suitable fodder he takes one bite from a tomato as it hangs on its vine and then look for another victim. I’m telling you this dog’s DNA is loaded with goat chromosomes.

A few hours later he’s shitting soylent green all over the fucking place. I’ve got his ass in a doggy diaper and have threatened to muzzle him if he doesn’t stop. Then the fucking cat caught a scorpion and brought it in as a present for me. Put the damned thing in my shower where it couldn’t escape the slick tiled rim. I’m in there last night relieving the pressure of not getting any sex—all lathered up and eyes pinched shut—when I feel little pinches on my foot. I looked down and almost had a heart attack.

Which reminds me that I need to go shower and finish before the fishing trip. Manana, y’all.

Shooting The Shit With God; A Chicken Joke

Thursday, May 24th, 2012


So. When we left off yesterday, and actually I should say that when we petered out yesterday, Mr. Dave had made his first visit to the State of Altered Consciousnesses and I had enjoyed a visit and quite pleasant chat with god—each event the byproduct of the world’s foremost cultivator of spoors.

My best buddy Streaker Jones is THE authority on all things psilocybe and he recently supplied Gram with a bushel of Gymnopilus luteofolius, a variety he and Dixie found down to Argentina when they took a visit last winter. OK, actually they left here on a winter’s bleak afternoon and arrived down to Buenos Aires less than 24-hours later on a hot summer day. That flip-flopped seasons thingie is one of Nature’s neatest dealios. That and the International Dateline were two difficult concepts for me to grasp as a kid in geography class.

Then again, when kids suffer from infestations of the ADHD as serious as mine, you need to celebrate when they actually learn any fucking thing. Trust me when I tell you that it’s a difficult task to learn what the fuck a standard deviation is when those facts are competing with running brain tracts featuring football, dinner, Susie Ashburn’s pig tails, if you’re getting whupped for breaking Mother’s douche bag, and of course, your pecker. I’m always running a series of thoughts about my pecker.

Anyway, before I crash this jet plane with all aboard, go over to my Bloggie Roller over there ====}}} and consider buying my stupid fucking book, Full Rising Mooner. It will serve as a primer to elucidate the uninitiated mind in the lore of Streaker Jones and why he is considered the go-to man on all things spore. Which reminds me that I like to use the word spoor rather than the actual spore just to get under his skin.

And that reminds me that the objective herein was to tell you about my latest visit from god. This time, god came in the form of a shape shifter, a visage designed to prove the point he intended to be proved during his visit. At first sighting, he appeared as a giant cockroach with Edie Adams’ head and he spoke with Truman Capote’s voice. As I mentioned before, I was dosed on some delightful mushroom juice and had retired to my room to contemplate life when god appeared.

To be brutally honest, it wasn’t the first time I have seen a giant cockroach with a pretty woman’s head and a famous author’s voice. One of the best side effects of the juice are the silly visuals. But Eddie Adams was special and meaningful and so was Truman Capote. Ernie Kovacs was Granddaddy’s favorite comedian and I couldn’t take my eyes off his bombshell wife when we watched their TV show. Did you know that Ernie Kovacs was the first to employ psychedelic visual effects on TV?

So, I’m sitting in my big leather chair, feet propped on the foot stool and a warming bottle of Carta Blanca beer hanging from the fingers of my right hand as it draped off the arm rest. I was sitting somewhat sideways on the chair and the bottle was almost touching the floor. My eyes were closed and I was thinking about the empathy video Mr. Dave and I had watched over to Squatlo’s place. I was wondering to myself how it is that today’s modern American christians seem to lack empathic genes.

“For shitsakes, Mooner, you’re gonna drop that beer and make a mess.” The words were my mother’s but spoken by Truman Capote. I recognized his voice right away. He had spoken at UT when I was there and after his presentation he took us all over to the Dobie Theater to watch his new favorite movie, Where’s Poppa.

I opened my eyes to take in my visitor and wondered if it was my imagination or were Truman’s words coming from Edie’s lips while two of the roach legs twitched like roach legs tend to do.

“Not your imagination,” Truman Capote told me. “It’s me, god, and I need a little of your time.”

“Oh wow, man, have I pissed you off by not capitalizing your name and pronouns and shit? I’ve been a little uneasy about that one since taking a hard line.”

“Nope, I think that’s kind of funny, sonny boy, same as when you say the pope and Queen Elizabeth are twins separated at birth.” Here god chuckled. I remembered hearing Capote chuckle in the theater when we watched the movie—a most honest human sound.

I saw that a Carta Blanca beer bottle had simply appeared in god’s calw—bottle shimmering with cold sweat. He took a long drag from the bottle, burped what sounded like a satisfying beer belch, and said, “Mooner my man, you have no idea just how close to the truth you are on that one. I’m surprised nobody’s demanded DNA tests. Now watch me carefully because I’m going to demonstrate the point I came to make with you.”

Remember in 2001, A Space Odyssey when whathisname did the transformation sequence in the end and speed dialed from before his conception and all of that shit? You know, it was like he did a million years of evelution in just a few minutes? God did that except he was changing his shapes and forms from different combinations of things and faces and voices and stuff. Most of the forms were things I could identify, like baby seals and Marylin Monroe and Adolph Hitler’s voice. Some were the visages of gods—buddha and krishna or jesus. A few were fantastical and too weird to even start to describe.

God shifted and changed appearances and all the while spoke to me in different voices. The speech was a narrative telling me that he could be anything he choose to be. He said it over and over. When he stopped the transformations and settled on a look, he was in the form of a teenage girl speaking Valley Girl with William F. Buckley’s voice. The voice unsettled me at first.

“We-ell, have you like gotten the message yet?” god asked me.

“Aaaaaah, you’re teaching me the trick Jim Carey used in The Mask?” I’ve always wondered about that.

“No, silly,” god said, and shifted to sophisticated Willy Buckley, “I’m showing you that I can be anything I want to be. As you would say it, I can be any fucking thing I want to be.”

God gave me a minute to absorb this, then he continued. “But I said anything I want to be. I did not say that I can be anything you want me to be. Now, are you too stoned to grasp this concept or do I need to go try to speak with Pat Robertson again. That old fart hasn’t gotten a single thing I’ve told him right yet. That boy is so fucked up he’s liable to say anything and blame it on me.”

This I thought was rather funny and I started to laugh. God laughed with me, an odd sound.

“OK, god, let me see if I’m catching your drift. What you are telling me is that while you are the omnipotent one and can do or be whateverthefuck it is you want, you don’t bend to the silly will of we humans.” I looked to him for a response and realized that he now looked like Elizabeth Taylor during the time she was married to that Governor and choked on a chicken bone.

“You got the premise right, boy, now get to the punchline.”

I gave this some more thought and said to god, I said, “OK, first, was that voice Alfred Hitchcock as a young boy or was it Sir Winston Churchill sitting on the pot and straining while he spoke?”

“Neither, and you wouldn’t know the guy. I just like that sound. Now go on, answer my question.”

Elizabeth Taylor’s beautiful blue eyes watched my face as if I were the only man alive. I felt virile and strong and smart in their gaze. “Well, I guess you’re telling me that when somebody says that you are a particular something, or that you demand us to do things that don’t make any sense, that it’s bull shit. And if that’s the case, then most of the time when somebody says they talked to you, they are either lying or misstating your words.”

“Bingo, dude, you win the Cupie doll,” and indeed I had because god now looked like one of those silly plastic dolls.

“Look, Mooner, the only advice I ever have or ever will give you guys will be to take care of each other and your planet, or live happy lives and enjoy yourselves, or to be careful when assholes—like asshole politicians—tell you what to do. I don’t let you spend enough time here to spend it killing and ignoring each other.”

God took a huge bite from half a fried chicken that materialized in her fist and choked on it. I must have had a look of terror on my face at god’s choking and she burst out laughing. “I love that one, Mooner. It gets you guys every single time.”

“That wasn’t really funny, Ma’am. But what about the afterlife, god?” I asked him, “and would you change into something else, please, you’re creeping me out.”

God turned into my Gram, and with Gram’s voice, god said, “Well, ya little shitbird, ya handled that Heaven dealio tha other day with yer death penalty question.”


“Oh, right,” I said. “So you liked that one?”

“Look, son. If you want to get to Heaven you just pretend I’m standing by the pearly gates with the automatic door opener in one hand and the elevator button in the other. You get one chance to answer a question right and the questions are all yes-or-no answers. I get to ask the question and I pick the question based upon how you lived your life. Get it right, come on in. Get it wrong and you burn in Hell.”

And she was gone. All that was left was a chill in the air and the perfume of cast iron skillet cooked Southern fried chicken. Can you imagine the thought of giving god the Heimlich Maneuver? That little stunt scared me shitless. But it was pretty funny now that I can reflect backwards on it.

I should have a moral to this story for you and I do. I’m simply not going to tell you my final thoughts. You figure out what god meant for yourself. I think that’s what god would want. Manana, y’all.


Mr. Dave Takes A Trip; Is Empathy The Answer?

Wednesday, May 23rd, 2012


So. I find myself mostly happy today and not as unsettled as has been my typical disposition of late. I credit having come to grips with my sensibilities re: my mother and the early crop of tomatoes now appearing out to the big garden. Nothing says “Peace and harmony,” like a big helping of ham with a slice of sweet onion topped with thick slabs of purple Cherokee two-mater. Gram sometimes says, “Two-maters.” A fresh grind of salt and pepper and slap yo Momma!

Why do we say something is so good we want to slap our mother? That one has never made any sense to me. Not that I’ve never felt that urge, but that particular urge doesn’t strike me when things are good. Or when things are well either.

And speaking of urges, a word I’m told by my dictionary is rooted in the other word urgent, which confuses me because it seems that urge would be the root word. Or maybe the root is “urg” and now my brain hurts.

Ugh. I feel like that John Cleese character from Monty Python who used to say, “My brain… HURTS!” He said it just like that.

Actually, as I said before, I’m happy and quite pleased with myself. I’ve grown less apt to slap my mother since accepting that she is a right-wing religious asshole, and agreeing with her that I’m an ungrateful giant prick of a son.

And speaking of giant pricks, Mr. Dave cornered me yesterday when I was out to Gram’s potion pantry which is headquartered in the barn. Streaker Jones and Dixie came over last weekend and brought Gram some mushrooms grown from spoors gathered from cow patties down to Argentina somewhere. Gram used them in a summertime potion she calls “Bring on tha heat, bitch, I’m too stoned ta give a shit.”

I had just downed a taster of the magic mushroom juice when Mr. Dave walked into the pantry. I was washing away the taste of skunk venom with a guzzle of Carta Blanca beer when he did a polite cough and said to me, he said, “Uh, Mr. Johnson, might I ask a favor of you?” Gram sometimes uses skunk venom in her potions. Buy my stupid fucking book to learn why. You can clink on the linksters over there ====}}}}} to buy it.

“Mr. Dave, my giant-peckered savior, anything you want as long as you call me Mooner,” I told him. He had a grave look plastered to his face and he started to shuffle his feet. “Are you OK, Mr. Dave? Please don’t tell me your pecker is broken—I’ll get the doctor to race right over.” I might be tempted to kill myself if Mr. Dave can’t service all these Johnson women for me. I really don’t want to go backwards from the nice place I’m in.

“Oh, that’s not it, Mister, uh, M-Mooner. I was wondering if I might try some of that potion with you. I’ve never used any of those hippie drugs and I think I’ve missed out on some fun. I’ve missed out on a lot of fun in my life, Mooner, and you’ve taught me that life’s too short and precious to pass on the good times.”

“Alright, sir, then let’s us get you started with my primer for first time trippers,” I told him, and I did. We spent an hour drinking beers and discussing the many aspects of first time hallucinogenics consumption. Since I already knew that Mr. Dave has the health of a forty-year-old man, I didn’t feel compelled to make him get a physical first. So I dosed him from the little tincture bottle, took a second pull for myself, and we continued to talk of life and women and history and war and religion.

And as the potion started to work on his brain, the conversation turned to sex and he started to talk about sexing the Johnson family women. I do not EVER get wasted enough to hear that shit and I did my best to talk him onto less infertile ground. I had my laptop so I conjured up my bloggie and clicked the Roller and hit Squatlo’s place.

This linkster is what popped up:


Take a few minutes to watch this animated video about empathy and then come back. OK, now you know what Mr. Dave and I watched as he was taking his first trip with magic mushrooms.

We watched it maybe 36 times and found new meanings each of the 36 watches. My first movie while dosed by one of Gram’s potions was From Here To Eternity. It was a winter when I was just a kid and was receiving Gram’s potions for constipation, and the whole family went to the drive-in theater to see the movie. I was farting so much that they set me on a lawn chair in front of the car. All I really remember about the movie was that the actors were at the beach while I was freezing my ass off.

Anyway, Mr. Dave had a really good trip and has discovered the he one, really likes mushroom juice, and two, he’s going to get Mother to take a taste of mushrooms and watch the empathy video with him. “Your mother needs to loosen up and have some fun beside having sex with me.”

I told him I agree and added that he might want to make those requests before he sexes her—while her blood is running hot.

Me, I had another visit from god last night and I’ll tell y’all about that manana.

Mooner’s Tincture Of Armor Distinguishing Trait; Take IQ Test Here

Monday, May 21st, 2012


So. It’s a glorious Monday morning and I’m harvesting tomatoes at a nice clip. We’re not at the many bushel-fulls-per-day rate of a typical June, but I was required to use the big wagon to collect my luscious orbs at this mornings collections. The Cherokee heritage and Merced are strong producers this year and are blushing out early. The Cherokee are the deep purple and red babies that look almost black when ripe.

Usually the early harvest are not the best flavored. Their skins are thinner and not as tough as a later production model, but the flesh is typically not as firm or sweet. But this not a typical year in any way and these first tomatoes are great!

I’ve been keeping in almost constant contact with Rick Perry ever since we found Rush Limbaugh engaged in sweaty pig sex with the neighbor’s hogs. I harness the ostrich to the above mentioned wagon as its motor and then put the dogs and the fucking cat inside the wagon for navigation and comment. Ricky is getting better but he still says the wedding is off. Squirt told me that last night Rick said to her, he said that, “Rush Limbaugh is a P.I.G. hog.” That’s one of Gram’s favorite things to say.

Squirt directs everyone around acting like a mother hen, and might just be the most adorable little puppy ever. She’s barking orders at everyone and is quite the taskmaster. Yoda acts dumb, because he is dumb, and reminds me of the Disney character, Goofy. He looks like his Star Wars namesake but lacks the wisdom and self restraint of the dwarf Jedi knight.

Honor is a fucking cat.

To start the day, I walked up to the Ranch Road and grabbed the newspaper before corralling the kids for the morning’s gardening. Since taking the paper away from Mother I have become emboldened with its handling. Today I read the paper while enjoying the sites and sounds of the four miscreants picking tomatoes, and then I interpreted selected stories at the breakfast table. We dragged the cat in late for the meal and were admonished by the crew already seated.

“If’n yer dominatin’ tha fuckin’ paper, Mooner, ya git yer ass here on time.” This first salvo was from Gram, and made with a mouthful of Irish oats with brown sugar and half-and-half, and what the uninitiated ear would have heard is, “Pfhn yeh thumnahinh pthuthnh pothr, Moonth, yahth thun thooth thaphpholp (Hocker noise) thphm.”

Interpreting a clean mouth full of my grandmother’s fractured English can be difficult. The same words spoken through her mush-filled maw can be an adventure. She’s lucky I love her and enjoy serving as her translator. OK, I’m the lucky one. I find the old goat’s bladder totally fucking hilarious.

“Keep your panties on, Gram, I’ll sit and get to today’s news as soon as I get a cuppa Joe.” I grabbed my coffee and sat down to a table full of snickers. Everyone knows Gram doesn’t wear panties.

“Today’s first newsworthy item is that since the year 1990, more than 2,000 convicted prisoners have been released from prison. These are only the ones convicted of serious crimes and of these, half were serving murder terms and 15% were on death row. That, folks, was 300 people who would have been wrongly killed because of a botched legal system.”

My words rung to silence at the Johnson family breakfast table. I think everyone was waiting for Mother to chime in. All she did was snort, a “Harrumph,” a noise she makes when hearing something she doesn’t like.

Those of us not named Mother debated the issue for awhile and I went to the next item. “Well, it looks like Herr Mitt Rommel is having a touch of trouble getting endorsements. Seems his former opposition all want him to let them run as President on this ticket before they’ll give him their support.”

I thought my little joke to be funny, but not my mother. “You’re an asshole, Mooner. Mr. Romney has the full support and backing of all smart minded Republicans and you made that up.”

The entire room “Oohed and Ah’d” at Mother calling me an asshole. My mother doesn’t curse. “Says so right there on the second page of the front section, my darling maternal unit.” Here I opened the paper to the page and noisily shook the wrinkles out. The thin newspaper snapped with a “pop” when I flicked my wrists. The paper just isn’t what it used to be. Then again, neither am I.

I started reading the article verbatim and in my best Walter Cronkite voice. After reading the entire thing I finished with a hearty, “And that’s the way it is!”

“Never in my life would I think my own children would hate me so much.” Mother had worked-up a good martyr while I read about the Mittster’s problems. “What did I ever do to deserve such a fate?”

That last line was delivered with her bead bowed, eyes on her lap and right hand draped pathetically on her bosom over her heart. I heard Gram’s cereal spoon clink off the side of her bowl and then rattle on the hard oak tabletop. Uh-oh.

“Dammit, Mother Johnson, but yer a whiny little snot. That boy’s a asshole ’cause yer a asshole—tha little shitbird didn’t git it from me. Least tha boy’s got him a tincture a armor an a funny hole. Now shut yer yapper an pass me tha bacon.”

I love that old woman. I guess my sense of humor and funny bone set me apart from the lower of the Johnson species in my Gram’s mind.

Anyway, before my ADHD takes control of the world, I wanted to make some observations about the falsely convicted info up there. The study I referenced is a joint effort between U. of Michigan and Northwestern U. Law Schools and an organization called the Center for Wrongful Convictions. If you know nothing about innocent persons going to prison and many being exterminated like rabid dogs, you should be appalled about this information—you should want an end to the death penalty because we civilized Americans were planning the killing injections of 300 more innocents.

As a falsely accused but not convicted murder charge defendant, I can tell you first hand what sorts of terror, strife and devastation the wrongly accused and their families endure. But I’m going to boil all of the bullshit down for you, I’ll make this an easy choice for supporters and detractors alike.

Close your eyes and pretend that you are standing in line with the other recently dead of your ilk at the gates of whatever heaven you plan to enter upon your death. Your god is there and this is what you hear him say, “Hi, everyone, I’m God. We’ll wait for your introductions because I don’t like to get too close to Hell’s inhabitants. I have attachment and abandonment issues like you won’t believe. You each will be given a one question test to determine if I invite you to reside here in heaven with me for all eternity, or if I’ll drop the elevator on you and send you to roast on the hot seat. The question is: Is it acceptable for even one innocent man to die from a wrongful death penalty conviction? The answer choices are “yes” and “no” and please take your time to answer. You have a lot riding on this little test.”

Had enough time to consider your answers?

Manana, y’all.

Rush Limbaugh Porks Neighbor’s Pig; Nuptials Negated?

Friday, May 18th, 2012


So. I’ve fathered three human kids and raised a dozen animals as if they were my own, but I’ve never had to deal with anything like this. As you all know, we have a big wedding scheduled and the planning activities have been a crazed string of events. Right away I had to get Rick Perry’s wedding dress ordered—a not unremarkable get. Before this month’s wedding date, I had to locate, alter and obtain timely delivery on a dress appropriate for a 350-pound ostrich in dress size eighteen but with its bodice a size 56-FFFFF.

As a large man who has gained a few pounds with middle age, I’m used to shopping for oversize garments and the slim pickings offered to those of us who don’t fit Life’s standard deviations. My big bird would have been difficult enough to fit before the installation of his giant rubber titties. Post breast augmentation surgery his fitting was a bitch.

Speaking of bitch, did any of you visit the Saucy babe ex patriot linkster I postered yesterday? If you check out the string of comments involving me, you can get a microcosmic view of just how deep the divide is between those of us left of center types, and those to the right. The rigid right are acting like medium-sized rattlesnakes, who having been driven from beneath their rocks have slithered frantically for cover in the corner to the barn. Rather than chance that a person who approaches with a snake noose and a gunny sack might seek to return them to their homestead habitat, they lash out with venomous strikes.

I tried to engage Lisa in a dialect but she only wanted to spit the poisoned words of the right-wing talking heads she follows. Too bad for all of us. The little drama between she and I (her and me?) is much akin to the chasm of divide in our US Congress. Failure to compromise leads to change by only two choices. Abandonment or force. Either one side gives up or one side attacks with superior strength. Like 1930’s Europe. and no way to run a railroad.

Ricky’s bridal dress is a combination of compromise and brute force. He agreed to do without extra rhinestone adornments and I agreed to buy two separate dresses and alter them into one that fits. Even still, the bodice seams had to be reinforced with heavy nylon fishing line to keep my son’s huge bosom harnessed. And it is that bosom that has brought the joy and pain of a Russian novel to the Johnson family ranch.

The rubber titties are my wedding gift to Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh—something they both wanted in the worst way. The big hog was so enthralled at first viewing of the surgery’s results that he dry sexed Ricky at the breakfast table in front of the entire family. He was so engaged with his lover’s new breasts that he wouldn’t leave him alone. So I banished him over to the neighbor’s place where he could stay in Smitty’s pig pens with a gaggle of other hogs. His absence has allowed me to get things done with minimal interruptions.

Have you ever wondered why we say of people who are gluttonous that they are piggish? Have you ever wondered why we call a person who takes too much of something a hog? Or why a slob is called a pig? The answers lie (lay?) in the natural habits of the porcine. Pigs are hogs, and hogs are piggish. Spend a few hours at a pig pen and you will see every possible pig/hog cliché played out in real life.

And therein lies today’s rub.

I took Rick Perry over to Smitty’s place to visit his future groom. The bride-to-be was lonesome and whiny in his lover’s absence and I relented to the visit. Ricky got all duded up with bright painted talons, a sharp trimmed beak and one of his Madonna bullet bra dealies. He’d sat at my vanity and preened and picked at his feathers for hours, and he wouldn’t let me have the rear-view mirror on the drive over as he checked hims look the whole way. He was like a soldier’s wife headed to the airport to see her returning hero come home from far away Afghanistan. Full of hope and excitement and anticipation.

I pulled down the gravel drive at Smitty’s and parked my farm truck by the barn and maybe twenty yards from the hog-wire-and-metal-stake pen where Rush Limbaugh has been temporarily housed. Rick didn’t wait for me to come around to open his door. He somehow squeezed his fat bosom through the open passenger window and bolted to Rush’s pen. I followed and met the ostrich as he stood on his tippy-toes to find his lover.

There was roiling action inside the pen and I thought it must be feeding time. I pay Smitty a pretty penny to room and board Rush Limbaugh and it looked as if my money was at work when we arrived. As I looked closer I realized that the pigs weren’t eating, they were embroiled in a cluster fuck. Half of the hogs were mounted on the the backs of the other half of the hogs.

“Your goddamn pig has turned all my boars gay, Mooner. I’m having trouble getting them to mate with my sows.”

It was Smitty and he was pissed.

“Aw, Smitty,” I told him, “you know pigs are born swinging from both sides of the plate, and old Rushie there is a manly sort of man. You can’t turn what’s already gone to seed.” Why is this whole sexual orientation dealie such a difficult concept? Even a man like Smitty—a pig farmer who knows better—chooses the position that you can’t simply be gay. They think it takes either choice or coercion to be homosexual.

“I know you’re right in concept, Mooner. I’ve been around pigs my entire life and they’ll mount anything that’ll stand still for. But shit, Mooner…” Here Smitty removed his straw cowboy hat and mopped his head with faded red hankie. It’s been hot and humid this week and hog farming is hard work.

Which reminds me. Why isn’t it hog ranching?

Smitty added, “Ever since you dropped him off your pig has been terrorizing the place.”

And then the wailing started. Rick Perry isn’t very smart and he’s slow on the uptake so it took him some time to assimilate, then react. Have you ever heard a mature adult ostrich cry? It’s one of the most unsettling things I’ve ever heard. It conjures thoughts of what the Greek mythological Sirens must have sounded like. Rush Limbaugh caught ear of Rick’s crying jag and stopped humping the spotted hog he was attached to long enough to look over his shoulder at the big bird.

He got a surprised look on his face that said, “Uh-oh!” but he didn’t dismount.

That was early this morning. When I got Rick Perry back home he raced to hide in his bed in the closet of the master bedroom. He hasn’t come out or stopped sniveling since. I brought him some hot tea and a bucket of locusts and mealy worms but he won’t eat or drink. The Squirt sat and talked with him for several hours and she told me all the big bird will say is, “I’ll kill the bastard,” and “The wedding’s off.”

I wonder if that woman Morganna—you know, the kissing bandit of baseball—will be getting married any time soon. I need to see if I can recoup some of my investment in the wedding dress.

Manana, y’all.


Check Out The Saucy Babe; Old Tea Bag Is Bitter

Thursday, May 17th, 2012


So. I’m feeling pretty frisky today as I have reached the conclusion that my mother is who I thought she was and I’m not who she wants me to be. I took the time to reread my last several months of postings and discovered that I have been pissing and moaning about Mother more than is healthy for me. It seems as if I didn’t bitch about my mother I had nothing much to say.

I have finally and completely realized that my mother is not going to be persuaded to be, in actuality, the fine christian woman she claims to be. Instead, she’ll be the kind of right-wing christian, bigoted intolerant follower she has been trained to be. Mother is no more likely to become loving and accepting of the rest of us any more than the fucking catholic church is likely to accept full accountability for the sexual perversions they have fostered and protected for centuries.

I just saw where this head priest for one of the catholic’s most respected religious orders, a giant flaming asshole who has been been known to be a child rapist for fucking decades—what polite society calls a pedophile—has now been announced by the church to have fathered at least one child. Yeppers, the right reverend Thomas Williams, chief pedophile of the legion of christ order, has been admitted to be the holder of the catholic priest trifecta—rapist, child molester and noted TV personality. Sadly, it’s way easier to find a catholic priest who holds that trifecta ticket than it is to win a trifecta at the track.

This fucking guy was actually one of the holy roman catholic church’s most respected lecturers on ethics and morality. This guy traveled all over to represent the catholic church on moral issues for decades and all the while he’s fucking everything he can find that’s old enough to fuck. Oh, and many not old enough as well.

And self righteous christians call me cynical.

Before breakfast this morning, I decided that Mother wasn’t to be the first to have control of the morning newspaper. As I walked the long length of gravel driveway from the house up to the Ranch Road to gather said paper, I thought of accepting my mother for who she is—a right-wing conservative baptist bigot. Having opened that line of thought I then decided to take more control of what happens in my house… Ah, let me say that one more once, my fucking house, as in owned by me in it’s locks, stocks and barrels.

Every other occupant of this place is here at my will and my sense of family, honor. It is only by my approval does anyone not named me get to reside here. “Fuck it,” I said aloud to myself as I walked back with the paper, “I’m reading the paper first today, and I’ll be the one to make comments thereupon.”

So I rolled the paper into a log and stuffed it into the back of my shorts and under the waistband of my undies. Our paper is now delivered in a plastic sack every day, a waste of resources that pisses me off. By the time I walked back to the house after a way trip to check on the garden, the plastic wrapper was coated with ass sweat and stuck to my right butt cheek.

Which reminds me. I was over to Squattie’s place the other day, and through a comment posted there I somehow managed to stumble my way to a tea bagger bloggie site. Her name is Lisa, her place is called Saucy American In NZ and she says she is an American ex patriot living down to New Zealand. She posted a story about how the tea party, she says T.E.A. Party, and in my typical way I made a comment that maybe she could lure the rest of the tea baggers down there to the bottom of the world and, as is also my way, I had a typo and what I felt was a smart quip about tea bags.

In response, Lisa went directly to the “Call-all-liberals-homosexual-and-stupid” tactic too often employed by her contemporaries. If you go over there you need to look at her Bloggie Roller and check out that Hit Parade. Then you’ll also notice that Lisa seems to be devoid of free thought and can only regurgitate the right-wing homeboys she follows.

Anyway, when I finally got back into the kitchen, I pulled the paper from my pants and walked by the table towards the counter. I took maybe three steps before Mother said to me, she said, “What took you so long to bring in my paper? Please hand it to me.”

Her paper?

“Your paper?” I asked back as I stopped one chair from hers. “Last time this subscription was renewed I do believe it was paid from my account.”

I held the plastic-wrapped log in front of her and unrolled it. It was slippery from ass sweat and I almost dropped it. Through the wrapper I could read a storyline, “Looka here, Mommy dearest, it says that that shithead who owns the Chicago Cubs is going to pay for a hate campaign against the President using the church he used to attend. I can’t wait to read it to everybody.”

I poked the paper towards Mother’s face in a tease. “Give me my newspaper!” Mother said and she grabbed the paper with both hands to yank it from my grasp. I tugged back, and then it slipped from my fingers. The paper recoiled, predictably, and slapped Mother right in the face—chin-to-nose-to-forehead.

“Splat!” went the word of excellent description of the wet kiss to my mother’s face.

She had this wild-eyed look of surprise to her face that quickly turned to a sneer of distaste. She licked her lip—what I personally find to be an auto response when something wet hits my face—spit like she’d tasted a rat’s ass, and then she grabbed her napkin and attempted a derm-abrasion. Her lips and cheeks were quickly chaffed and reddened and her eyes started to water.

“What was that, Mooner? Did you let that nasty dog of yours pee on the paper again?”

Yoda is a male dog, and as male dogs around the globe enjoy to do, he takes a piss on just about anything. OK, everything. He and I are not unalike in that matter.

“Nope, that’s just a little good old fashioned butt sweat,” Mother.

She spit and “I can’t believe’d” for a few minutes and then I just couldn’t help myself. I knew it was wrong then, wrong now, and I’m still debating with myself whether or not I want to take it back. I waited for just the right instant and I said to her, “How’s that ass taste, Mother?”

I got the ass-sweat sticked plastic-covered newspaper thrown sruare in my chest in answer, and a table full of laughing Johnson clan as a review. Gram cackled like a hen and said, “Tha boy finally give ya a chunk a his mind, Mother Johnson. That was some funny shit.”

I unwrapped the paper without wiping it off and sat to read it to the table. It was a strange feeling to reverse roles with Mother at this most important starting sequence of our day. Instead of her editing every story with a bias to the right, I provided a liberal, almost way-far left slant to each story. It was also fun. When I finished I said to the table, I said, “That concludes today’s mainstream media look at the news. If you desire alternative viewpoints, Mother will meet you out to the back porch to attempt to poison your minds.”

In psycho therapy later today my topical question will be, “Should I feel bad about slapping my mother with butt sweat?”

Manana, y’all.

Mothers Day Card Catastrophe; Valentine Michael Smith Visits Johnson Family Ranch

Tuesday, May 15th, 2012


So. Here we all are at the end of another Mothers Day Sunday, and as per usual—I’m lost. I’ve often felt as if I’m the stranger in a strange land—occurrences that have become almost expected routine for this ADHD-addled fuckbrain. The human race loves “typical” and “normal” and “average” in its populace and has little affection for “different” or “weird” or “unusual”[.]

Or “strange” and most especially, strange.

When we think of acceptability indexes, the statistical bell curve analysis is standard procedure for we humans. When it comes to brain power, the average IQ is set to the bias of 100 Quotient Points. For each age group, the median IQ will be 100 when any statistically accurate number of people take the same test. If I was computer literate I’d draw you a picture of a bell curve and show you the spot at which the 100 Quotient Points median average lay. Or where it lie. Maybe the median average would lie.

Actually, I think most statistics lie because politicians and other marketing assholes use statistics to twist both the results and truth. How often have you heard the same set of facts used to support opposite sides of the same argument by politicians? Too fucking many.

When someone commits a crime and police have an eye witness to interview, the resultant BOLO says, “Be on the lookout for a man of average height and weight and no visible scars or tattoos. Man is armed and dangerous—do not approach.” The reason for that is simple: The average man is average in weight and height and has no scars or tattoos to be seen when fully dressed, he committed his latest crime with a weapon and he likely isn’t interested in anything you might have to say to him.

When discussing their children, the only parents who find an “Average” evaluation of health, growth, maturity or other measurable attributes to be unacceptable, are parents considered as obsessive or demanding of their kids. As a species, we tend to seek accomplishments that are anywhere above the average. As long as we are “above average”, as long as our IQ is at least 101, we’re fine at school or work, and in our interpersonal relationships.

Trust me on this. If you are considered to be an above average lover you’ll be getting you some loving.

OK, stop. I’m starting to allow that self-same ADHD mentioned above to Engineer the train rather than play our Conductor. What I’m trying to say is that today is Mothers Day and I’m feeling like a motherless child. I feel like Valentine Michael Smith, Robert Heinlein’s orphaned human from Mars who returns to Earth and finds that he is different—unusual, weird and unusual; strange.

I’m feeling much akin to VMS in A Stranger in a Strange Land. He was an inventor, like me. Of course his inventions included a method for interplanetary space travel and my best is in organic erosion controls. While I consider my efforts to protect Mother Earth to be important, I feel that we have already fucked things up so badly around here that Mr. Smith’s method will be much desired in the not-too-distant future. We’ll all be wanting to escape to Mars where the air will be safer to breathe and there might still be some potable water left unfouled.

He was also innovative, like me. He had 100% full control over his mind, a wonderful innovation. Me, I have singlehandedly developed a way to save our world’s precious water supplies by a most simplistic method. I pee in sinks to save water. Everywhere I go I pee in sinks—at home, the office, your home and office, restaurants, the dentist’s office, the homes of my Bloggie buddies in other states. I’m a sink-peeing machine.

Smith and his Martian surrogate parents knew the value of water. They had a special bonding ceremony that centered around sharing a glass of water. Becoming “water brothers” on water-starved Mars was religious.

Of course if humans could fully control their minds, and we all understood the value of H2O, we wouldn’t be spoiling our environment and wasting our water. The rest of you would be peeing in sinks just as I do.

And if we could control our minds I wouldn’t be an ADHD-addled redneck fuckbrain and you’d be far less confused at this stage of the story.

Anyway, sitting here this Mothers Day afternoon I feel like a stranger in my own land. I feel like Valentine Michael Smith except in reverse. Valentine came to earth to find himself the stranger and I find myself strange in my own home. The root cause for my feeling out of place lies in my attempt to be an average son today—a son performing Mothers Day rituals with love.

There have been high levels of tension between my mother and me for quite some time. OK, there has always been tension between Mother and me. In Mother’s eyes, I exited her womb with my first conscious act one of defiance to her and I’ve not stopped defying and embarrassing her since. Within minutes of birth, while not peeing in the sink, I did pee all over the operating room and its inhabitants. That story is available in my book, Full Rising Mooner, which is available over there =====}}}}} to the Bloggie Roller. The book has been well reviewed and a few non professional readers have actually had nice things to say about it. Then again, I’ve been told that I’m no Hemingway and should be embarrassed for myself.

The normal levels of tension between Mother and me have been exacerbated by today’s Modern American christianity and the asinine political environment created by those christians. The “little c” christians are ruining the social fabric of my country with their bigoted interpretations of their bible (a small b word to me), and the resultant political issues that have arisen therefrom have served to heighten the discord between mother and son.

Today I wanted to make my best effort to repair some of the torn fabric of our relationship. Today I wished to find some common ground with Mother. I used Mothers Day as a canvas to paint an improved landscape of harmonious family relations.

It started several weeks ago when I had an artist buddy make us some Mothers Day cards to be given the mothers by the entire brood. I had giant cards made for each mother in attendance at today’s big MD brunch I prepared here to the ranch. Each 8.5 X 11-inch card was specialized to the individual mother, and each was signed with a personalized message from the rest of us. I had cards made for Mother, Gram, the P-cubed (whose only son was killed in Viet Nam), Aunt Hilda (not an actual birth giver, yet as mother to her shrunken head in a box a mother in my eyes) and the Squirt. Squirt got a card because she serves as mother hen to the menagerie of animals I call my kids.

I had everyone sign every card for the ladies of the Johnson family ranch. Everyone not a mother was required to say the nicest things they could about each mother and then sign their name, or make their mark. Some of the sentiments were sappy, some were funny and some were strained. The most visibly strained was Rush Limbaugh’s note to Gram on her card. It said, “Happy Mothers Day, Gram. I love you even though you want to kill me and slow-smoke my carcass over apple wood.” He signed his card by rubbing his snout on the ink pad and then pressing it to the paper.

It was the sentiments of my gay pig and his ostrich lover that managed to mangle the mood at brunch and put me in my funk. I handed out cards one at a time and saved Mother’s for last. Each lady read her card and the messages and we laughed and teared with each mother in turn. Gram actually hugged Rush and then threatened him with untimely death if he messes with her potion pantry.

I found an old photo of P-cubed’s son and included it with her card. It was from a time when all of us boys were in a garage band called The Stoners. He was the only one with real talent and he could sing like a canary. Penelope Paxon-Parades thanked me with a snotty kiss after she saw the photo, and poked fun at Rick Perry. The big ostrich had used his new titties to make his mark and the big smudges on her card looked like a Van Gogh painting.

When I got to my mother’s card, I handed it to her with a flourish, kissed the top of her head and said, “Happy Mothers Day, Mother. I love you and I hope you like your card.”

“Thank you, son,” she said, and she leaned the big envelope against her chair on the floor and started picking at the remnants of smoked quail on her plate. Mother’s favorite thing I cook is smoked quail.

Mother just sat, staring at the quail bones as she pushed them back-and-forth on the plate. We were all staring at her staring at quail bones. After what seemed like an hour of tense quiet, in her martyred-most voice Mother said, “I don’t know what I did to deserve this.”


“Is something wrong?” I asked, “are you OK?”

I thought my mom was overcome with emotions at the outpouring of loving sentiments at the family table, so I said, “It’s OK, Mother, you can read it later.”

Without looking at me, my mother asked, “Did everyone sign my card who signed the others?”

“Of course,” I happily said, “everyone here wanted to tell you what you mean to them. Especially Sister and Anna. And me.”

My sister and her wife have been subjected to as much of Mother’s nastiness as have I. The three of us talked at length about making a big effort to mend our fences with her. Each of us had made apologies and special pleas for peace and written them on the card.

“I’ll have nothing to do with this sacrilege. I’ll not endorse the desecration of holy matrimony by my very own children. How could you have homo-sex-u-als sign my Mothers Day card when you know how I feel?”

With that outburst, Mother almost jumped to her feet and threw her napkin at the table. The pretty red-and-white checked thin linen landed in the BBQ sauce like a butterfly and then sank in slow motion. When it had settled, Mother turned to point a finger at me, and said, she screamed at me, “You have ruined another special occasion, Mooner. This was MY Mothers Day. You ruined MY DAY!”

She bent and picked the card off the floor and threw it at me like a Frisbee. My reflexes were as stunned as my mind and I wasn’t quick enough to get out of its way. The corner of the envelope hit my cheek just under my eye and tore a small jagged cut that started to bleed as faces tend to do. I didn’t feel the cut until a drop of blood hit the tablecloth next to my Carta Blanca beer bottle. The table cloth matched the linen napkins and my blood made a nice contrast on the red and white linen.

Like I said, I’m feeling like a stranger in my own land. But at least I’m not an average BOLO notification. “Be on the lookout for an abnormal male, 6′ 4” tall, 240 pounds, an above-average lover with a small crescent-shaped scar near his left eye. Suspect is unarmed, but dangerous, and wanted for conduct unbecoming a son. Right-wing religious republican assholes should approach with extreme caution.”

Manana, y’all.”

Electric Lawnmower Magic; Squirt Shows Management Skills

Friday, May 11th, 2012


So. We got another drenching rain last night—another 2.7 inches at the ranch—but this one came without the high winds that damaged the garden earlier. We need the rain so badly that I guess I need to be willing to sacrifice my prized veggie patch for the greater good of my fellow man.

When thinking about this sacrifice, the evaluation is difficult. I love my garden, a fact I’ve over-discussed herein, but an important fact none-the-less. I love my garden more than I do Carta Blanca beer and only slightly less than I love sex. I do love me some icy-cold Carta Blanca beer but that quenching Mexican bebida is trumped by the taste and satisfactions of gardening.

Hell, if I was getting sex on any kind of routine basis I might place the garden ahead of that. But SAC Ellen is traveling so much that most of my sexing involves my lifelong love affair with Ivory soap—that 99-and-44-100ths-percent pure wonder of animal fat.

Speaking of SAC Ellen, I hinted earlier this week that I have a Governor Rick Perry story, a story you simply will not believe. I’ve been shitting my pants to tell you about it but I need the SACster’s permission to print the details, and she is withholding that OK with the same tenacity as her sexual favors.

OK, stop, as that was misleading. My lover doesn’t withhold sexing by choice as she seems to enjoy it as much as do I. She travels and is gone most of the time so, and therefore, Ivory soap.

Anyway, I was over to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s place yesterday afternoon to mow her lawn before the rains hit. I mitigate some of the not small psycho therapy bills I manage to run up by performing maintenance on her lawn and pool. I took the puppies and the fucking cat with me, all loaded into the old GTO with me and ready to help.

They remind me of those old “Shake-N-Bake” commercials. You know the ones, right? “Daddy cooked fried chicken and we hepped!”

Squirt acts as supervisor directing Yoda and Honor with authority. She has a wicked sense of humor that I must admit cracks my ass right on up. Like I said, it’s been raining, and the deck around the pool was covered with earthworms and many of the live fish bait had made it all the way to the pool and drowned on the bottom.

“Yoda, come here boy and listen carefully,” Squirt barked. “I need you to pick all those worms up and put them in the compost pile. Pick them up with your lips so you don’t squish them into the cool deck.”

Yoda, dim wit that he is, barked his agreement and panted and jumped to the task. Squirt reminded the little salvage program from a Sooner State puppy mill, “And don’t eat the worms, dumb ass, you know they make you sick. You puke in Mooner’s car and he’ll send you back to Oklahoma!”

With that she looked my way and said, “I did all I could, Bwana. If he pukes on your leather it’s not on me.” Then she turned to the fucking cat. “Honor, I need you to jump in and snag those worms off the bottom of the pool. Try and not drown yourself.”

I spent a few minutes watching Yoda collect worms and Honor think about her swim. The little half Chihuahua/half Whippet had his lips curled into a silly snarl as he tried to get a grip on the slippery worms. As for the fucking cat, she’d stare at the worms gathered at the pool drain—eyes big as saucers—then look at me with that “won’t you do something, you’re the adult” look all over her face. Then she’d give the Squirt a nasty cat look and hiss.

I chuckled and went off to mow the front. When I had gotten the first few long runs cut up against the street and concrete flat work, one of Sammie’s neighbors walked over to interrupt my work. This is the racist neighbor—the one who asked me to only sell the house to white people. My ex-wife/therapist had considered moving awhile back and this asshole asked me to not sell to anyone not Caucasian. I thumped the asshole’s nose—hard—and called him a Nazi fuck.

He stopped about ten feet from me and said, “Uh, Mooner, that’s an electric mower, right?”

I nodded as I removed my right glove. My right-handed finger flicker packs a more powerful punch than the left. When I did a couple practice flicks the neighbor man flinched. “Well, I need a new mower and I wanted to ask you how you like this one.”

“Only thing to buy. Quiet, strong and dependable,” I told him as I relaxed my right hand. “Just don’t get one with a cord required. That dealie will drive you nuts.”

We then chatted about lawnmower shit like neighbors do and I pointed out some of the features of that particular mower. I put my glove on to go back to work. “Hey,” he said to my shoulder as I turned to get back to the grass, “can you believe Obama is supporting the queers and using Social Security to bankrupt the nation?”

He shook his head, eyes to the ground, so he missed me removing my right glove again. “These communist programs are ruining America. It’s disgusting!” and he spat, thick spittle sticking to his lip and landing on his chin. He didn’t seem to notice as his heat was rising to the topics.

“Leonard,” I told him, “ you get a pass on the queer comment so long as you drop it. As for Social Security bankrupting America, that’s a total fucking lie, and you know it. The entire SS system is paid for by the people who use its benefits after they retire, AND, the latest independent study shows it to have a $3.4 Trillion positive balance—enough to fund the next twenty years of benefits to every fucking pensioner. SS pays for itself, shithead, it’s just that your tea bag buddies want to use that money for big tax cuts in favor of their own self interests.”

“You are wrong, sir,” Leonard told me. “It’s just like the Postal Service—a loser.” Then he sang the word loser for thirty seconds.

Now I shook my head and thought that this asshole is what’s wrong with America. He’s so brainwashed by the masters of big business and faux news that he can’t see reality. “Look, Leonard, if you can’t stomach the truth, then try this on for size. Look at social services for the poor and elderly and infirm as a gift you give to your fellow man for being a part of this great country. For example, make a small sacrifice for our fallen American warriors so that they can get good health care for injuries they got while making a huge sacrifice for you.”

Leonard is always grousing about how we need a bigger military so I thought that might strike a chord with him.

“You sound like that Ed Schultz. You’re just another fag loving commie.”

Before I could think, I’d flicked his nose and his ear. Hard. Leonard had tears in his eyes and an expression of pure hatred mauling his face. “I’m filing charges. You’ll go to jail for this.”

“Be glad I don’t carry a gun, Leonard,” and I returned to my lawn mowing.

I’m proud of my President for taking the stand for gay rights, and guess what. I don’t give a shit if he is using it as political capital. He’s a fucking politician, for shitsakes, he has to use every word he says as political capital. It’s his goddamn job.

And how about Mitt Romney, folks. During the worst of the economic crisis Herr Schmidt Rommel wanted to bankrupt American auto companies, an event that would have cost over a million American jobs and $Trillions in lost business enterprise to overseas manufacturers. He actually wanted to ruin our country’s rich automotive history instead of providing the needed loans as were made by President Obama.

Now Herr Schmidt is taking credit for saving our auto industry. Lying, two-faced rat fucking right-wing christian asshole. I wish I could thump his nose. I also wish that I had enough resources to adequately fund our nation’s social services, but I don’t.

What I do have is a voice and a vote.

Which reminds me. Did you guys know that cats can swim? Manana, y’all.

God Drops By; Question Answered

Wednesday, May 9th, 2012


So. This is just a quickie bitch about yesterday. Two news items from yesterday caught my ADHD-addled brain and stuck like a sharp-barbed treble hook. I’ve tried to shake them out of my head but can’t, and I’m hoping that writing them here will allow me to free my brain for more important thoughts.

Thoughts like the sex dreams I used to have about Bella Abzug. I heard her speak when I was young and was impressed her words and her face. Katy, from over to Lesbians In My Soup, did a story about what makes a beautiful face and her words struck the flimsy chords that serve as my memory. I thought of Mz. Bella and those dreams. You need to go to Katy’s place and check her out—she’s a mighty good read.

I could also be thinking about the wedding planning for the pending nuptials here to the Johnson family ranch or I could worry and obsess more about my weather-torn garden. But alas, the state of North Carolina has grabbed brain cells and won’t shake loose. For, you see, the fine people of North Carolina passed a strong anti-gay man/woman marriage dealie yesterday and when I read that in my newspaper I thought to myself, I thought, “What kind of person would favor that sort of stupid legislation?”

I was reading the paper early and while on the crapper so I had only myself to ask, and was spared the pain of having Mother read the story to us all at the breakfast table while she’d gloat. My mother is a gloater.

I’m looking at the other stories and unable to focus because the question is stuck in my head—who would favor that legislation? What kind of people populate North Carolina in the majority who have that kind of idiocy?

I finished my business and was lowering the newspaper to exchange it for rolled, perforated paper when the second article caught my eyes. “North Carolina man straps children to hood of car for ride home from liquor store” was the headline.

Now me, if there is actually a capital-G God, this was that God speaking directly to me. I might have actually heard his booming basso profundo, its rich tones sonorous and commanding. God said, “Mooner Johnson, my child, you seeketh knowledge and I have laid it unto your eyes. Behold the Truth, my son, as I am want to admit my plan got all fucked up over to North Carolina. Can you believe that many assholes can congregate within the borders of one tiny state?”

“Well, God,” I’d answer, “it isn’t your fault. But doesn’t it piss you off that they blame you for their immoral and ignorant acts?”

“Truly it does, Mooner, and they shall pay. Heaven and Hell are interchangeable destinations, dude, and have I got a program for assholes.”

I doubt God would disclose His plans for assholes but that just gives me something to think about. And hey—God called me dude. Manana, y’all.

Freak Storm Slams Garden; Mooner Memories

Tuesday, May 8th, 2012


So. We had a freakish storm roll through last night, one of those way more significant than expected events. Here to the ranch we got almost 2 inches of rain, a lightening show and heavy winds with 60-MPH-plus gusts. As soon as it’s dry enough to walk out there, I’ll give the garden a close-up inspection.

From the looks of things from the back porch, most of my tomatoes and peppers were slammed to the ground and much of my herb plantings are twisted and broken. It looked as though a war had been fought and my plants were the sad casualties of vicious hand-to-hand combat. I came back inside after reviewing the battlefield from afar, and I sat to breakfast with the family. I had taken a big mug of coffee with me when I walked outside at first light. The storm was a noisy bastard and the rain pelted the metal roof of the ranch house without mercy and a mug of Joe was a needed accessory.

I’d fortified my coffee with a slug of Kahlua and a second dosing of dark rum in anticipation of expected findings. I sat at the big table, then stood again to refill coffee, Kahlua and rum, all three.

“Sonofabitch,” I said to the coffee press, “son… of… a… bitch!”

When the French coffee-making wonder failed to respond, I turned back to the table and walked to my seat, sat. They were quiet. Everyone knows how I feel about our garden. For whatever reason, the over-sized vegetable patch I tend represents many things to me. My past—planting and weeding and watching and de-bugging and harvesting at my elders’ sides—sweating in the sweltering Texas summer while I learned the lessons of my family’s experience. I was reminded at that moment that Mother never worked the garden—Daddy and Granddaddy wouldn’t have it.

The garden has always felt like the future as well. It was in that garden that I first discovered that compost and mulch will control soil erosion better than any man made erosion control device. It was upon that discovery that I developed commercial methods to use compost and mulch as accepted methods by the Texas Department of Transportation and received an Environmental Excellence Award for my efforts. I think that sometime in the future we’ll use Mother Nature’s best ideas of planet protection to protect our planet.

Mother Nature is one smart bitch.

Food production from that patch of dirt also represents my most important charitable donations. I give money just as most caring humans do, but it is the gifts of produce that give the most back to me. Food Bank gifts are typically canned or packaged foods that taste of cardboard and modern food processing—the shit I want to spit out now that I eat mostly fresh foods. My gifts are home grown and produced with the highest organic standards anywhere. Knowing that at least a small bit of a needy family’s rations are of the highest quality available is a comfort to me.

But most of all, that garden represents Austin to me. As silly as it sounds, I have always seen the ebb and flow of that garden as the not-so metaphorical representation of my beloved Texas capitol. The better the garden does the more I love my city. When times are tough in the garden—my city and I are in conflict.

“Sonofabitch,” I now said to the seated Johnsons and Johnson family supporting cast. “First the drought, then the grasshoppers, then the hail storm, drought then heat then drought, and now this. Last night’s winds have torn the garden to shreds. Son… of… a… bitch.” The last was said as if they were the last four words of a dying man. I felt deflated, defeated.

Mother lowered the newspaper and said to me, she said, “You brought it on yourself, Mooner Johnson, the Seven Years of Pestilence are on your soul. Pastor Browningwell and I both have warned you about your wicked ways,” and here she chuckled, “and God has sent the message,” she chuckled some more and smiled this shit-eating grin that makes me want to stick a serrated blade between her ribs.

“Sooner or later you’re going to repent, son, or God is going to strike you down. You should listen to your readers. Some of your readers have keen insight.” Having had her say, Mother hid her face back behind the paper and I started steaming—the slow-burn of an overfilled pressure cooker.

I remembered why Mother never worked the garden. My granddaddy had banned her before I was old enough to remember. He couldn’t take my mother’s constant bitchy banter. I hissed what I hoped to be a cleansing breath then gulped a lungful of air, released that slowly as well.

“Mother,” I started, “I would be most grateful if you wouldn’t get all up in my ass this morning. You know how important the garden is to me.”

I hissed out another breath over the rim of my coffee mug to cool the surface. I inhaled the coffee and its sweet alcohol fragrance filled my head. I was reminded of my third honeymoon—the first one to Mexico. Anna the Amazon, who was seated on my left and next to Sister, was my then new bride. If you buy my silly fucking book you can hear all about that honeymoon and how Anna and Sister kept me out of a Mexican jail. Kept me from serious physical harm as well.

I think it was when we were on our honeymoon that Anna concluded that she is a lesbian woman and unfit for marriage to the male Johnson offspring. At this morning’s breakfast, she was seated between her ex-husband and her current wife, a circumstance most people are incapable of experiencing. Anna said, “Isn’t that what we drank sitting in bed on our honeymoon, Mooner,” and she took my mug from my grasp.

She sniffed, sighed and sipped. “Yes-siree-Bob, that’s it! I love that smell and taste. Will you make me one, please?”

“Me too,” was a chorus from all at the table save Mother.

I busied myself with the French presses and mugs and boiling water, and the alcoholic additives, and forgot about my damaged garden. I made the coffees as we talked about our marriage and Anna’s transformation into Sister’s wife. I started thinking back on my few weeks of marriage to Anna and her telling me she had something to tell me. I have always known that my sister is a lesbian. She knew from her first breath and was proud to be so. But Anna was closeted until we married, and she came out to me. I’ll never forget how tortured she was to admit her homosexuality and how she cried and apologized to me for ending our marriage.

I loved Anna more in her confessions than in our life together. I am constantly amazed at the courage gay people display when they come out. Fuck it, gay people astound me just in their gayness. The courage I see in today’s gay America is a wonderful thing to see.

I was standing in my role as barrista and thinking of just how proud I am of her and my little sister when I heard the newspaper slap into Mother’s lap. “This is disgusting, you talking about spoiling the sanctity of marriage and then all of this homo-sex-ual talk. God has spoken, Mooner, and He’ll speak again if you don’t change your ways.”

I felt my eyes bulge and my ears pop from the spike in blood pressure at Mother’s words. I was processing the thousand different thoughts and actions I was ready to use when Gram slammed her hand on the table. The plates and silver jumped with the force of her blow and made a rattle. “Goddammit, Mother, I’ve got a total full belly a yer shit. Put some shoes on an meet me in tha barn.”

Gram pushed her chair back and stood up, pointed a bony finger across the table at my mother. “Git yer ass outta that chair, goddamit, I’mma whup it an stuff yer carcass inna trunk.”

Spittle was flying from Gram’s mouth as she spat out the words. Her face was crimson with rage. “You ain’t no Christian, Mother, yer a asshole just like tha fucking Governor. I’mma kick yer ass like Rick Perry’s daddy should done his.”

How much do I love my grandmother? There wasn’t a fistfight but only because Mr. Dave brokered a thin peace. This wasn’t the first time the giant-peckered old geezer had negotiated calm at my table and likely it won’t be the last. I’m starting to think that having an elephant-sized penis might be a source of insight. Then again, Mr. Dave is an elegant, eloquent man. A gentleman.

But I learned a valuable lesson with all of this, actually two lessons. I learned that I’m losing interest in anything my mother has to say—her integrity of thought is seriously flawed and her logic is twisted. I think I can fight with her far less because I get it that she will never change. She’ll always be a bigoted, sanctimonious right-wing religious fuckball.

Also learned is that Austin isn’t what it used to be. People like my mother were in the minority and were silent as such. They now seem to be everywhere and Austin seems like baby Dallas—a smaller, more hip but less sophisticated version of Texas’ dumbest city. I don’t like Austin like I used to.

Ugh. I need beer. Manana, y’all.

A Letter From A Fan; Not A Prick Perry Story

Monday, May 7th, 2012


So. I wish I was gay. Wait, I wish I were gay. Crap, but that “was/were/is/are” dealie always messes me up. Let me try again.

I want to be gay, but I’m not. Maybe if I didn’t like women so much I could be gay.

“Why,” you might ask, “do you want to be gay, Mr. Johnson?”

“Because, silly, I’d be a better man,” my frank and well though-out answer.

I know that many of you think I want to be gay because I’m not a good christian man and the only christian men who are not good christian men are either gay, or near-gay. At least that’s what pastor Browningwell told Mother in her most recent religious counseling session. “Any christian man who supports hom-sex-u-als is a homo-sex-u-al, or very near one,” was the god pastor’s words.

And that reminds me to remind you of something. Unless and until the modern American christians pull their heads out of their asses and start treating all people as equal humans, I will refuse to capitalize their associate names. Until they can embrace all people with fully open arms, they will be the baptists, catholics and mormons, it will be christians, and pastor and the pope and such.

I was over to Brandini’s place at Lost in Idaho and he posted this dealie about Klouchbag, this rating site for a blog’s douchbagginess. I scored a 53 to Brandini’s 50 and it was remarked that I don’t capitalize enough.

Too fucking bad.

As long as those christian assholes keep marginalizing humans for their ideas and personal preferences, I’ll marginalize them. Small hearts and minds—small letters.

I don’t usually print Emails from readers because I assume you would write a comment if you wanted me to share your thoughts, but use Email to make expressions between the two of us. I’m violating that trust here because the writer of the following Email said that they assumed I would publish it, and I accept that as tacit approval of my publishing it hereinafter.

Don’t you love the word “hereinafter”[?] What an expressive gem. It’s much akin to the word “fuck” and another of my favies. The following has not been altered in any way except that I reformatted and italicized the original layout to fit my bloggie site. I left the capital letters where they stood. Anyway, before my ADHD takes control of the bus, I give you one reason to be gay:


Dear Mr. Johnson,


You are a creep and a very sick man. The things you say are dead to God. Gay people are the pawns of the DEVIL they will burn in Hell at your side. READ THE BIBLE. It tells you to scorn homosexuals and stone them from your Temples. Any man who promotes evil is EVIL. You are EVIL. I will pray for God to strike you down and make your flesh burn while your still alive. I hope God burns all of your kind in Jesus name. Jesus hates fags and died on the cross so we can go to HEAVEN and never have to see any fags. You like anis sex Mr Johnson? I hope HELL is the DEVIL ramming his pitchfork in your nasty anis. People like you need to be in HELL. Your sister too and you need to bow down at your mothers feet and kiss them. A good Christian woman doesnt deserve a son like YOU. Change your ways before its too late. I hope you print this so more good people will come and shame you.



A child of JESUS


Uh, what do I say to that? Thanks for your prayers?

While A child of JESUS seems to lack good prose, he/she has no problem communicating that they do not approve of me. I do like the creativity in both the death and afterlife scenarios. Burning alive would be awful and perpetual ass rape with a pitchfork would be one definition of hell. Maybe more of that type will speak out. I find it comforting to know where they reside, as in this case, Houston, Texas.

I was going to tell you about a chance encounter I had Friday night with the one, the only, Governor of Texas and namesake of my gay ostrich—Little Ricky Perry. You likely won’t believe me when I tell the story but there are photographs. But not photos in my possession. I’m working on the pics and thinking of how to approach the discussion of Friday’s events. Either way, you are in for a treat.

Just think the lyrics to Babs Streisand’s song He Touched Me. Seriously.

Manana, y’all.


White Wedding Woes; I Miss My Father

Thursday, May 3rd, 2012


So. At yesterday’s breakfast Gram revealed my mother’s most closely-guarded secret. While I laughed at it and made jokes at the table, I find myself more than a little unsettled with the findings. Mother was being pissy about my ostrich wearing white to his wedding when he’s obviously not a virgin, and Gram reminded my Mommy Dearest that she wore white to her wedding and was anything but virginic. And why isn’t virginic a word? I don’t want to use virginal.

Virginal sounds like a porcelain bowl where you place used virgins.

And a used virgin is precisely what my mother was when she married. It turns out that she had not only had sex with my daddy, but my daddy didn’t even ask her out on a date until Junior Spellman told him about Mother’s skilled hands. According to Gram—whose story was not questioned by Mother at any phase—Junior and Daddy were hanging out down to the South Congress Pool Hall where Daddy was the under-18 champ. They were playing Rotation—my father’s best game—and Junior said to him, he said, “Chigger, you need to take this girl out to Walgreens for a soda. I swear she’ll do most anything for a chocolate phosphate, and she’s got a firm, but gentle hand with a man’s privates.” Everyone who knew my father called him Chigger.

Daddy, according to Gram, talked to his daddy, my grandfather, and asked him if he would go to hell if he got a hand job from a girl before marriage. Again according to Gram, Granddaddy said to Daddy, he said, “Well, Chigger, if that would be the case, I reckon I’ll meet you in hell. Your momma could rub the chrome off a flagpole—still can for that matter.”

My randy old grandmother had a wistful smile on her face when she recounted Daddy’s first encounter with Mother. She said, “Chigger comes home real late after his date with yer mother an went right straight ta bed. I didn’t hear him a huffin’ inna bathroom so he didn’t rub one out. That boy beat off more ‘an you, Mooner, an’ tha bathroom was right next ta my bed.”

She sighed deeply, chuckled, and added, “Didn’t hear that boy rubbin’ off ’till after they was married an’ little Miss huffy-ass over there cut ‘im off.” Here she looked Mother’s way. “I still blame you, Mother Johnson, for givin’ my boy tha ass cancer. He must a been so stoved up that his insides ate their ownselves right up.”

Gram got up and opened her first Carta Blanca beer of the day and sat back down, took a healthy swig. “I told that boy don’t never let a woman use sexin’ agin him, but he didn’t listen ta me.”

Gram fixed her eyes to the spot on the paper where Mother’s face was on the other side. “Hell, after you took tha nookie away I told ‘im I’d hold yer skinny ass down fer him if need be. An I’d a done it!”

Mother finally peeked from behind the newspaper where it was hidden for most of this conversation. “Mooner,” Mother addressed me instead of Gram, a tactic calculated to ease tension, “your father would use the lord’s name in vain, he read girly magazines and he kept asking me to do unnatural things in the bedroom. The only way I could get him to do the right things was to withhold sexual pleasures. I’m a christian, lady.”

“OK, first, dear Mother, I agree with Gram and would like to say that I too think you sent my father to an early grave. You were mean and spiteful and you never let Daddy have a sense that you were glad he was your mate. And don’t give me that look, Mother, Daddy told me that himself.”

After saying that to my mother, the memories of that conversation with my father came flooding back into my memory. It was the day I graduated from high school, the traditional day when fathers told sons about life when I was a kid. It isn’t that my parents and grandparents ever spared me any embarrassment or life lessons, it’s just that this was the first conversation we had when my father made certain that I felt like a man as we spoke.

The memory brought tears to my eyes. Hell, I’m starting to leak eye water as I tell you about it now. Back in my time, the day you graduated from high school you had a big all-night party with your senior classmates. Everybody would “sneak” out to chug drinks hidden in their cars and then return to the party. Many high school girls lost their virginity on these trips for booze, boys as well, and Daddy knew this.

Me, I had been hoping for weeks that this would be the day I first got laid. OK, wait. This was when I hoped to get the first sex not sex inflicted upon me by my baptist deacon Boy Scout Leader. Getting raped as a thirteen-year-old had stunted my sexual development and relational health, and in typical victim form I had wondered if I had encouraged the asshole to rape me. I thought I might be gay for several years and withdrew from all my peers save Streaker Jones, the smartest human I have ever known.

Like I say, I lived a couple years in an angst-filled depression and Streaker Jones grew tired of it. One day we were sitting down to the creek under the big cypress tree and Streaker Jones said to me, he said, “I’m sick a yer shit, Mooner,” and he took his pecker out of his pants. “Iffn yur homosexual, stick this in yur mouth. Otherwise, git you a girlfriend.”

Like I say, my best friend is a smart sumbitch. His method wasn’t very scientific, but I quickly realized I wasn’t gay. In the next few years I began to repair my stunted social and sexual development and grew a healthy interest in girls. By graduation day, I’d had hand and mouth sex with a girl but no actual intercourse, and I can tell you that I was ready. R-E-A-D-Y ready for sex.

Daddy and I were on our backs under the farm truck making a repair to the u-joints when we had my first man talk. “Look, son, I’m not tellin’ you that you can’t have sex, I’m tellin’ you to be real careful who you sex with. Pussy is powerful, Mooner, maybe the most powerful thing on Earth, and you ain’t got one. You get to borrow them son, not possess them. Once a woman let’s you borrow hers the first time, you’ll do most anything to get more. Don’t. Don’t do anything to get more. Don’t ever sex it up with a girl that thinks givin’ you a taste of her pussy is some kind a prize for doin’ what she wants. If a woman tells you that you can have the pussy if you just fill-in-the-blank, Mooner, don’t fill her blanks for her. And don’t ever fill her pussy either. That’s a woman who’ll hurt you with sex.”

My daddy had tears in his eyes at this point, and he locked mine with his wet eyes and said to me, Daddy said, “Hardest thing you’ll ever do is walk away from pussy, son. Learn to do it before it’s too late.”

Even back then I knew my father’s advice was rooted in a hard-learned lesson of his own. I’ve always known that my mother was a prissy, martyred and pious baptist matron. After a wild child adolescence, Mother turned into a petulant christian prude in the early years of marriage to Daddy. I guess she used sex as a weapon on him. I also know that men can use sex as a weapon as well.

Ugh, but this is unpleasant shit.

Which reminds me. The three-ring circus that is Gnewbt Gangreenich just keeps on giving a laugh a minute. That silly fuckball announced yesterday that he is “suspending” his Presidential campaign. Uh-huh, it’s suspended alright. Suspended, as used in this case, is like when they used to hang convicted murderers, and in that millisecond after the floor dropped from under the prisoner’s feet, he seemed to float in the air.

The former Speaker of the House is a weak, sniveling little weenie. You lost, shithead, and you lost to Herr Schmidt Rommel. What does that tell you, asshole. You lost to a two-faced, flip-flopping pseudo-christian who wears magic undies. Go back and hide under your rock—wait for Mz. Callista to get sick so you can shop for another woman.

You are way better at snagging women than you are at political endorsements.

Manana, y’all.

Slaves, Stonings and Stupidity; America’s Modern christianity At Its Best

Wednesday, May 2nd, 2012


So. It’s been an interesting several days. First we got word that a Federal District Judge has ruled that the State of Texas cannot de-fund Planned Parenthood. As fits Planned P’s purpose, the Judge ruled that there are no reasonable alternative choices to Texas women for the affordable reproductive services offered by PP. Of course our Attorney General, Herr Field Marshall Greg Abbott, has already declared that he will appeal this ruling.

“How dare the Federal Government try to protect women from our right-wing christian idiocy,” Herr FM Abbott said from his wheelchair on the steps of the Federal Courthouse.

“I went to war for America and lost the use of my legs so that I can help Governor Perry enforce christian law sharia. Making our women bow to the teachings of the bible is my primary function.”

Actually, Abbott didn’t say that, rather I have provided a decoded translation for you. The “I went to war for America” part is also a lie as told by many of his supporters. I think many Texas right-wingers are a bit embarrassed that Abbott isn’t a war hero. Herr FM Abbott was actually injured in a freakish jogging accident when he was hit by a tree.

He’s said to be a fine man, but he’s just another asshole who thinks he has the right to enforce his religious beliefs on the rest of us. Me, I think the boy might be a touch bitter about that entire “rabid tree attacks 26-year old runner confining him to a wheelchair for life” dealie. I have a heart full of sympathy and empathy for his malady.

Unless he did something to piss off the tree.

Then, Squatlo posted part of a speech Dan Savage made to young journalists yesterday. It was Squattie’s second-from-the-top post last time I looked. Savage made the most sense you will ever hear as to the debate about homosexuality and the bible. Please go over to Squatlo Rant and watch the couple minutes of video. I have been baiting christians to supply the specific bible scriptures they use to condemn homosexuality so that I can lambaste them with the truth. There are actually none—not a single fucking biblical passage says “don’t be gay” or in any way says that sucking a man’s dick is wrong. Or that muff diving is biblically illegal.

There’s something about gay prostitution, but that’s it.

However, Dan Savage spotted the christians a twisted interpretation and granted that the bible says homosexuality is against said good book. He then pointed out that the bible allows, endorses and even encourages human slavery. Hell, it even tells you when you can have sex with your slaves and tells the slaves how to behave. It even gives slave owners the right to hold hostage the wife and kids of a to-be-freed slave. That slave must choose freedom alone or agree to a lifetime as slave to his master to remain married and with his family.

The bible, dear christians, also mandates that you stone to death new brides who are not virgins. Your precious bible demands that the offending not-a-virgin bride be dragged to her father’s front stoop where the entire neighborhood must stone her to death. This isn’t optional equipment, folks, it’s a fucking mandate. I’ve always thought this a silly biblical rule for modern times and I’ve been quite fearful that today’s republican assholes would start making laws to enforce it. Stupid asshole republican lawmakers have already started turning us into slaves.

How far down the road from jamming a 2-foot electronic dildo up a woman’s vagina is stoning your slaves?

In the video, you get to watch a few pissy, pious and pompous teeny bopper assholes walk out of the speech. Survey says that more than half of them have already had sex, so maybe they are headed to their daddy’s front stoops. I doubt, however, that these young christians interpret their bible any more fairly than their leaders.

Classic speech from a classy man. To quote Squatlo, “Dan Savage is my hero!”

Oh, Rick Perry’s wedding dress came in and it is beautiful. I swear to god he looks like Liberace. Remember when Liberace did that special for TV and he’s dressed all in white splendor? Put a beak and giant silicone titties on the flamboyant pianist and you’ve got my big bird bride in his wedding dress. Same bedroom eyes as well.

The whole family was at breakfast this morning and I had him come to the kitchen to show everyone how he looks all dressed up for the alter. I had him wear everything except the head dress or crown, or whateverthefuck it is you call that silly hat thingie. The big ostrich strutted into the room like a peacock, kicking the long train of the dress left, then right, as he sashayed around the breakfast table.

We were having International Flat Food Day this morning and breakfast featured Belgian waffles, crepes, blintzes, mid-Eastern stuff with filo (philo?) dough and flat Polish pirogi. Maybe the pirogi are Russian, but who really gives a shit anyway? I mean except the Russians. Have you ever noticed how sensitive Russian people can be about silly shit?

You’d think a person would develop really thick skin living in the harsh conditions over there. But Russians are the most easily offended on earth except for right-wing christian assholes.

Anyway, Ricky is strutting around the table and Mother is ignoring the parade. She has her head hidden with the morning paper when she gets to the Herr Field Marshall Abbott story and slaps the paper to her lap. “Oh why must those liberal Federal Judges ruin everything. They have no right to tell us what to do.”

I swallowed a bite of berry-filled crepe and told her, “Oh yea, baby, that’s turned into the single most important job Federal Judges have anymore—protecting us from you assholes. Go Federal Justice system!”

“Don’t you dare call your mother an asshooo…” Mother started, then, “what… is that? You cannot allow that dumb bird to wear white, Mooner. I’ll not allow it!”

My mother eyed the table seeking support for her silly proclamation. Finding none, Mother said to Gram, she said, “Gram, tell Mooner this isn’t right. You have to be a virgin to marry in white. And after the horrid, tawdry display at this very breakfast table last week… Well, I never!”

I’ll remind you that when we unveiled Rick Perry’s new set of surgically altered titties, Rush Limbaugh lost control of himself and dry mated the ostrich right at Mother’s feet.

Gram swallowed whatever it was she’d most recently stuffed in her mouth, placed her fork carefully onto the tabletop and said, “Is that so? Seems I ‘member that you was wearin’ white at yer weddin’, er am I wrong about that?”

Mother’s face flushed with what I recognized as embarrassment, but she sat silent and hid again behind the paper.

“We all knowed ya banged Junior Spellman, Mother, an’ more ‘an once. Only reason Chigger started ta datin’ ya was acuze Junior braggerated ’bout yer handie jobbers. So shut yer yapper an pass me tha butter.” With that, Gram held an expectant hand Mother’s way for butter dish. I always put three full sticks of butter on the table when we have a Flat Food Day. I can never get enough butter on a waffle.

I waited for things to calm—just a half-minute I’d say—and I struck.

“Oh, my god! Are you telling me that my mother wasn’t a virgin when she married Daddy? Am I a bastard as well as a crazy redneck fuckbrain?”

I winked at Gram and stared at Mother, face still hidden by newsprint. “Mo-ther, you got some splainin to doooooo. How can I ever face my friends and family ever again? My mother was a harlot and I’m a bastard—oh woe is me.”

The table of Johnsons and Johnson family honorees all tittered and giggled save Mother, who continued to hide behind the Metro Section.

When the tittering subdued, Mr. Dave, a gentleman and giant-peckered Lothario who has never before shown a sense of humor, cleared his throat to get our attentions and said in his robust baritone, “Is it too late to have her stoned on the front stoop?”

“Indeed,” I provided the second to a quite sensible motion.

Manana, y’all.