Archive for October, 2012

Cooking With Albert Einstein; Life Lessons Lost

Saturday, October 27th, 2012

 

So. I’m thinking that I’ll have reconstructions here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe to a stage wherein the cooking of a Thanksgiving dinner for a crowd will be possible. As I drifted off to sleep last night, I was thinking about a probable turkey menu with potential attendees, and also about the urine-soaked Texas Absentee Ballot we mailed off to Austin yesterday.

Thoughts of the ballot stewing in our juices in its plastic sleeve until opened sometime Monday brought thoughts of how to brine and bake a turkey at 7,199 feet of elevation. Those thoughts brought dreams of me doing a cooking show with Albert Einstein. Some guy wrote a book about kitchen science wherein he used my middle namesake as the scientist explaining the mysteries of cooking to his personal cook, and me, I’ve always wanted to read the book but never have.

In this TV show, I was Albert’s cook and Albert was my advisor on mind altering substances. I’m known to have spent decades perfecting recipes utilizing naturally-occurring chemical compounds—Mr. Einstein took great length demonstrating that each of the treats I prepared were not simple moleculed ingredients but were quite complex in structure—and the menu on this dream show included several of my personal favorites.

We started with an arugula salad with pickled celery and onions, truffle-shaved fire roasted Peyote buttons and a raspberry vinaigrette. Big Al Jones (the famous scientist asked me to call him Big Al Jones) told the audience that fire roasting Peyote helped release the bitter drug from its cellulose casing.

“The drug in Peyote—a spineless cacti closely related to the colorless succulent named Mittless Romneyi—is a native to the Chihuahua region of Mexico and America’s desert Southwest. The psychoactive drug in Peyote is a bitter alkaloid that can bring a bout of nausea as a precursor to the high. While it is usually cut in strips and chewed or brewed in tea, Mr. Johnson’s method of searing and then shaving the small buttons can reduce the timing of hallucinogenic effects from something approaching 45 minuted to just under a half hour and, likewise, reduce the incidence of nausea.”

“Thanks Big Al Jones,” I said in response, “Now, how about you explain all about the Bufo alvarius and the dangers of over-ingesting toad sweat.”

Which reminds me. Gram, the P-cubed, Honor the fucking cat and Ralph the limo driver are still missing. They disappeared Tuesday afternoon when the long stretched Hummer pulled away from the curb at La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe and headed, as Gram told me when she said, “We’re a headed inta tha mountains, Mooner. Penelope wants her a mountain man an we’re gonna git her one.”

When I reminded my randy old grandmother that New Mexico has eighty-nine named mountain ranges than range all over the fucking place, she said to me, she said, “Oh, who gives a shit which-a-one, Mooner. The P-cubed wants her a coonskin hottie an’ that’s fuckin’ that!”

What, inthefuck, is a coonskin hottie even look like in the year 2012? Except for reruns of the old Davy Crockett TV show, I haven’t seen a coonskin anything in forty years.

Regardless, I told Gram to be home Friday night if she wanted to be a part of the first full meal I cook in the new kitchen. “Don’t simmer no vittles fer us, sonny boy, mountain men kin be tricky to catch. We might need ta set us up some trot lines.”

Trot lines to catch a mountain man? “What’s the bait?” I asked absently to the flat back end of the departing Hummer limo. “What will you use for bait?”

And what size hooks?

Anyway, dinner last night was a nifty tuna steak, baked potatoes with mushroom-infused butter, and steamed broccoli. Gram brought me some fresh mushrooms from her cellar and they proved to be quite illuminating. And that reminds me that when I last spoke to Mother she told me several interesting things. “You need to watch out for those homo-sex-u-als there in Santa Fe, son. I hear that the thin mountain air weakens your resistance to their brainwashing techniques. Oxygen deprivation they call it.”

I tried to have an intelligent conversation with her about how if I was ever going to be a homosexual it would have been after my only homosexual-type sex act. “You know, Mother, when that asshole Baptist Boy Scout Leader raped me. That was my big chance to become gay.”

“I never believed you were molested, Mooner. Mr. Spenser was a good Baptist family man. You made that story up to cover for your bad grades in school and for spending so much time by yourself. You should wash your mouth out with soap for telling such a lie.”

I was stunned. “Fuck you, Mother,” I said to a dead phone. I guess she had hung up when I was stunned by her not unexpected callousness to me. I try hard to not tell my mother to fuck off, but sometimes it needs to be said. At least now I don’t have to be in the same room when she punishes me for ruining her life. And that, dear friends, is heartening.

Anyway, again, my favorite casino has a last Saturday poker tournament and today is October’s last Saturday. So it’s manana, y’all.

Semi Voter Fraud; Can You Smell It?

Thursday, October 25th, 2012

 

So. My New Mexico Voter Registration and driver’s license arrived in yesterday afternoon’s mail and I can’t be prouder. I have now officially divorced my most important allegiances from Rick Perry’s Texas and recast my political love in the Land of Enchantment. After opening the two separate envelopes, I made photo copies of the contents to file away.

When I placed the Voter ID copy into it’s file, I found the actual Texas Voter card and an Absentee Ballot that allows me to vote in this year’s Texas, Travis County and City of Austin elections. I pulled the ballot out of the file and showed it to the dogs.

“Let’s fill it out and send it in,” said the Squirt with obvious glee. “Let’s commit some actual voter fraud.”

“That would be fun,” I answered the adorable little lump of brown fur and sharp humor, “but I find I can’t even force myself to do it. I’m a one man-one vote guy.”

When the Texas ballot was delivered by US Mail—forwarded to Santa Fe within a week after getting posted to my Austin, Texas address—I spent an hour musing that I could have a final “Fuck Rick Perry” moment as a Texas voter.

I also spent time wondering how we Americans could ever consider privatizing the US Postal Service. To me, the dismantling of USPS is symptomatic of the evil forces ruining our country. They place unrealistic burdens on it and then bitch when stupid goals aren’t met.

“Tenemos que acer algo, Mooner,” Squirt begged, “this is your last chance to make a statement in Texas.”

“You’re right, little lady, we need to do something.”

After dinner, a few Carta Blanca beers and several visits with a match and rope, the three of us “cast” a 2012 Absentee Ballot for the State of Texas, Travis County- Austin. With a fat red Sharpie pen I marked “Not a real ballot: Mooner Johnson says Fuck Rick Perry!!!” across the top of the first page. Then we made snarky comments throughout the ballot—laughing and giggling our way through its multiple pages.

The Squirt got really silly and grabbed the ballot in her sharp-toothed mouth, shook it until it shredded. When she spit it out she said, “Take that, Prick Perry!”

After we stopped laughing at that one, Yoda and I took the ballot to the grass and added our signature statements, and we all laughed until breathless.

Before sitting to write this, I placed the “Not a real ballot” in a plastic sleeve, addressed a manila envelope and glued $2.40 postage to the upper right corner, loaded the dogs into the car and went to the Post Office. When we got there I pulled to the big blue boxes outside and told the Squirt, “Here you go, you little shitbird, this was your idea—you take the honors.”

Squirt grabbed the envelope in her mouth and climbed into my lap to get to the window, stretched her neck out and dropped it in. The three of us laughed some more then wee-wee-wee’d all the way home.

“Federal Express would have charged ten bucks for that package, kids, and the US Postal Service sent it for less than $3.00. Why in the world would anybody want to kill that kind of service?”

Why, indeed.

Speaking of honors, I haven’t seen the fucking cat since Tuesday afternoon when she was rubbing around Gram and P-cubed’s limo driver’s legs. I fear that Honor might have snuck into the big stretch Hummer and gone on what is now a two-day excursion of depravities.

And speaking of depravities, I wonder if it’s a crime to mail a shredded, dog and human urine-soaked absentee ballot in the US Mails.

Manana, y’all.

Of Horses And Bayonettes; A Liar’s Story

Wednesday, October 24th, 2012

 

So. I’m up early this morning because I can’t sleep. Maybe I should say I’m up not because I can’t sleep, but rather that I’m unable to sleep. “I could sleep if I were able,” might be what I mean to say. And I’d be able to sleep were it not for the terrible noises emanating from the guest rooms here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe.

My Gram and Penelope Paxton-Parades—Gram’s best ever buddy—are here for a visit. Gram and the P-cubed flew in rather than drive Gram’s Ferrari and I had to promise to rent them a limo for the times they wanted to go trolling for young men.

“Git us one a them Humdinger jobbers, Mooner, ya know, one a them four-wheelers what can go up to the top a tha mountains. P-cubed says she ain’t never had her a mountain man an’ I wouldn’t mind one fer my sef,” was the detailed request for transportation.

“An’ make sure they put us one a them Creeper Crawlies inna trunk.”

I guess I’ve been missing the skinny goat hide and giant libidoed old woman that serves as the matron of my family because I’d already prepared for her visit. “I made a trip down to Albuquerque to stock up on some supplies for you two. Out in the store room you’ll find a case of your favorite bubbly, Carta Blanca and Mountain Dew; cases of Trojan Super Lubes and Magnum Armour XXLs; two rubber sheets; some ammonia capsules and a trashcan with a box of hazmat liners. As for your Humdinger, I’ve reserved a driver and a stretched Hummer limo for the week.”

P-cubed made a silly comment about “stretched Hummers” and we all laughed. They left the house yesterday about lunchtime after Ralph, their Humdinger driver, spent thirty minutes explaining the company rules and loading their supplies. When I un-crated the auto Creeper car sled, he asked me, “Why’s this thing got seat belts?” Gram answered, “Load ‘er up and come on back fer a testy rider.”

Ralph demonstrated far more native intelligence and fear yesterday afternoon that he seems to actually have. His is one of the voices traveling through the crawl spaces and heating vents in my old house.

Which reminds me. I was walking the dogs on the hiking trail that runs along the commuter train rails the other day and we passed Ali McGraw walking her black Scottish Terrier. OK, I assume it was her dog, but as nice as I hear she is, she might have been dog sitting. Or maybe she started one of those fancy dog walking businesses.

Anyway, the Squirt was in a pissy mood with me, so she started her snarky growl shit from thirty feet out as we encountered Mz. Love Means Never Having To Say You’re Sorry, and that set-off Yoda the goat dog. My former punching bag for a puppy mill hasn’t got much of a bark, but what he has is delivered with mucho gusto at maybe 25 decibels. As we got closer he was yanking at his leash like a crazed lion and barking like a lunatic.

“Woolpfh-woolpfh-woolpfh!… Woolpfh-woolpfh-woolpfh!… Grrr-woolpfh-woolpfh-woolpfh!!!” were Yoda’s repeated, slashed vocal cord warnings.

As Ali walked by I noticed that she is just as beautiful as when I saw her in Love Story,and the smile she graced me in passing stirred me something fierce. After taking another thirty steps I turned and looked back, and saw that she had turned back as well.

The Squirt stopped abruptly, her leash almost yanking my arm out the socket. “How are we ever going to get you laid if you just walk by like a dead fish? Yoda and I can bait and set the hook, dumbass, but you’ve got to reel them in yourself.”

The Squirt stood, eying me with lazer beams. “Miss McGraw is an animal rights activist, asshole, and she walks her dog every fucking day. Yoda and I had this planned-out to the second.”

“You guys did that for me? Why thank you so…”

Squirt stopped my thanks when she turned her back and walked away, and flipped over her shoulder, she quipped, “I read all about her on the INTERNET and figured she’d be a good match. Looks like we need to lower our sights so why don’t you walk us over to the retirement home on Alta Vista. I’ll act sick and the goat dog can act stupid.”

Which brings up another point. America—my beloved America—is within a few percentage points of electing a liar as its President. Not just a little white lie liar, a bold-faced, in-your-face liar.

The kind of liar who sells used cars or stocks or vinyl siding. The kind of liar who will say anything to get you to give him your money. Mitt Romney is a gutless lying asshole and he’s close to getting elected to run the greatest country on earth.

Then, again, maybe America is no longer the greatest country on earth. Maybe we’ve sold so much of our civilization that we’re mimicking the Roman Empire’s last days. I had a dream a few months ago where the Pope told me that Christian extremists were attempting to forge an Armageddon and artificially bring the End of Days.

Electing Mitt Romney would be a Hell of a start.

Fuck Mitt Romney and his handlers. Manana, y’all.

 

Support Public Education; Romney Still A Lying Prick

Sunday, October 21st, 2012

 

So. It’s another day in paradise—Texas beat Baylor in college feetsballs, the Santa Fe air is crisp and clean and I went and entire minute without thinking about sex. The sex I’m not having.

OK, stop. Can you think about something that is nonexistent, or can you only think of the actual thing and not having it? Sex you are not having is sex that never was, so, therefore, how can you miss it? I should be missing the sex I have had instead. I should be missing sex with SAC Ellen or Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, or one of my other ten ex-wives. Over my lifetime, I’ve had me some pretty terrific sex. Hell, it’s all been pretty terrific except for that one time my third wife and I fell asleep in post coital bliss down to New Orleans. On St. Charles Street. On the toilet seat. In the womens’ room at Chef Lagasse’s Delmonico restaurant.

I had the signature steak and Anna the Amazon—now my sister, Sister’s, wife—had the oyster special of the day. Anna came from deep inside the closet and fell in love with Sister when Anna and I were on our honeymoon, a story you can read if you buy my silly fucking book. Click over there =====}}}} to any Full Rising Mooner linkster if interested.

This was back before Emeril became a big time TV cook and he spent more time in his eateries than in TV studios, and Anna and I were engaged. Long story short, Anna and I were Bammed!!! and canned down to police headquarters, where I spent a lovely twenty-four hours with other miscreants and Anna, “Met several interesting female police officials,” as she later recounted.

Maybe I should have seen that early warning sign and saved myself a divorce, but without that honeymoon my sister would not have found her true love. Sister is one of my favorite people and I would gladly make that sacrifice again.

Instead I miss something I’ve never had. That sounds crazy any way I try to spin it. I was over to see Katy this morn at the Lesbian Soup site, and I found myself contemplating a sex change operation. See, Katy is going through a post relationship sex drought just like me and I like how she thinks and, likewise, I feel we would make a good match. My logic thread was that if I were a lesbian, Katy and I could live happily onward assuming Katy would move from Houston to Santa Fe.

Maybe I should speak to Katy before making a down payment on my operation. And maybe my ADHD has ruined life as we know it. My head is a swirling cesspool of stagnant and mostly malignant thoughts.

Look, what I’ve been trying to get to is to tell you that I no longer have a romantic relationship with SAC Ellen. My move to Santa Fe was seen by her as an abandonment while I saw it—romantically speaking—as an expansion. Where I saw new places to leave sweat and other bodily excretions together, SAC Ellen saw an out-of-the-way village that would take days away from her life.

Ugh. Ugh, and shit, and FUCK! I don’t have time to search and research for a lover.

When I was last speaking to Mother, my demented old bat of a mother said to me, she said, “Serves you right, Mooner. I told you those homo-sex-u-als were going to brainwash you.”

She then went on to inform me that President Obama is a closeted gay man who kills his male lovers to keep them from telling his secret. She said her preacher said that the Secret Service loans the Prez their guns. That would be a Southern Baptist preacher, an asshole I’ve not met and plan to keep it that way.

President Obama must have spent some time in Santa Fe and come under the spell of our local homo-sex-u-als. I’ve yet to meet the evil ones but Mother assures me they are everywhere.

Dementia is a terrible condition that afflicts millions of older people. When my mother first started showing early dementia signs, I hoped they signaled she would have the sort of memory loss wherein she forgot what a right-wing Christian shithead she is. But, and alas, my mother has become forgetful of the good in her life leaving her to focus on what seems to me to be her hatreds.

Mother was a teacher. A proud, hard-working teacher who cared for her student’s education and welfare. She taught hundreds of kids before retiring and many of them still keep in contact with her. She was a member and Representative of the Teachers’ Union, and she fought hard for better conditions for educators and students with vigor. She stood up against politicians and school board members when they tried to politicize our kids educations, and she championed efforts to help less privileged families find ways to keep their kids in school.

On the phone yesterday, Mother told me that teachers are what is wrong with public education and that she supports Texas Governor Rick Perry’s efforts to gut public schools in favor of privatizing education. “If that homo-sex-u-al foreign Muslim President is for it, then I’m against,” were her words when I questioned how she could turn her back on her own life’s work.

Then there’s Gram. I’m picking her up from the adorable little Santa Fe Airport in an hour and maybe that’s why I’m in such a good mood. Gram and her best buddy, the P-cubed, are coming for an extended stay. They wanted to drive up in Gram’s bright red Ferrari so they, and here I’ll quote the horny old woman when she said to me, “So we can pick us up some New Mexican hombres.”

I told her that I’d hire a car and driver to escort them on their courting outings and that she is forbidden from crossing state lines in her little hot rod. I haven’t had time to meet and greet every law enforcement officer between Santa Fe and the Texas border.

Anyway, time to head to the airport and time to say, “Manana, y’all.”

Q: What Did You Do In The War, Daddy?; A: I Supported President Obama!!!

Thursday, October 18th, 2012

 

So. A friend of mine asked me to republish the following posting I did earlier this year. She seems to feel that some of us are missing important clues to Herr Schmidt Rommel’s multiple personalities and his Party’s designs for America. I wrote this in Austin after a trip to Santa Fe.

Fuck Mitt Romney, and please enjoy this as it is reprinted with the permission of the author.

 

So. It’s Friday and this Friday has started on happy notes. My good buddy BJ from over to Dumb Perignon has posted a pleasing summer ditty, it’s not too hot this am to spend time outside, and God came to see me again last night.

Having said all of that, I’m set to wondering why decent Austin weather and blog posts from Beej are happening less frequently than my visits from God. Visits BY God? My deity has been coming around so often I’m starting to think I might be imagining things.

When we were conversing last night, I asked the big Him—He was a Him when I asked this question—if maybe it was my ADHD that attracted Him to me. It has seemed that I’m more distracted with rampaging thoughts these last few months when God has been stopping by, so I asked Him, I asked, “It seems that both the levels of my deficited attentions and the frequencies of your visitations are connected in some way, Big Guy. Have I scratched a scab of truth here or am I delusional?”

“Yes,” was all the response I got and all I needed to gain the requested insight.

To some folks, having their God tell them that they are delusional would be unsettling, but to me it’s merely conformational. Hell, I know I’m crazy, for shitsakes, a fact that I admit, and often. But like a blind boar in an oak forest, I do occasionally trip over an acorn, or two. I do stumble and bumble through the smoldering swill that is my ADHD-addled thoughts and hit a thick vein of Truth.

And here I do mean capital “T” Truth. Truth as in God confirms that both the essence of the thought is spot on, and that it’s importance makes it worth repeating. Now you might be thinking at this particular point—a mere 280 words into this missive—that I’ve lost control of my faculties. But hang tight because first, I’ve never had control of said faculties and, second, what I’m about to tell you was sanctioned by God.

Unh-huh, that’s right, God Her Veryownself authorized that I disseminate this information to the Inet-mosphere. Here I say “Her” as He had morphed from a Western Biblical image of God into the spitting image of Jane Fonda as Barbarella.

God came to see me yesterday evening as I lay on the fishing dock, dangling my legs from the knees down in the water, and a fat doobie stuck in my face. I was maybe eight Carta Blancas into my day and I was alone on the wooden-planked structure. I needed some time to myself to sort a few things out so I had gone down to the lake for some solitude.

Like I said, I was laying on my back and swinging my dangled feet back-and-forth as I tried to grab a single thread of thought from the jumbled mess inside my head. Something has been nibbling at my soul for a week or so and I couldn’t put my hands on it. Some something was bugging me and I just couldn’t figure it out. I had lay long enough to get fully relaxed and I was just stoned enough to have a fully opened mind.

“Are you ready to talk about it or are you too fucked-up to deal with me?”

“Whaaa?” I barked, as I almost leaped into the lake from the flat of my back. “Who the fuuu… Oh, it’s you, God. How’s it hanging, Sir?”

God laughed deeply, heartily. “It’s hanging deep and wide, dude. Deep… And wide,” God told me with more laughter.

“You scared the bejesus out of me again, Big Guy. You’re not quite as funny as You think.”

More deep rumbles of almost demonic laughter and then, “Yes, I am that funny, Mooner. As a matter of fact, I invented funny.”

Hard to argue with God’s logic.

“I stopped by to help you out a little bit here. You’ve had your thoughts all pantie-twisted so tight that its tugging your mind’s pubic hairs into those painful little knots. I’m going to take them panties off your brain and shave you down to clear your head,” God informed me.

And that’s when He morphed into Barbarella. I had to try hard to look in God’s eyes and not at Her stuff. “This is somewhat unsettling, Ma’am. As you are well aware, I masturbated to Barbarella for months after watching that movie.”

God looked at me like I had said something funny. “You saw that movie eleven-and-a-half times, sonny boy, and you still masturbate to Jane Fonda.”

OK, guys, right is right and God was right.

“So what’s this big advice dealio you’ve got for me. I’m sort of busy now trying to be alone. Can you yippy-Skippy things for me so I can return to my solitude.”

“Don’t be boorish, shithead, I’m pretty busy myself. Look, think back on your last trip to Santa Fe and a specific moment of clarity. If you think it, it will come.”

And with that, God flashed me a dazzling smile, flipped Her hair off her shoulder, and vanished. I was left with nothing but God’s memory and a faint scent of Summer’s Eve.

Clarity in Santa Fe,” I thought, “clarity, in Santa Fe?” And it hit me. I was in a store on The Plaza called Santa Fe Hemp—a nifty place with hemp clothing and clever political statements. I stopped by to see if they are a customer of our hemp clothing factory but I never even checked their clothes. I was so enamored by the progressive message bumper stickers and cards and stuff that I never looked. I had spent at least an hour reading and commenting to the Squirt when I came across a postcard with a statement by Laurence W. Britt.

Mr. Britt has studied fascist governments, including Hitler’s Germany and Benito’s Italy, and he determined that there are specific early warning signs when a government or society are turning towards fascism. I was so impressed with this list that I bought the postcard for all of my friends. Here is what the card says:

 

Early Warning Signs Of

FASCISM:

  • Powerful and Continuing Nationalism

  • Disdain for Human Rights

  • Identification of Enemies as a Unifying Cause

  • Supremacy of the Military

  • Rampant Sexism

  • Controlled Mass Media

  • Obsession with National Security

  • Religion and Government Intertwined

  • Corporate Power Protected

  • Labor Power Suppressed

  • Disdain for Intellectuals and the Arts

  • Obsession with Crime and Punishment

  • Rampant Cronyism and Corruption

  • Fraudulent Elections”

 

OK, first, please allow me to say a “Thanks” to Larry Britt. Second, I would like to say,

Wake the fuck up, America!!!”

I wonder if I can rent Barbarella on Netflix. Manana, y’all.

 

Hey, Mitt–Mitty Baby. How’s THAT Obama Ass Taste?

Wednesday, October 17th, 2012

 

So. It’s a glorious day here to Santa Fe, New Mexico—cool, crisp and clean. OK, clean except for the continued construction debris that litters La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. The construction dust is covered with construction dust and I’ve started ordering my tacos “al carbon e sand.”

Which reminds me, what a gritty performance by our President last night. As predicted, Herr Schmidt Rommel gave a repeat performance of the first debate and our main man was very much on his game. Romney lied and obfuscated and gave nary a detail while the Prez was mostly spot on. I’ll not spend any more time to bask in the glory of a big win other than to say:

“Hey Mitt. How’s THAT Obama ass taste?”

I have a big day today and too much to do to sit here at my computer. And I’m hungry, so fuck it. Manana, y’all.

 

The Doctor Is In; Can You Define Crazy?

Tuesday, October 16th, 2012

 

So. It’s now the morning before the second Presidential Debate and less than a month before the actual elections. Mitt Romney has evened the polls and I’m not concerned in the least. Never before in America’s history has there been such a clear choice between an honest man trying to improve the lives of our common citizens and a man who… A man who, well…

OK, let me ask you a question here—a deadly serious one.

Who, inthefuck, is Mitt Romney? What does he really stand for? I mean besides his willingness to say any fucking thing he thinks he can say to get elected. In the last six years of Herr Schmidt Romney’s Presidential campaigns, Der Field Marshall has taken opposite sides of every important issue facing America.

Think of this Important Issues Score Card:

  1. Abortion: For and Against
  2. Balanced Budget: For and Against
  3. Semi-Universal Health Care: For and Against
  4. Spurious Wars: For and Against
  5. The 47%: Against and “Huh?”
  6. Separation of Church and State: Who Fucking Knows

 

OK, let’s stop for just a moment. Since international policies are a subject with significant news cycle times, let’s examine Herr F.M. Rommel’s recent world views. On Iraq: We needed an extended war; On Afghanistan: We need a war extended beyond Obama’s scheduled conclusions (I think); On Iran: “Fuel-up the jets and load-up the Bunker Buster’s, boys, them Arabs has defied our wishes for way too long,”; On Palestine/Israel: Obama is a pussy, but it can never be solved.

When you listen to that asshole’s speech at Virginia Military Institute—America’s premier war college—you’ll discover that Mssr. Romney has an aggressive military solution for every international issue. It goes something like this: “If you don’t do what I want you to do, I’ll send other American parents’ children—in the form of the “Mightiest Military on the Face of the Earth”—over there to your place and we’ll kill your kids until you relent.

But again, who really gives a shit about what that giant flaming asshole says. He doesn’t mean a word of it. He just wants to be King… Er, President. It’s what he wants.

He’s not going to get it. These next few weeks will see his lies come home to roost and the media will finally put a face on them. We saw the start of that in Thursday night’s VP Debate.

Which reminds me. I rented a suite of offices for Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson here to Santa Fe. I received one of those “Get your ass in here for a therapy session or I’m locking you away in the loony bin” phone calls. Since I have no reasonable desire to cross back over the state line and into Texas for psycho therapy, I was forced to find a way to get my therapies locally.

“How about I decorate a room as your office and put you up here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe? You can theraporize me in the office all day and we can sex it up at night,” I told her. “I’ve got one of those dual control air mattress jobbies and we can add air to make one side real bouncy.”

Not to tell her secrets, but my first ex-wife used to love bouncy sex.

“Listen, buster, just because you can’t get laid doesn’t mean that I’m serving double duties for you. I’ll have my architect email my office requirements. I’ve always wanted an office in Santa Fe.”

I finalized the lease and the new office is something quite special. It’s in one of Santa Fe’s few brick buildings, and one of her windows overlooks the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum and the other windows have an up-close view of our adorable County Courthouse.

The reason I said, “… one of the few brick buildings in Santa Fe…,” up there in that last paragraph is that at some time in the past, Santa Fe cast in concrete an impressive City Ordnance. Among other stuff, this Ordnance requires that all buildings be built to merge with the land, look like it came from an old Pueblo, and be shorter than the State Capitol Building downtown. Obviously I didn’t quote the ordnance with precision, but if you’ve ever been to Santa Fe, you’d say, “Yep, uh-huh, that pretty much sums it up.”

Beautiful town. Nothing over three stories to block the light and views.

To celebrate the lease signing, I flew the good Doctor up from Austin and took her to dinner with a local couple who are our friends. He’s an attorney—one of only two attorneys I’ve ever met who would get pissed-on if catching fire in my presence—and she’s a straight-A student and ardent political activist. She’s likewise been in the same post-debate funk as my buddy Squatlo. But unlike Squattie, she was greatly heartened by the VP debate.

We ate at this nifty little restaurant on Johnson Street named Trattoria Nostrani—one of the best places I’ve ever eaten snooty food—and we sat in the back next to two quite charming men. As is my habit when someone asks how I feel about the current status of American politics, when asked at dinner, I said, “These neocons scare the ever-loving shit right out of me.”

“You got that one right, brother,” said the dark haired man at the next table.

“Yes, indeed,” was the words of his blond companion, the man sitting next to me across the short space between tables. “Sorry to eavesdrop, but it’s terrible what they are trying to do.”

The six of us then had a spirited discussion about the flippy-flopper and what terrible things this new brand of conservatives are planning for our country if they get control of it.

Which brings up what I wanted to tell you. The two men at the next table were well-dressed and mannered, handsome (as Dr. Sam I. Am later told me in the car headed to her Hotel), and they were quite good conversationalists. Neither had a tattoo on their forehead that said, “I’m a gay man,” but for some reason I believed them to be gay men.

When I got home and lay in bed with nothing to keep me warm, save the two loving puppies, it dawned on me that I have matured in a small way. As a younger, far denser man, I might have asked those two men if they were gay men. I wouldn’t have wanted to embarrass or offend them, but I might have asked.

Why would I ask a potentially offensive question of two interesting and pleasant people? Why would I have risked a fistfight or worse, hurting someone’s feelings stupidly?

Because I would have wanted to know—I would have been curious, because it would effect how I thought of them and how I interpreted their words. It would have mattered because as a much younger man, I still had some lingering prejudice towards not-heterosexual people. Not anything mean or angry, but just the simple fact that I felt that a gay person’s gayness mattered in the bigger scheme of life.

I grew up with a lesbian sister—lesbian from her first breath—and have spent my life supporting and defending gay people. But there is a difference in how I see gay people now. That difference is that now I see no difference.

It dawned on me that I didn’t care if those men were gay in any reference at all. I might have factored their gayness into their discourse re: any gay issues, but otherwise they were two interesting men talking about what a giant flaming asshole Mitt Romney has turned out to be.

When I had thought it through, I awoke the Squirt to tell her of my new-found maturity. The adorable lump of brown fur listened intently as I told her the story and of how I have become a better man.

“Is that it? You woke me up from dreaming of chasing bunnies to tell me what a wonderful man you are?”

Have I ever told you that Squirt dreams of chasing bunny rabbits, factual information that substantiates the old wives’ tale?

“Uh, well, yea, I guess that’s why I woke you.”

“Fuck you, shithead, I was just about to snag the rabbit. And you are not going to win the Nobel Peace Prize. Shut up and let me go back to sleep.”

She’s right, of course. A person with actual maturities wouldn’t brag about having them. In fact, I fear that bragging about what a wonderful man I am is a clear indication that I’m slipping backwards–I’m getting crazier.

Ugh. I guess it’s a good thing the Doctor is in. Manana, y’all.

Sink… Sank… Sunk; Dreams And Other Misfortunes

Saturday, October 6th, 2012

 

So. OK, let’s get this shit out of the way so we can move on with life. If the debate was an acting contest, Mitt Romney “won” this week’s debate. He won it clearly and concisely. If attitude and aggression are your most preferred Presidential qualities, Mitt’s your boy.

But let me ask one question before we talk about fun stuff.

“What does it mean when the main reason you state for the President losing this debate is that he failed to aggressively shout down his opponent for telling egregiousness and stupid lies?”

When I hear that silly shit said by talking heads on both sides of politics, I’m forced to shake my head. The worse thing President Obama did was allow Mitt Romney to lie? Really? That’s like saying Sharon Tate lost her “life debate” with Charlie Manson’s crew.

OK, that might be a terrible analogy, but maybe I made a point.

Anyway, I’ve been having incredible dreams since occupying Santa Fe, and I want to share a few with you starting with last night’s.

A cold front blew through about 1:00 am and awoke me. I had been dreaming about walking nekid on the dunes of a desert when the icy wind blew in through the open window above our bed. I was lying on my side, with the Squirt all scrunched-up in the crook of my bent knees—tail running up through the crack of my ass—and Yoda the goat dog was on my neck like a muffler.

One minute in the dream I was panting and laboring across the intemperate sands in what must have been a hot dog breath and smelly-furred sweat, and the next minute I found myself back in high school—nekid in front of the blackboard attempting to explain the Pythagorean Theorem while removing a wad of toilet paper from my ass.

Once fully awakened by the chilly wind, I realized that it was dog tail packing my crack and that I had to pee something fierce. Since I don’t have a finished vanity and vanity sink in the master bath, I was forced to use the commode. Regular readers know this, but I prefer to pee in the sink so as to make efficiencies in both water savings and physical motions. I sat on the throne, leaned head in hands with elbows on knees, took a deep cleansing breath, and promptly fell back asleep.

Which reminds me. Why don’t most people believe me when I tell them that I pee in the sink? Any sink. My sink, public sinks.

Your sink.

I started dreaming as soon as I shut my eyes, and I found myself back in the days when I was married to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson. I was sitting in her waiting room, all dressed-up in a suit—the suit worn when she and I wed—and I had to pee. I walked over to the receptionist and asked her where I might find the closest sink. She said to me, she pointed at her desk and said, “It’s right there on my desk, Mr. Johnson. You’re more than welcome to use it.”

When I looked down, she pushed a large sink-shaped ashtray towards me. It was a white porcelain Kohler—model number QF-1572-A—and it was filled with some sort of absorbent the consistency of large-grained sand. Without hesitation, I flipped my necktie over my shoulder, unzipped my suit pants, tucked the tails of my white dress shirt in the waistband of my white cotton undies, maneuvered my pecker through the peeky-poo hole in those same undies, and peed into the gritty absorbent.

I guess the QF part on the ashtray model number was for “quiet flush”. Wait, maybe it was for “quick flush”. Fuck it, maybe Q is for the year 2012 and F is for February, the year and month it was made.

How’s that ADHD ass taste, everybody?

It was a lengthy pee, and after a moment the receptionist reached her hand down and touched—ever so gently—the thumb and forefinger of my peeing hand. She then took her finger and touched the peeing pecker.

I started to think about her actions and suddenly another woman’s hand entered the frame. This one had long, slender fingers with bright red-painted fingernails. She ran a manicured nail tip across my stuff and then another woman came along and reached for me. I looked up into the three women’s faces as they were crowded together to get hands on me. I saw Katy from over to the Lesbian Soup Site as the receptionist, Sarah Palin as the red-nailed woman and it was Dr. Sammie coming in last.

My psycho therapist, and first wife of ten, had a terrible scowl plastered all over her face. “Get your crazy ass into my office and right now, buster. It’s been almost a month since your last session and you are way out of control.”

I answered, “And it’s been longer than that since I had myself any third-party sex.”

“What do you mean third-party sex, Mooner?” she asked me. “I told you that multiple sex partners is bad for you.”

“Calm down, psycho babble babe, I mean a third party not me or my lonely pecker.”

That’s when I awoke, slumped on the pot and numb from the waist down, with my nighty-night erection ready to explode with pressure from my way-too fucking full bladder. I somehow managed to pee and then crawled back to bed with ten-thousand needles sticking my useless legs and ass.

“Where have you been, asshole?” the small brown puppy asked when I managed to pull myself back into bed. “I’m freezing my tushie off, and Yoda wants to snuggle with me. Have you smelled that shithead’s breath?”

“He smells like a goat’s butt, what do you expect?” I told Squirt.

My adorable puppy resettled herself, this time on groin and crotch as I lay on my back, and the goat dog snuggled into my arm pit. I guess my smelly pit has an appeal to a goat. I remember thinking, “Why did I dream Katy was interested in me, why was Sarah Palin in this dream and why, inthefuck, haven’t I gotten a sink installed in the master bathroom yet?”

Ugh.

Katy has recently become single and I have a history with lesbian women, and I am forced to admit that I would sex it up with Palin. Maybe that’s it. Then again, maybe Yoda isn’t the only man in our house who acts like a goat. And maybe I need a therapy session and some sex.

Ugh, once more. So much to do. Manana, y’all.

 

Debate Hangover; It’s About The Truth, Stupid,

Thursday, October 4th, 2012

 

So. Last night before the Debate, I had a premonition about what would happen. I thought that the moderator would not actually moderate and control the action, I thought that Romney would follow Rush Limbaugh’s advice and be a pit bull and attack the President rather than state the facts and specific plans of just how he wants to make things better. I also said that I wished the Prez would call Romney out on his lies.

Sadly, I was right and didn’t get my wish. Jim Lehrer was a non participant, Mitt Romney was an attack puppet, and the President acted like a President with excessive reserve. Sure, I wished that he had been stronger when Romney lied, of course I do. There were several times I was yelling at the big TV that hangs over the mantle in the den here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. “Call him out on his leis!!!” I screamed more than once.

My blood pressure was tipping in at stroke levels when the moderator allowed both candidates to avoid the questions, and in the final analysis, I feel both candidates were winners and both losers.

Mitt Romney won the debate of aggression, of posture, of attractiveness and of volume—a clear and concise victory in all three. Romney won and the President lost, and clearly so. If the election were to be decided by which candidate was louder, stood up straighter, spoke louder and was prettier last night, Mitt Romney wins in a landslide. Hell, if the majority of the American people are so fucking stupid to take that kind of form over substance, we deserve Mitt Romney as our President.

As my buddy Squatlo said in his first post-debate posting last night, “…If this had been a prize fight, the Obama corner would have thrown in the towel…”

To those of you who are all freaked out about the President’s lack of aggression against the Mittster, please allow me to say this:

“Chill out. Take a Valium or two, and chill the fuck out.”

Guess what. This wasn’t a prize fight, folks, it was a debate. It was a DEBATE. You know what a debate is, right? One of those public forums where people with differing views express their views by presenting facts and plans and specific information that supports their personal position on the questions asked by the moderator, a debate.

Even if it had been a prize fight, Romney would have been disqualified in the second round for rules violations. The worst referee in the world wouldn’t have allowed a participant in a title fight to rabbit punch, knee the groin, and hit after the bell like Lehrer did last night.

When the debate was over last night, the Squirt was visibly upset. The little puppy crawled into my lap, sighed a deep and pitiful sigh, and said to me, she said, “Mitt Romney just lied his way into the White House. I think I might go jump off a bridge.”

From listening to liberal pundits and other Obama supporters this morning, that seems to be a common theme. For some reason, even the smart and caring among us have fallen for Rush Limbaugh’s bullshit. But think about this for just a minute. Think of reading the words spoken last night and not about the visuals.

The President presented programs past and future with specifics, presented the positive benefits of his programs, and defended any failures of those plans. He calmly, TRUTHFULLY, and accurately explained his plans and visions. He didn’t call Romney out on his lies and lack of specifics and flip-flopping with the voracity I would have liked, but he did call him out.

Think about the words. The words spoken last night.

Do you realize that Mitt Romney agreed with the President on almost every important issue? Did you hear him say that Romneycare/Obamacare was a good thing? Did you then hear him say that he wants to give that health care design to the states to control using vouchers? Romney wants to give the states control of Medicare using vouchers, folks, he said it last night.

Hello! Hello out there. If the states were to be in charge of our health care, how soon do you think every American with a crippling illness would pack their bags and move to Massachusetts?

Romney agreed with the President to not raise taxes on the great middle class, reduce the deficit and protect education, and create jobs. I heard him say it more than twice. Then I also heard him say that he wouldn’t reduce the military budget, that he would voucher public education, and that he would balance all of these financial balls in the air and create jobs without increasing taxes.

He said he would reduce the middle class tax rate to lower taxes and then turned right around and said that would be a “revenue neutral” act because he would also eliminate deductions. Would someone please tell me how you can either reduce a deficit OR increase available funds for the military with “revenue neutral” budgets.

Please fucking tell me, because I have been a businessman for the better part of fifty years and I need some of that accounting magic. How can he increase military spending $2 Trillion and over the Pentagon-requested budget and give $5 Trillion more in tax cuts without either increasing revenues (read taxes) or deeply cutting program budgets for non-military programs?

Answer: Magic.

In his closing statement, Mitt Romney told us that his number one priority is to make sure America has the greatest military in the world. Really? I thought you said it was jobs—no, wait, you said it was education—no, you said it was to repeal Obamacare—or was it energy independence?

And all that Romney said/promised he would do was said and promised without specifics or verifiable fact. His budget will balance because he will magically create 12 million new high-paying jobs without spending any money and with no identifiable plan.

Really?

States can better decide about our health care and educations, so when we send vouchers to the states, all of those problems will magically go away and America will once again be the Land of the Free?

Really? Have you seen the stupid shit state legislatures in Texas and Tennessee have been pulling?

Just like Mitt Romney believes the magic underwear he wears twenty-four hours a day is going to protect his soul, he expects us to believe that his magical solutions to America’s problems will protect us from further economic and social harm.

OK, stop, Mooner, enough. The President wasn’t as good as we expected and Romney was as aggressive as we thought. Win/win, lose/lose. But please let me say one last thing.

It’s about the truth, stupid.

Manana, y’all.

 

 

Mooner’s Debate Prayer; Fuck Mitt Romney

Wednesday, October 3rd, 2012

 

So. I sitting at my computer now, an hour before the big debate. I am hopeful that Mitt Romney shows his true colors and that the President shows his as well. I have come to think that Romney might have sand bagged some of his economic policy specifics for an unveiling tonight in an effort to upstage the Prez.

But then, again, I think the Mittster is a puppet and will follow Rush Limbaugh’s advice—blustering and blundering his way for 90 minutes, attacking Obama and making the Tea Baggers proud.

But my main wish for this series of debates is for the moderators to call each of the candidates on their bullshit. If either strays from the truth or refuses to truthfully answer a question, I hope that Lehrer gets all up in their face. I’m tired of bullshit debates wherein the moderators treat candidates with kid gloves.

And I liked what I saw of the recent Mass. Senatorial debate as David Gregory attempted to get straight answers. But one of these TV ass clowns needs to grow a set and piss the parties off if that’s what it takes to get an honest debate. Otherwise, let’s stop having them.

Anyhoo, if I was a prayerful man, I’d pray for those things and for Mr. President Obama to crush Herr Schmidt Rommel’s balls.

Manana, y’all.

Smarty Pants Silly Phones; Mooner Solves Voter Fraud

Tuesday, October 2nd, 2012

 

So. I got a phone call from a buddy last night who wanted to schedule a visit to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. Since I left my trusty personal assistant, the lovely and charming Mz. Gnat, back to Austin to run our business affairs, I’m required to perform her jobs on my own behalf. Gnat has been with me for over twenty years—a story you can read if you buy my stupid fucking book by clicking over there =====}}} on any of the linksters that mention Full RisingMooner.

I have so many requests for extended-stay visits that I bought a motel software package to handle the reservations and accommodations for my many guests—a task normally performed by Gnat. The software package arrived yesterday afternoon by US Postal’s daily to-your-home delivery system two days after I ordered it.

Which reminds me. Who, inthefuck, would want to kill the United States Postal Service? I mean who other than greedy businessmen who want to privatize it for their own personal gains.

I took my new software program back inside, unwrapped it, glanced at the installation instructions and jammed the round plastic disc into my computer, and began operations. All tasks normally performed by Gnat.

Two hours later, I called Gnat and scheduled her a visit to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. I think she can fix the messes I’ve made in my life the last two weeks in New Mexico in a month, or so.

Which reminds me. This entire Voter Registration business is stupid.

S T U P I D !!!

OK, look, I get it that we need to register voters in some fashion in order to prevent the rampant Republican voter fraud perpetrated by the RNC. I get it that we need a way to insure that our One Man, One Vote system of semi-democracy needs to be a system of ones. What I don’t get is why this shit is so fucking difficult. So, I was sitting out to the portal last night with the dogs but not the fucking cat, drinking Carta Blanca beer and smoking a blunt.

For new readers, a portal is a covered patio and mine is a marvelous contraption with jalousied windows on one of the two closed walls and a fireplace on the other, and the long open side looking out over all the flagstone we laid and looking up to New Mexico’s magical sky.

Last night’s sitting was with the nearly full moon hanging over the big Ponderosa pine tree and a vigorous dotting of bright stars. I was stretched out on the wicker couch with Yoda curled up on my chest and the Squirt settled between my legs, head on my crotch. Squirt was staring bullets at me through the haze of pot smoke hanging in the chilly, dead-still air.

“Answer me this, Bwana Mooner. What is all of this hullabaloo about voter registration? Why is this such a big deal?”

I attempted to explain it and she questioned my answers, and all of a sudden the solution came to me. I, Butcher Einstein “Mooner” Johnson, have solved the entire voter registration problem. Here’s the deal, and I call it the “Mooner Johnson Voter Registration Solution”, or MJVRS for short.

Stop. I need a catchier name than that so that its nickname will be catchier more than that silly shit. MJVRS? Really? Maybe you guys will have a better name after you hear my ideas.

OK, first of all, Republicans are all hung up on Photo Ids, like they can pull more underhanded stunts with a picture of the faces of the people they fuck over. Not a problem with whatever it is my solution is named.

Smart people are concerned that the Republican efforts to make it difficult for a huge portion of our population to get registered and then vote are egregious attempts of unmasked bigotry. Once again, not even a problem for, try this—Mooner’s Voter ID Solutions, or MVIDS.

Is MVIDS better than MJVRS?

Here’s how this dealio will work. OK, for starters, every asshole in America—save for me, Streaker Jones and my Gram—have cell phones with 50-gigabite memories and cameras that make a Peeping Tom drool. Next, those same cell phones are connected to the INTERNET and have keypads and special applications and all sorts of other shit.

Sooooooooo, here’s what we do. Ready?

We register Voter Registration Clerks with each county or parish or whateverthefuck they have in each state. Democrats and Republicans and Greenies and all the rest of the parties can register their registrators to be Voter Registration Clerks. Hell, for that matter any church or Moose Lodge or VFW Post can do the same.

Voter Registration Clerks will have their smarty-pants silly phones loaded with an application containing their state’s voter registration form, and a photograph clicker dealie to take a person’s picture with their utility bill or mortgage stuff or whatever.

It cracks me up when Gram says “smarty pants silly phone”. You try to tell her that we call them smart cell phones and see what happens.

Anyway, the applications will contain security thingies to insure that the Voter Registration Clerks can’t pull any funny business, and they will auto-transmit any application back to Headquarters, whether it was completed or not. That way, some shithead can’t cancel or discard a registering voter for any reason.

This way the County will now have a picture of the registered voter with his proof of residence and the application in their hot little hands instana-fucking-taneously. Then when it comes time to vote, a voter can show up with any damned kind of ID. Got a question? Look on the computer and see the voter’s picture.

Am I brilliant, or what?

This solutions shit is easy when you take the time to look at it with a belly full of beer and THC-lacquered lungs.

Maybe next I’ll take a shot at male pattern baldness. Maybe I need to come up with a good name for this current solution. I wonder how much money I can make with this?

Which reminds me of something else. Why do we men dribble a few drops of urine after we finish peeing? It doesn’t matter how many times we shake and squeeze and re-shake, we always dribble. At least I do.

Last night when Yoda the goat dog and I were re-marking our territorial rights to the back yard, Squirt was watching with a keen interest.

“What’s wrong with your pecker, big boy. Your undies are going to be stained something awful.” Then she added, she said to me, “Oh, I get it. Yellow to the front and brown in the back.”

We all three laughed and then wondered where the fucking cat was. Honor has been missing for a week, and I have absolute certainty that is a metaphor for something political.

Manana, y’all.

Herbert Clark Hoover Returns?; Reruns Of The Great Depression

Monday, October 1st, 2012

 

So. I’ve been thinking deep in the back of my flea-bitten brain, desperately trying to remember the economic policies of Presidents Herbert C. Hoover and Franklin D. Roosevelt when each was in charge of getting our America back on track from the Great Depression.

The reason for this brain research is that I have had these nagging memories and senses that there are some quite strong comparisons between those two Presidents and the two Presidential candidates in today’s America. While I will readily admit that I have an extreme personal bias regarding my choice in November, I have done some research that links that bias to the President whose policies brought a successful resolution of the Depression.

Further research likewise links the failed economic policies of the Depression President to the guy I really fucking don’t want to be my President.

The Great DEpression—like the current Great REcession—was sparked by Wall Street. In 1929, Wall Street was a mostly unregulated monetary casino where $Millions could be made, or lost, in a single day. Promoters could organize and market companies both with legitimate business interests and those that were simply scams.

People were allowed to purchase stock with little or no cash and when the Stock Market heated up after 1925, Americans were literally “betting the house” to purchase their stock picks—mortgaging their homes to by share certificates. Speculation was rampant and millions of Americans invested too heavily in stocks.

Since investment in a stock is, eventually, a value-based investment, a day of reckoning will come and a stock’s true value will be determined. In October of 1929, years of Roaring ’20’s speculative and quite high stock prices came crashing down with the reality that those prices were not backed by value.

Crash, bang and BOOM!

Today’s Recession was caused, basically, by a deregulated Wall Street speculating by promoting mortgage-backed securities that, again and quite literally, had average Americans “betting the house” on an investment. The main difference is that instead of gambling on stock purchases they couldn’t afford and that had no value to back the stock’s price, average Americans were gambling on home purchases with financing they didn’t qualify for on houses that were priced far above market realities.

OK, stop right here, Mooner. Nobody really gives a shit about all this economics. Folks who read here either already understand these comparisons or they don’t. If they don’t, they are either too young to vote or they don’t give a shit. So I’ll attempt to get to my point.

My memories of FDR are quite clear and abundant. He is one of my heroes. Like President Obama, FDR wanted to stabilize the support systems for the vast working class majority of our citizens and worked hard to create programs that generated jobs and social safety nets. Again, not to bore, but FDR created: The WPA, FERA, CWA, Tennessee Valley Authority, and the US Housing Authority—all of which created infrastructure directly and created jobs directly and indirectly.

By the way. Since corporations are now people, should we use the word “who” rather than “which”?

FDR created Social Security to better all Americans’ elder years and the Securities and Exchange Commission to try to prevent future Wall Street collapses. He created the Wagner Act to help promote and strengthen workers’ rights through trade and labor unions, and he worked hard to keep America out of World War II. FDR didn’t see war as the solution to America’s economic woes, and before our entry into that terrible conflict our economy was in a strong recovery.

President Obama’s plans are quite closely akin to those of FDR, and again I’ll not bore with details because it’s the other guys’ comparisons I’d like to demonstrate. To do so, please allow me to pluck a paragraph from Ask.com when I Google searched “President Herbert Clark Hoover’s economic policies”. Here’s the quote from Ask,com:

“Hoover, a trained engineer, believed strongly in the Efficiency Movement, which held that the government and the economy were riddled with inefficiency and waste, and could be improved by experts who could identify the problems and solve them. He also believed in the importance of volunteerism and the role of individuals in playing a role in American society and the economy. Hoover, who had made a small fortune in mining, was the first of two Presidents to redistribute their salary (President was the other; he donated all his paychecks to charity).”

As you can see, Hoover and Mitt Romney made money in mining—Hoover mined natural resources and Romney mines other peoples’ assets—and each feels that America’s government’s are very wasteful. If you click over to the linkster for the Efficiency Movement, you’ll get a taste of what swollen-brained rich people thought of governments and the working classes one hundred years ago. You’ll see that Hoover thought government wasteful and the working classes to be “inefficient”. Further digging will show that the Efficiency Movement felt that most workers are lazy and require stringent overseering, er, I mean oversighting to gain ultimate efficiencies in the workplace.

Sound familier?

And if you read deeper on Hoover, you’ll see that he was a proponant of civil rights and pushed to get all minorities and poor Americans educated and trained and voting, just like Mitt…

Oopsie.

Maybe I need to get myself a research assistant.

How about this second Great Depression comparison to today’s dealio? Herr Adolph Hitler took control of a Germany that was far worse off than America in that day. Der Fuhrer had a simple plan to get Germany back on its feet: Blame the Jews for all of Germany’s problems to foment hatred in a common enemy (think Muslims); Install Christian-based education systems (“Hello, Texas Board of Education”); Promote finatical nationalism; Create jobs by spending huge amounts af GNP on the military industrial complex; Inflict German system on other countries through military invasions, and, therefore and ipso facto, end Germany’s depression.

Does maybe that shit sound familier? Do the words “Herr Field Marshall Schmidt Rommel” ring any birthday bells?

My brain is going to explode. I think that I have so thoroughly distracted and confused myself that my gray matter has reached critical mass.

Maybe that’s how all of those Brittish people spontaneously combust while sitting in their easy chairs watching reruns of Upstairs, Downstairs. Their minds start to ponder the likenesses between King Henry the Eighth and their current Prime Minister candidates—and, POOF!

Which reminds me. I spoke to Mother last night and talk about your poof. The dementia is taking her memory, like “POOF!” it’s gone. If she was my aunt and not my mom, she’d be my batty old aunt, Mother Johnson. While she still remembers me, she just can’t seem to keep me placed in Santa Fe right now.

She hasn’t seemed to lose any of the right-wing Christian bigotry that is the chasm between us. When I reminded her for the fifth time in as many calls that I’m in Santa Fe, she said to me, she said, “Well just you don’t let any of those homo-sex-u-als talk you into anything, son. You know that they are good salesmen when it comes to selling their lifestyle.”

I’ll be glad when this election is over. Really glad. I’m hopeful that the Republicans won’t get full control of America’s dashboard but I’m actually fearful if they do. OK, maybe I meant America’s control panel.

And maybe my ADHD has fritzed the ever loving shit right out of me. So please allow me to say this: Drink Carta Blanca beer, and come back manana, y’all.