Archive for June, 2012

Supremes Get One Right; A Vacation Story

Thursday, June 28th, 2012


So. My plan was to tell you that I’m going on vacation and will only be writing to you in the form of Comments I’ll place at the end of this posting while I’m in Santa Fe, New Mexico. But the Supreme Court of the United States has added an over-layer of conversation.

“Hey, right-wing conservative shitballs, how’s that ass taste?”

When I heard the news that SCOTUS had upheld the Affordable Care Act I almost choked on my Carta Blanca. I started drinking early today in anticipation of a ruling more consistent with that august body’s recent history to strike against personal welfare and civil rights—I felt they would strike down the health care initiative.

After hearing the news, I put my beer down and turned on the tube to catch the spin from the right to this news. Grasping the threadbare rope handed them by Justice Roberts, the right has taken the stand that the President lied when he said this wasn’t a tax.

Really? Is this all you’ve fucking got?

Of course switch hitter Mitt “Uh, What Did I Say” Romney has promised to undo this “job killing” mandate on his first day in office.

Really, Mitt? The same legislation you forced through the State of Mass was good for the Bean State but is a job killer for America? Really?

Then I caught the bad boys of the right for the few minutes I could stand, and guess what their spin is?

Anarchy. Really, Rush? Because you don’t like it you are telling people to revolt? Really? Do we Americans now refuse to obey any law we don’t like?

By the way, did you notice that all three women on the Court voted for health care? What does that say?

And House Speaker John “Pass Me the Orange Dye Number 16” Boehner said something to the effect that, “Women make the health care decisions for their families 86% of the time. We want to repeal Obamacare and put the health of American families back into women’s hands.”

Really? You don’t want women to decide about their own bodies and you want to strike down a law that gives women health care options and covers their family members by protecting them from the denial attitude of insurance companies and helps women sleep at night when one of their kids is sick.

But you “want women to have the power to make health care decisions” and you will do that how? By taking the power they have now to do just that away from them?

Oh, and hey, Rush and Beckster and Cantor and Rove and the rest of you assholes. Guess who did this to you. Have you thought about that yet? This one’s on your pet Supreme Roberts, boys.

Oh baby does this feel soooo gooooood!

OK, enough gloating, I’ve got to pack. I’ll try to check in with all my blogger buddies and I’ll post comments here Re: New Mexico.

Manana, y’all.


Tuesday Blues; Welcome To Fascistland

Tuesday, June 26th, 2012


So. It’s Tuesday and I just got another call from Mother asking if she can come home. She refused to attend the Limbaugh/Perry gay wedding last week so I banished her from the ranch for all of the attendant wedding affairs. That was last week and the threads that connect “wedding affairs” to reality are getting pretty thin.

At breakfast this morning I asked the few others seated around the big table if they were ready to have Mother back among us. They mumbled and grumbled a bit but nobody said anything decipherable. “Well, OK then,” I told them. “Looks like the main activity on today’s calendar will be the Official Limbaugh/Perry Wedding Fishing Trip, sponsored by Carta Blanca beer.”

“Rick Perry does love when you take him fishing, Mooner. Do you think the newlyweds will go while they’re in Costa Rica?”

That was Mr. Dave, the giant-peckered old geezer I hired to service the older ladies of Mooner Manor. “I doubt it, Mr. Dave. Rush Limbaugh has been sex starved for over a month. Me, I’m guessing that Rick Perry will be lucky to see anything but the paint of their hotel room.”

I realized that I had sent all the women but my mother to Costa Rica to oversee the honeymoon and Mother was sent to a hotel over to town. I offered to fly Mr. Dave down to Central America or put him up with Mother in her hotel, either one. He said to me, he said, “Oh, that’s a lovely offer, sir, but I think I’ll spend the time with you and the dogs. I find I’m missing the sound of voices not coming from the mouth of a Johnson woman.”

I didn’t tell him that he had just voiced the main reason he was hired, I simply said in reply, “You stick with me, Mr. Dave. We’ll get you recharged and ready to go. How about we go cut us some calves?”

Mr. Dave isn’t much of a ranch hand. Man pukes when you hand him the big curved blade we use to cut the balls off young bulls—well, that’s what we Texans call a clue. I was talking to the Squirt about it last night and she said it might be because Mr. Dave’s pecker is about the same size as the 400-pound bulls carry. “You’d be queezy yourself, Bwana Mooner, if you were packing the heat same as Mr. Dave.”

Maybe, I thought. “Might also be perspectives, little lady. I was cutting cows before I knew that my pecker was good for more than the one thing, so I never had the mind to do a side-by-side with the little bulls. Mr. Dave was city raised and likely has a city boy’s stomach.”

And that reminds me. Can you believe the fucking US Supreme Court? What part of “not a political body” is so confusing to them. I am embarrassed to tell you that I didn’t think George W. Bush would screw things up too badly as president—I thought he was too dumb to make much trouble. But the justices he put there have formed a coalition that has sent civil rights back at least a hundred years.

A state government can now authorize agents to demand that you prove your citizenship at any time they wish. My thoughts are that to keep from appearing to use profiling with this power, they will start making the demand on people just for the sake of it. As a white American male, I will not prove my citizenship to you, motherfuckers, and I dare you to try to make me. I don’t expect people of color to resist this but I’m asking every white person in the country to stand with me on this one. This isn’t Nazi fucking Germany or Cold War Russia, for shitsakes.

Or is it? I mean really, what’s the difference? Corporations and single rich donors can put as much money behind a candidate as they want, so every elected public official office in the entire fucking country is for sale, we can harass and bully non-whites for no reason, we are legislating control of womens’ bodies, and we are creating the economic environment that imitates a wealthy, ruling class society.

When we speak of Pakistan or Malaysia, we call countries with those attributes “Third World” countries. We are denying our citizens health care and quality public education; we have stripped the funding for support services for the poor; we have sent much of a generation off to fight two brutal, winless wars because of economics and now we deny the returning veterans proper health care to fix their damaged bodies and minds.

Oh, and our greedy financiers almost bankrupted the entire fucking globe while they were gone to war and killed the job market. Many vets have returned to little, or no, employment options.

Ugh. Fucking ugh! Mother fucking ugh!!!

Maybe New Mexico isn’t far enough away to escape the oppression of America’s right-wing Christian conservative idiocy.

America doesn’t need to worry about international terrorists taking our country down. We’re ruining it just fine all by ourselves. I have a buddy who thinks that this might be the time that is The End of Days. If America falls into a fascist state all of civilization will follow.

“And the Ted Nugent’s shall inherit the Earth.”

Fuck it. I promised a fishing trip and we’re going fishing. Manana, y’all.

Texan Terrifies Tennessee Mosqueteers; A Little Info On The Wedding

Saturday, June 23rd, 2012


So. By now I guess you guys know that Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh finally tied the knot. We had a very small group of mostly family in attendance and only had those folks at the reception. As the pig Rush Limbaugh had not had sex with his ostrich gay lover for more than a month, keeping him off the bride’s back until after the “I dos” was a difficult chore.

I printed the press release about the wedding yesterday so go there for that info. What I’ll add here is that because of the enforced abstinence above mentioned, it was an untraditional shotgun wedding. “Shotgun” in that Gram’s 12-gage double barrel was aimed at Rush Limbaugh, and “untraditional” because the buckshot was pointed his way not to keep his feet planted but, rather, to prevent spontaneous sexing on the alter.

When he wants to do something, Rush Limbaugh just does it and he doesn’t care the effects on the rest of us. Rush Limbaugh is, after all, a fucking pig.

Which reminds me. As if Tennessee doesn’t have enough right-wing Christian assholes living up to Murphreesboro, Tn. to fill Neiland Stadium to standing room only, one of our local assholes made his way up to the Boro to screw with their new Mosque and the Mosqueteers who worship there. I want to first apologize on behalf of the state of Texas for letting one of our own escape our borders to be a stupid bigot up to Ugly Orangeville, and second, I want to thank the Volunteer State for providing that ignorant fuckball a nice, cozy place to stay. Not that having one fewer ignorant bigoted shitwads in Texas makes a dent in that particular population.

But a trip of a thousand miles begins with a first baby step.

And that reminds me to tell you that I’ve been really busy planning and hiding the details of the big wedding from the world. I’m sorry that I didn’t invite my friends, but Rick Perry was already so nervous he had the squirts, and he told me he wouldn’t be able to hold his nervous bowels if there was a crowd.

Have you ever smelled a loose ostrich shit? Have you ever tried to get that smell out of your hair?

It wasn’t a large wedding as weddings go, but anytime you have Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry involved common sense and reason fly out the window. Take the wedding cake as just one example. How do you find a bakery willing to make an alternating chocolate-and-vanilla six-tiered cake with an ostrich bride and hog groom, slathered with duck liver pate’ icing and coated with sunflowers? Once you do, how do you get them to keep quiet about it?

Mother was the only family member who didn’t attend the touching ceremony. Her refusal went something like, “If I cursed I would say to you, ‘No fucking way will I ever attend a homo-sex-u-al wedding.’”

While that wasn’t the first time in my life I heard Mother cuss, it was the first time since I decided to allow brutal honesty to be a two-way street in our relationship.

“Well said, Mother,” I told her. “If you’re too fucking bigoted to attend the festivities then I expect you to vacate the premises until we’ve finished all our reveries. I’ll have Gnat find you a room over to town for a few weeks. I expect the party to last a while.”

For new readers, Gnat is my personal assistant, and if you go to the Bloggie Roller over there ====}}}}} and buy Full Rising Mooner, my stupid fucking book, you will learn all about the little Russian wonder.

Mr. Dave helped Mother pack her bags and I’m guessing he packed the old bag as well. I used to think that what made my mother such a bitch since Daddy died was that she just needed a little sexing. While Mr. Dave’s giant penis has improved Mother’s moods in some ways, I have finally had to accept the simple fact that Mother is an asshole.

When Mr. Dave rolled two big suitcases into the kitchen to be loaded on the truck to go to town with Mother, I said to him, I said, “There’s two more cases out to the barn that match what you have there, Mr. Dave. I’ll go get them while you tell Mother she’ll need more things. We’re gonna do us some partying here to the ranch and you know Mother likes a broad selection when dressing.”

And that reminds me to say this. I just bought a case of Ivory soap and shipped it up to that asshole Jerry Sandusky. Big tough football guy my rosy red ass. I wrote him a card that said, “Here’s a little something to make things go a little smoother for you, shithead. Don’t wait until you hit the showers with those men, Jer’, lather up before you go. You’ll likely be a hot little thing up there and they might skip the foreplay. Oh yea, I’m not certain they’ll call raping you in the shower “horseplay” but I’m absolutely certain you’ll know how to play.”

Rotten child raping motherfucker. Now it appears that he adopted a boy to help fill his dance card when kiddie camp was out of season.

And now I need to remember to tell you that I’m taking the dogs and the fucking cat on a road trip over to New Mexico a week from today. We’ll be looking for a little place over to Santa Fe where we can go when we need to escape the heat and conservative Christian assholes here to home. I ordered a 14-foot truckload of Carta Blanca beer for the wedding and I hope to have a few cases left by the time we leave. We’re taking the route that goes through Lubbock but won’t have time to visit my buddy Pat Metze. But I’ll catch him next trip.

One of our side trips is to head west to hunt Peyote buttons. For some reason, the fucking cat can’t catch a buzz off mushrooms. Streaker Jones suggested that we try Peyote and I firmly believe that anyone’s first Peyote needs to be hunted down in person.

Anyway, I need to take Mother to her Hotel and then drop the bride and groom off to Emory Express for their trip to Costa Rica. Gram and Aunt Hilda went down with the P-cubed yesterday to set up the honeymoon suite and to un-crate the lovers upon their arrival.

Manana, y’all.



***Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry Marry In Private Ceremony***

Friday, June 22nd, 2012


Dissociated Press/Dateline: June 22, 2012- Austin, Texas USA:

Central Texas was stunned today to learn that Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry have finally married. The on-again/off-again Austin, Texas couple have had a fiery and tumultuous courtship that was solidified in a private ceremony held on the lakeside dock at the Johnson Family Ranch Thursday night.

“It was a bitch pulling this off,” said adopted Father of the Bride and Groom, Butcher Einstein “Mooner” Johnson. “Some fucking right-wing conservative Christian fuckball attempted to shit all over this happy occasion with an Internet webcast inviting the entire fucking world to the wedding reception. If it weren’t for Katy over to Lesbians in my Soup we’d have been way up shit creek.”

The ostrich Rick Perry was resplendent in a white organza dress by Vera Wang and was met at the alter by his groom, Rush Limbaugh the pig, wearing an evening suit by little known German designer, Speck Schinkenknocker. This wedding has long been anticipated by Central Texas high society and the sudden announcement has left many disappointed.

“Mooner Johnson is an atheistic heretic,” said Mrs. Leticia Browningwell, wife of Pastor Josiah Browningwell. “He allowed those two homosexuals to marry and he didn’t invite a single respectable person in town.”

When asked to comment on not having any respectable locals in attendance, Mr. Johnson responded with, “Fuck you.”

The bride was attended by Gram Johnson, Squirt Johnson, Hilda Johnson, Sister Johnson and her wife Anna Johnson-Johnson-Johnson, and Honor the fucking cat. Rush Limbaugh was unattended at the alter. Inquiries revealed that Mooner Johnson could find no willing participants on the gay hog’s behalf. “Rush Limbaugh is a ignurnt fucking pig,” said Gram Johnson when asked. “He’s lucky I ain’t shot his smelly ass an’ had Mooner smoke it.”

Invitees were limited to close family only, which did not include Mother Johnson. “I apologize to all of my friends for first, not inviting you to this little soirée. I know you all wanted to come but after that webcast I couldn’t chance a big party. Second, I have to say that I have been AWOL from the webber and bloggie with all the crap I needed to do for the wedding. I’ll be back soon.”

After a brief honeymoon in Costa Rica, the newlyweds will reside in Mooner Johnson’s recently remodeled closet. Gifts will be accepted in the form of donations to the President Obama reelection campaign in the name of “Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh’s gay marriage.”


Sniff, Hike, Dribble: A Parenting Lesson From Mooner Johnson, Father-of-the-Year Nominee

Friday, June 15th, 2012


So. I’ve been pretty busy with shit and stuff and haven’t been around the computer much. I did do an article for Katy over to Lesbians in my Soup, a returned favor for the public service work she did on my behalf. She said she’ll post it today. All the extra editing I did on that little dealio is why I’ve not been around here to the home site.

And speaking of Katy’s favor, can you even believe how quickly word spread about that non-party? Some people were even talking about how I was roasting whole hogs for dinner and how Willie and the gang were coming to entertain us. People were making guesses about the guest list and all kinds of shit. Maybe they were confusing me with Mathew McConnaughey.

Someone even sent the fucking governor an invitation, and let me tell you right now, that was funny. I got the fake RSVP card in the mail yesterday. It was marked “Decline” and in a scratchy scrawl at the bottom, it said, “Rick doesn’t think you’re funny.” It was signed, “A.”

I’m guessing that the “A” was Anita Perry, the long suffering wifey-poo to the pompadoured prick we call Governor. I’m also guessing that the scratchy scrawl to her handwriting is from the “vitamins” she takes for her nerves.

As soon as I get clearance to tell you the story, I can provide you with some very interesting insights into Mr. And Mrs. Perry. You won’t believe what happened because I wouldn’t believe it my ownself if I hadn’t been there for the experience.

And by the way. Who taught Mathew McConnaughey how to spell?

I spent the morning over to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s house doing her lawn and pool. I like to walk the dogs in her neighborhood when I’m there so that the puppies can interact with other dogs, and also walking them on the pavement and concrete sidewalks keeps their nails trimmed.

Yoda the goat dog is a total trip when he walks the neighborhood. As he was raised locked in a cage at a puppy mill over to Oklahoma, he came to us without any of what the dog people call “socialization” skills. So he goes nuts every time we encounter another dog, and he barks and snarls 100-pound threats that his 12-pound butt can’t keep, and he still hasn’t come to grips with the whole concept of leaving his mark around town.

Squirt and I have spent hours teaching him the proper pissing protocol yet he still screws up most of the time. “Oh for shitsakes, Yoda, you dumb ass,” Squirt told him this morning. “First you sniff, then you lift your hind leg and then you dribble a few drops. And if you piss on my head one more time I’m feeding you to the coyotes.”

Then my adorable little puppy-translator turned to me and said to me, she said, “Do you have any idea what the attraction is with that entire golden shower thing, Mooner. I love the smell of urine but I hate to get it all over me.”

“We-ell,” I dragged out, “I’d like to say that I have no experience upon which to base an opinion, but, of course, I do.”

I then told her about the time I was down to Costa Rica with Roshandra, my ex number five and a large bladdered woman, and how I got stung on my back and the backs of my thighs by a sea nettle. “All the times before I’d been stung on my feet and calves so I could pee on myself to kill the pain,” I said. “Since my pecker is way too short to douse my back, Roshandra did the honors for me. I was lucky Roshandra can pee buckets.”

I reminisced for a minute and added, “I’d also like to say that I hated everything about it, but I can’t say that either.” For some reason the memory sparked thoughts of Thai hot and sour.

“Jesus, but you’re disgusting, Mooner. Where we going for lunch?” Squirt’s favorite meal is lunch.

We settled on Torchy’s Tacos and we hadn’t been finished eating for ten minutes when Yoda started with the refried bean farts in the car. He was riding shotgun in his harness and I had the windows up and the GTO’s A/C blasting. Squirt said, “Let’s throw him out of the car, Bwanna Mooner. I can’t take him any more.”

But the Squirt started farting too and we all got the giggles and played fart games. I was thinking about that just a while ago and it came to me that the dogs have the maturity level of ten-year-old boys, and so do I.

And I miss my father. For no visible reason at all, I have this longing to spend just one more hour with Daddy. Maybe it was the retelling of the bean farts. Daddy loved fart humor. Maybe I miss him because he was so missable.

Manana, y’all.


Monday, June 11th, 2012


So. America, please read the following from Katy:

This is Katy from over at Lesbians in My Soup. It is an honor (oh, such an honor!) for me (little old me!) to have been selected (chosen, even!) by Mooner Johnson, in conjunction with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Department of Homeland Security, HUD, and some other agencies I’m not at liberty to mention, to bring to you this OFFICIAL GOVERNMENT DENIAL.


There is no party at Mooner Johnson’s house next week.


We know what you heard and we know where you heard it and I am here to tell you that it’s just not so.


Because, you see, there is no party at Mooner Johnson’s house next week. The people you’ve been hearing that from? They are conspiracy nuts. They are tin foil hat crowd types. At best, they are woefully misinformed.


They’re the same ones who believe in UFO’s and in aliens and in the Zombie Apocalypse. They think LBJ killed JFK and maybe worse! And when the government released OFFICIAL GOVERNMENT DENIALS for those things? They didn’t believe us then, either. They won’t believe us now.


But you’re smarter than them, aren’t you? You know because you’ve heard it. You know because you can read the words I am saying to you right this instant and you can recognize the truth when you see it.


There is no party at Mooner Johnson’s house next week.


The government has looked into it. Government workers, whose salaries are paid with your tax dollars and who get up every day and go to work with ONLY your best interests in mind, really, they looked and they listened and they measured several different things. Then they put all of the information they got into a computer. They pressed a button. The computer spit out a conclusion.


It was a definite conclusion with no ambiguity.


It said, “There is no party at Mooner Johnson’s house next week.”


It said Squatlo doesn’t need to bring the keg. It said Brandon from Idaho does not need to book his tickets now. It said you don’t need to charge up your camera, because BJ will definitely not be dancing around with a lampshade on his head come this time next Friday.


It said nobody needs to worry about the chips and the dip. You do not need to bring a gift or wear a costume because there is no wedding reception and there is no costume party. Because there is not ANY kind of party. Because there is no party at Mooner Johnson’s house next week.


We have the pictures to prove it. No preparations are under way. No salesman will visit your home. There is no party at Mooner Johnson’s house next week.


There won’t be a pig in the parlor. No ostrich in the Jacuzzi. These are not the droids you’re looking for.


No off-duty police have been hired to direct traffic. Nobody cleared out Mooner’s den for pole dancing. Why would they? There is no party at Mooner Johnson’s house next week.


Back when I was a teenager, my grandmother was a lot like you. She was a cynic. Thought everybody else was lying. Never believed what she was told. Saturday nights, I would tell her I was going to the library to study and she would never believe me. She would follow me to the library, all stealth-like. As though I did not know she was following.


She would sit out in her car as I walked into the library. Maybe pay some random kid walking by to go in to check and see if I was in there. That I had not snuck out some back door. She wasted a lot of nights sitting around outside of libraries while I was inside, learning. She wasted a lot of time, and that’s a shame, and you don’t want to end up like my grandmother, do you?


The good news is you don’t have to waste your time the way my grandmother wasted hers. You don’t have to set up your own spying operations. The government did the leg work for you! They had the drones and they had the wiretaps and they had the spies who went deep (deep! deep!) undercover.


You didn’t hear this from me, but there’s even a member of Mooner’s immediate family who is nothing more than a plant sent in to get the inside scoop on these sorts of things.


And the drones and the wiretaps and the spies who went deep, do you know what they told us? Can you guess what they said?


They said, “There is no party at Mooner Johnson’s house next week.”


They said, “Don’t clear your schedule.” They said, “Don’t call your friends.” They said don’t prep your opening line for when you hit on Reckmonster. They said there will be no band and there will be no strippers and there will be no pony rides.


They said we’d be wise to deny everything because there is nothing to deny. They said they’re your government and you believe your government, don’t you?








This has been an OFFICIAL GOVERNMENT DENIAL by Katy from Lesbians in My Soup. We now return you to your regularly scheduled blogging.”





Thanks, Katy.


Mooner Bags Powerful Women; New Mexico Governor Charms

Saturday, June 9th, 2012


So. I’ve decided to stop bitching about the blistering Texas heat and my state’s extreme right-wing politicians, and I’m going to get myself a place up to the mountains at Santa Fe, New Mexico. That way, instead of calling out the Roto-Rooter man to separate my balls from my leg, I can escape from the brutal heat and humidity to cool, dry mountain air. They actually add moisture to the air in Santa Fe!

A place over to the Land of Enchantment will also give me respite from the idiocy that is Texas politics. It appears that our legislatures are about to get farther to the right this year. As those silly assholes have already been driving our state’s bus way over to the right shoulder of the road, I fully expect them to race us into the ditch in next year’s legislative sessions.

Santa Fe, on the other hand, is as solidly planted in the left lanes as Texas is on the right. Hell, Santa Fe is so far left they should be driving like the British. Overall, New Mexico is considered to be moderate—sometimes Republican and sometimes smart. Their Republican governor, Susana Martinez, respects Democrats and works together with them to better govern her state. I’m not fully up-to-date with her politically, but I have recently become fully up-to-date with her.

OK, stop. How fucking confusing was that? Try this: I haven’t completed my research on New Mexico politics, so my only thought is that their Governor is a reasonable woman. She isn’t a Rick “The Prick” Perry sort of Republican based upon my research, and she doesn’t seem destined to ruin her entire state just for kicks. Again, my research is in it’s infancy so I’ll make no in-concrete proclamations.

But I did have sex with her. Intimate, tender and sweaty twist-my-hair and shout, “Hallelujah!” sex. It was Governor Susie (she asked me to call her that) and Hilary Clinton and me, and the three of us were sitting down to the fishing dock—legs dangling over the side—swilling icy cold Carta Blanca beers, just like god and I did a couple days ago. And just like a couple days ago when I was there with the big guy, we were deep into the mushroom buttons.

OK, wait again. This was dream sex I’m addressing here and not actual awake and all parties aware sex. Not that I haven’t had sex where all the parties were not awake and aware, but this was a dream for certain. I was certain it was a dream because the circumstances were so akin to god’s last visitation that I made everybody pinch everybody else to be sure that I wasn’t dreaming.

Which, as it turned out, I was.

And somebody help me with this. How, in the fuck, does pinching yourself tell you if it’s a dream or not? Who made that silly shit up? I have dreams wherein I can pinch myself and it “dream hurts” just like a real pinch in awake hurts. If Hilary hadn’t been there the other night I might be bragging that I’d bagged the SEC.-DEF and New Mexico’s governor in actual life. The former Presidential hopeful straightened me out.

“Listen to me, Mooner,” the most honorable Mz. Clinton told me. “Do you really think I’d be blowing you on a rough plank wooden deck, sweating my ass off and getting splinters in my knees while Governor Susie watches? Don’t you think in real life I’d be a bit less submissive?”

Another clue that this was a dream is that in actual life I’d be required to ponder that little question. As a social scientist and unfettered commentator, I might seek further experimentations with Governor Susie and Hilary before answering.

But this was a dream and she had a dream point. “You’re right, my Sweet Baboo,” I told her. She asked me to call her my Sweet Baboo. “In real life Governor Susie isn’t a watcher, she’s a participator. Also, I think I’d likely be the first on their knees at the alter of sex.”

And don’t go getting all pissy on me for revealing the intimate details of my sexing these important women because I’m not going into the details. However, I will say this. First of all, the former first lady isn’t a full-out lesbian, and second, her husband doesn’t fool around on her because she isn’t fun to get nekid with. As for Governor Susie, well…

OK, stop once more. My ADHD has seized control of the mainframe and cloud computers and is garbaging everything in-and-out. I have absolutely no idea where I was going with that other than to say I was going nowhere you give a shit to go. It’s just that there’s been so much going on about gay and lesbian political issues that I guess my subconscious mind wanted a little action with two nice ladies, and my dreamscape painted those two powerful women as willing participants in my fantasies. I often dream of powerful women—some I admire in actual life, and some are Michele Bachmann.

I did awaken from the dream with splinters in my own ass and shoulders, but they could have come from anywhere.

Anyway, I’m packing the animals and taking a trip up to Santa Fe the end of June, first of July. We’re going to find a place for us to use as an escape from Texas whenever our home state gets to be too much. Too fucking hot—we’re off to Santa Fe. Too much asshole right-wing politics—fuck it, we’re headed to New Mexico!

At breakfast this morning we had a round table discussion as to our wish list for the new place. I had Aunt Hilda take notes as family scribe and she somehow managed to screw things up as usual. But it’s what she does and it’s OK by me. Don’t know why I mentioned that, maybe I’m getting a case of the early onset dementia.

Squirt, in her usual opinionated way, had an entire list of wishes. “Here’s my list, Mooner, and the first ten are non-negotiable.”

She rattled off sixteen things she wanted in the Santa Fe abode. Most made sense, but several were ridiculous. “Look, little lady,” I told her, “I’m fine with you having your own bedroom fully furnished with all of that pink girly shit you like. But I will not be bringing Caesar Milan to live with us. I don’t need the Dog Whisperer telling me that I’m a bad parent.”

The Squirt somehow thinks that having the famous dog trainer as her personal confidant would have some magical benefits. I know I’m a decent father to head this herd of animals and I always have their best interests at heart. I’d never stick one of my dogs in a crate wired to the roof of the car and I never beat my pets. I might drown the fucking cat if she shreds any more of the clothes in my closet, but that would be a justifiable homicide.

I built Honor one of those around-the-room cat play scapes with worlds of carpet for use to sharpen her claws. Still that bitch kitty prefers to climb through my closet like she’s repelling the cliffs over to Paleface Park.

Fucking cat.

I want a place near the Plaza so I can walk to coffee and meals and music and all the neat shit that makes Santa Fe so great. I want it to be rustic adobe in style, have a nice kitchen and plenty of charm. Otherwise, I’ll attempt to please the animals’ wish list.

Time to hit the I-streets and look at what’s available. Anybody know a good real estate agent in Santa Fe?

Manana, y’all.

God’s Sense Of Humor; Water Rings On The Dock

Monday, June 4th, 2012


So. I’ve been having visits from god for a year now and the resulting thoughts, feelings and desires are a mixed bag of tricks. For starters, after many hours of conversation with god, I have no better clue as to his/her/its origin or identity, powers or desires than anyone else on the planet. Other than to tell me that Pat Robertson, Jerry Falwell, Brigham Young, Pope Anyone, and the rest of the “preachy” preachers are mostly full of shit, my new best buddy, god, hesitates to tell me what is right, and wrong.

When god paid me a visit yesterday he said to me, he said, “Look, Mooner, the basic tenets of most religions are sound and mark cadence with my wishes for you humans and the world I gave you to foster. Peace, Love and Caring are my middle names.”

God laughed at that one, then added, “I like deprecating and especially self-deprecating humor, sonny boy—like your refusal to capitalize me and my pronouns. You silly human shits have gotten so self-centered and exclusionary that you can’t have any real fun anymore. And you keep oppressing and killing each other.”

We were down to the dock—sitting with our legs dangling over the side—drinking Carta Blanca beers that kept materializing from nowhere, and enjoying the mellow from some nifty mushroom buttons. Each time I’d set an empty down, a fresh new bottle of beer would be sitting in the water ring of the last. And let me tell you this. God’s beer was no colder or tastier than that which I purchase by the truckload down to Mexico and smuggle across to Texas. When I asked him why that was, he answered, “How can I improve on perfection?”

How, indeed.

On his last visit, god came in the form of a shape shifter, changing faces and forms faster than Mitt Romney flips his flops. Yesterday’s visage only changed a couple times as points were made to me. I was sitting alone, contemplating life when my cell phone rang in my pocket. I saw on the caller ID that it was my buddy Bill from Tennessee. When I answered my phone, Bill’s voice said, “Look over your shoulder, brother.”

I did and there was Bill, or rather there was god in Bill’s skin. It took me a moment to figure things out and when the thought hit my brain to jump up and hug a welcome on my friend, I was told, “Keep your seat, Mooner, it’s me—god. Have a fresh beer.”

That was when the first new beer materialized in place of the last beer’s water ring. Maybe for the sake of clarity I’ll use the name Bill-god for this visit, and say god was a he and him. “I brought some mushrooms from the Far East for Streaker Jones and Dixie. I’m testing to see just how smart your pecker-wood buddy might be.”

A Zip-Lock baggie appeared in Bill-god’s hand and he opened it, grabbed half-a-handful of buttons, ate three and handed me two. “Best we start you on two of these, son. I need your focus for a little talking.”

I chewed and swallowed the shroomers and noticed the flavor of truffles and the perfume of lilacs. “These tastes like a French countryside, sir. Where in Asia do they grow truffles and lilacs?”

“They’re cultivated in Hanoi, Mooner, but the flavor is all from that mushroom. Truffles can’t grow in Viet Nam.”

Bill-god sat and dangled his feet towards the water, he and I swinging our legs back-and-forth. “It’s too fucking hot here, dude. I know you want some cooler weather so why don’t you look for a place in the mountains?”

I had started sweating like a goat in a soup pot, rivulets of fat, salty drops soaking my tee shirt after running off my face. “Man, these mushrooms hit quick,” I said, “I feel like I’m in a sweat box.”

Bill-god tipped his bottle for a swig of beer, wiped his sweaty brow with the front of his Oakland Raiders tee, swilled and drained his beer, and said, “Not the spores, dude, that’s pure Texas heat beating you down. You need to be drinking more water.”

“If I get a place to the mountains where would I go? I need to stay close to home, so the Appalachians are out, and I’m not crazy about Colorado or Arkansas. I’m not all that excited about Colorado. Everybody’s too intense about something or another—exercise, work, avoiding work, church,” I told him. “And you know I need to stay out of Arkansas after that little indecent from back when we played them in football.”

Bill-god gave me a quizzical look. I said, “Back when we were in the Southwest Conference, remember that year when we tail gaited up to their place and smoked the wild pigs near the front gates to their stadium?”

“Oh yea,” he said. “That was a close one right there, dude. I never knew you could run that fast.”

We laughed about how I almost got my brains bashed out by drunk hillbillies wearing pig helmets, and then reveled in the fact that Texas won a national championship nipping and tucking the Hogs in the game. Bill-god started giggling and said to me he said, “Can you believe old Tricky-Dicky Nixon trying to steal the Horns’ thunder after that game? Catch this action…”

He shape-shifted from Bill-god and transformed into the spitting image of Richard Milhouse Nixon, former president of these United States. He held up peace signs on the fingers of both hands and made that stupid pose and expression that Nixon used when he was attempting anything light hearted. He twinkled his eyes at me, shook his jowls with a “bluuubb” and said to me, he said, “I… am not… a crook!”

“Holy shit but that’s a great impression,” I told Dick-god. “Did I detect a little Dan Aykroyd in there?”

Dick-god did the Nixon jowl shake again, then told me, “I was trying to do Chevy Chase doing Dan Aykroyd doing George Carlin doing Nixon. I think I got too much hard C sound in the crook. Let me try again.”

He did, and then repeated the “I’m not a crook” line over and over with different inflections and voice characteristics. He had me in stitches. When I got my breath back and the tears wiped from my eyes, I said to him, I asked him, “Look, you’re god and all, and I need some help. I need a second home, someplace cool of weather and liberal of thought. But someplace where I haven’t already pre-worn my welcome. And not someplace musty, like Oregon. My balls are growing air roots like Spanish Moss and I need a dry climate that isn’t Colorado.”

Dick-god turned into Michele Bachmann and said to me, her pissy-nasal voice and posture Ms. Bachmann’s spitting image, and answered, “Look at the Land of Enchantment, asshole. Santa Fe is full of communists and fornicators and homosexuals in need of conversion.”

And with that, Michele-god vanished in a fragrant mist of Chanel Number 5 and fresh-pressed linen. All that remained from god’s visit was the memory, a baggie filled with purplish mushroom buttons and a solid dozen empty Carta Blanca bottles.

“Santa Fe, why didn’t I think of Santa Fe. I love Santa Fe.” I said aloud to myself. “Maybe I’ll get a place up to Santa Fe.”

My cell phone rang again, and again it was Bill’s caller ID. I flipped the phone open and said, “Hey, god, how’s it hanging? You coming back for another talk?”

“No, Mooner, I was just calling to tell you that my tomatoes are coming in and the weather here in Tennessee is cool and sunny. Are you stoned already? It’s not even noon out there in Texas.”

Oops. It was the real Bill. I said something like, “Uh, well ah, I was just talking to god and he called me on your phone, and when I answered he was here to Austin standing on the deck behind me, and when I turned to look at him… Well, Bill, he ah, he uh… Would you just listen to me all Chatty Kathy and shit. It’s your dime, brother, what’s up?”

“Jesus, Mooner, you need to get out of the heat. Are you drinking plenty of water?”

Bill’s a good friend. We talked about stuff and laughed at a present he gave Squatlo and Cindy and we rang off the call after a few minutes. I peed in the water off the end of the dock, gathered my empties and headed back to the house to start the smoker going. I was halfway there when my phone rang a third time, and for the third time it was Bill’s number.

I wondered if it was Bill or god this third time, and I figured that whichever it was, he was just calling to fuck with me. I let it go to voice mail.

Manana, y’all.