Archive for November, 2012

Fuck Walmart!; A Dr. Marcus Bachmann Story

Monday, November 26th, 2012


So. What if we Americans stopped shopping at Walmart and those other retail giants that employs Walmart’s tactics to profit at their employees’ welfare? I’m not certain that any other retailers denigrate their employees as much as Walmart, but there are bound to be a few more shitheads we can stop doing business with.

OK, stop. I should have said, “… there are bound to be a few more retailers with which we can stop doing business.” I love danglies, but I need to modify my prose for better reading. OK, might that be better said by saying, “I need to modify my prose to be better read.”?

Think about it. What if a huge number of Americans decided to shop elsewhere until Sam Walton’s kids decide that the four of them owning 40% of America’s entire fucking private wealth is enough? What if we forced Walmart to change its views on its employees?

I did some reading on Walmart and I came across the following:

“When Sam Walton created Wal-Mart in 1962, he declared that three policy goals would define his business: respect for the individual, service to customers, and striving for excellence (”

Which of those three goals holds the umbrella that covers sexual bias? How about worker abuse and unhealthy working conditions? Which goal stimulates Walmart’s “Buy Chinese first” purchasing policies?

Walmart’s product lines are 70% Chinese products today and in the 1980’s and 90’s were estimated to be at least 50% Chinois in origins. Who of us can forget Walmart’s infamous “Buy American!” advertising campaign? Maybe Sammy W. had that big lie covered under the excellence goal.

Which reminds me. I was flipping through old reruns late the other night and tripped over an old Shark Tank show. There was this guy from one of the Carolinas who wanted money from the Sharks to make his product in America instead of shipping the jobs off to fucking China. One of the asshole investors actually had the gall to call the man stupid for choosing to give his neighbors jobs at a higher cost than he could employ Chinese children.

Asshole right-wing greedy fucking Shark Tank shitwad.

And which Company Goal was served when the Walmart security guard choked a shoplifter to death over the weekend? To the Walton family, stealing a DVD player is a death penalty offense. I guess that when you think that $0.90 per hour is a livable wage, you can place other human values on a low scale as well.

Am I the only one who thinks that the Waltons and the Kochs and Trump and Limbaugh wish for a feudal society as America’s next evolved government? Am I the only one who thinks they look on us commoners as serfs?

Fuck Walmart. Fuck Walmart hard and dry!!!

Which reminds me. The Squirt has started snoring. OK, that’s not quite accurate. The Squirt has started snoring loudly. She’s long snored this adorable little snirffle snore that is so cute it melts your heart. Nothing says “love” like a soft snore from an adoring pet.

But there’s nothing adorable about what’s coming out of the 10-pounds of brown fur these days. The Squirt’s nocturnal noises are literally cartoonish—long, loud and full of multiple intonations. I’m reminded of an old Popeye cartoon with the basket full of puppies snoring away.

I bought a bag of foam earplugs to help me sleep through Squirt’s snoring, and that is the crux of my current problem. I’ve been wearing these cute purple foam earplugs every night for a few weeks—jamming the small rubber cones deep into my ear canals. I didn’t take time to think that plugging-in my hearing devices in order to sleep would create additional health complications, but I neglected to reason the simple fact that your ears are a vital component of your body’s sinus system.

My nasty cold is now in my ears and it feels like I’m on an airplane that roller-coasters up and down from zero-to-20,000-feet each thirty seconds. I’m in a continuous loop of compressing/decompressing and I’m ready to slit my own throat.

And for some reason that thought brings to mind something that has been bothering me for quite some time. Chris Hayes and Rachael Maddow are the same person. It’s true and I know it’s true. I loves me some Rachael Maddow and I think Chris Hayes is a very smart young man, and I simply don’t know how Rachael makes the transformation and where she finds the time to live that particular double life. I find myself unable to concentrate on Chris half the time because I’m looking for clues as to how they could make Rachael look less like herself when they do the makeup.

Maybe a blond wig and handlebar mustache.

Smart women really turn me on and many’s the time I’ve been sitting with MSNBC on the tube and rMs comes on and I start to daydream about Rachael and her partner and me. I think her partner is an artist named Susan. OK, maybe it’s Leslie or Margaret, perhaps.

Anyway, I’m unsure as to what I might even suggest to do about this entire Rachael/Chris dealie, but I am going to give it some thought.

And might it also be possible that Grover Nordquist and Dr. Marcus Bachmann are the same woman? I’ll need to research that one as well.

Anyway, “Fuck Walmart!” and come back manana, y’all.

Smooth Maneuver, Shithead; Tile Floor Finished

Friday, November 23rd, 2012


So. Today is Black Friday and my ADHD has taken over my brain. I’m unsure what might have triggered the lunatics to revolt and rise up and seize the controls, but rise and seize they have done. Maybe it was the dinner party yesterday wherein I somehow managed to piss off an entire roomful of family and new friends or, maybe, it was the not-so-simple task of relaying 35 square feet of 16-inch ceramic tile floor.

Or maybe it’s the quite simple fact that I’m an ADHD-addled fuckball who lacks the attention span of an amoeba and likewise lacks the social borders required to provide filtered thoughts during polite conversation. Sometimes when a person has fifteen individual thoughts at once, plucking something appropriate to say about a canned spinach casserole with a burnt graham cracker crust is difficult. Especially when Yoda the goat dog won’t touch a bite of it.

I just realized that I spelled amoeba correctly. I’ve already misspelled casserole and roomful and misspell, but I got amoeba right.

Saying, “Well, I passed on your spinach casserole when I saw the goat dog turn his nose up at it. That little shit will eat anything,” might not be an interpersonal communications method mentioned in How To Win Friends And Influence People.

Then, when the preparing chef of said crappy casserole says, “I thought I’d be creative and, rather than use Campbells Cream of Mushroom soup, I decided to add three packets of Ramen Noodle soup base,” and the nice neighbor lady standing next to me gags, and I misinterpret “gags” for “chokes”. Her ample breast flopped against my forearms like big water balloons as I administered the Heimlich Maneuver, and now her husband won’t look me in the eyes.

Some women should wear brassieres.

I’m starting to think that it’s the tile dealio that set my attention deficits into high gears. I should have gotten with J.O.B. before I ever started the project. J.O.B. Helped Squatlo with his tile messes, but I forgot and didn’t seek his counsel. Council?

Adrian and I started the removal of improperly-installed ceramic floor tiles Sunday morning—a task we thought would take less than half a day—with plans to have the new tiles laid by day’s end. We’d grout early Monday morning and be done with it. A plan fraught with inaccurate assumptions.

I’ve had a head cold for a month or so, a malady initiated by a blast-to-the-face of construction dust. The electrician was grinding a plaster and adobe wall to run a Code-required outlet on a wall where I really don’t want a fucking electrical outlet. I’d had a fifteen-minute argument with the City Inspector about, “Fuck your stupid City Codes, I don’t want to tear that wall apart to install an electrical plug I’ll never use,” and then another fifteen-minute talk with the electrician about, “If you get dust all over the house one more time when you grind that wall, I’ll rip your balls out by the roots.”

Having concerns for his balls, the electrician used two Shop Vacs—one exhaust hose connected to the intake of the second vacuum and the second exhaust hose poking out a partially-opened window. A topical solution resulting from critical thought.

I was standing ten feet away—supervising—as he was grinding with one hand and holding the suction hose in the other, and the dust was streaming outside. I noticed that the grinder was straying off the pre-marked line I’d drawn up the wall for him and I stepped over to tell him. I caught my big foot on the discharge hose from the second Vac and ripped the end out of the window. I got a full blast of dust right in the face.

The dust clogged my entire respiratory system for a couple weeks and then allergies or a cold took over, resulting in what has felt like a six weeks head cold complete with snotty nose and loss of the sense to smell mildew.

I’d kept the hall bath closed off for the last week to keep anyone from cutting their feet or shoes on the sharp edges of mislaid, broken tile. When Adrian opened the door, he did one of those double-take dealies and said, “We got us a bigger problem than bad tile, brother. Something is rotten in Denmark.”

Turns out, when the asshole right-wing Republican shitbrained tile-laying motherfuckers had mislaid the original tile, they nicked a hole in one of the new WIRSBO plumbing lines I just installed, and hot water was leaking between the Hardiplank underfloor and the original oak plank and rough-sawn pine sub-flooring. Maybe that should be “rough-sawed” sub-flooring. Screw it, I like the word sawn.

Anyway, the entire bathroom had to be deconstructed down to the heavy fir cross-beams, those beams sprayed with anti-fungal chemicals and then dried before reconstructions. I’m allergic to some molds, which might have worsened my nasal congestions.

Which reminds me. Since my sense of smell was so diminished, maybe I should have at least tasted that spinach casserole. Can something actually taste bad if you can’t taste it?

It took us all day Sunday to remove the plumbing fixtures and tear out all the waterlogged materials. I hate chemicals but I hate the thought of dying a death by black mold worse, so I sprayed anti-fungal on the fir timbers that comprise the basic foundation of the bathroom. Monday, we allowed things to dry and then Tuesday we reinstalled sub-floorings, Hardibacker and then tiles.

The tiles were laid in what Adrian calls a “mud set”, which to my eyes was a full mortar bedding material much like when you lay concrete blocks. That dried until Wednesday afternoon when Adrian came back to grout all the seams. For the uninitiated, grouting tile is a major ass pain and requires multiple washing/drying and then re-washings to insure that you get all the grout film removed from your finished work.

I wiped the last of the grout film from the floor about an hour before the first Thanksgiving dinner guest arrived, and I only cut myself six times over the five days of bathroom re-tiling efforts. Have you ever gotten fresh garlic juice in a deep finger cut?

I’ll be working on a new medical product—an antiseptic cleaner made with lemon and garlic juice. Anything that stings that bad has got to be good for you. I’ll donate all the profits to the Food Bank. Maybe that would be an antiseptic cleanser.

Which reminds me. Can you even believe that America has approximately 700,000 homeless people? What, inthefuck, is wrong with us? I don’t give a rat’s ass why they are homeless, those are Americans, humans. We need to provide them with basic shelter and food.

But I didn’t take the leftover spinach casserole down to the shelter last night. That shit wasn’t good enough for the dogs.

Manana, y’all.

Perfect Party Planning; Lessons In ADHD

Sunday, November 18th, 2012


So. It’s another beautiful day in New Mexico and I’ve just discovered that I have more work to do on La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. The floor tiles in the guest bathroom have started breaking in half, a situation of considerable consternation. The reason for my confusion is that the tile was laid by “professionals” over the summer and the reason for the failure is, quite simply said, operator error.

I was busy out back with the yard grading problems—moving truckloads of soil with Adrian and Pedro—when the tile was laid in the small bathroom. Since I hired professional tile guys to do the work, I didn’t pay any attention to their efforts. They laid the tile with glue and didn’t “bed” it in mud.

Asshole fucking amateur tile-laying Republican shitheads. I bet they voted for Romney.

In order to have the bathroom ready for the Thanksgiving crowd, Adrian and I will be working the weekend to rip out the old stuff and install newly-purchased tile. Tiles?

Which reminds me. All of a sudden I’m not a very popular man. For months I have been receiving dozens of supportive, flattering Emails every day and suddenly last week, the bottom dropped out. I’m not sure what I did to make Stephanie Cutter unhappy with me, but her sometimes twice-daily love letters just stopped ringing my Email’s doorbell. I really thought we had something going.

And that reminds me of something else. With all the asshole businessmen pulling bone headed stunts in the wake of the President’s reelection, I want to take a minute to speak my positions re: thereto. Thereof? Therein?

Heretofore, I want to speak my positions therein.

First of all, I have long had a personal embargo on Walmart, Chick Fil-A and this restaurant in Austin whose meals gave me food poisoning twice. I started my Walmart embargo due to their asshole personnel policies and strengthened it with the giant chain store’s long list of Chinese product offerings. Now they have allowed their greed to creep Xmas sales all the way into Thanksgiving day, a move that forces other dumbass retailers to do the same. I won’t shop Walmart. Ever, or for any reason.

OK, stop. Do you have an embargo “on” something or “at” that offensive thing?

As for the chicken sandwich shop, I stopped going there because I was in their hometown in Georgia this one time and met some gay people who were fired when they disclosed their homosexuality to management.

So, “Fuck you Smallmart and Chickenshit-Filled Assholes both!”

As for Pappa John’s Pizza, I have consumed exactly one bite of that ketchup-covered cardboard and one bite was enough for a lifetime. But I’ll now add a “Fuck You!” to that asshole and Applebees and Denny’s and all the rest of you. Stop using Obama’s win to excuse your being an asshole.

Be an asshole and own it. I can at least have a modicum of respect for an asshole with integrity.

Which provides another reminder. I wanted to buy some drapes for the dining room to provide privacy. The windows in the front room are giant and some folks don’t like getting ogled by passersby while eating. I will be changing the windows out next spring for better efficiency units, so I wanted simple, inexpensive drapes.

OK, stop again. Maybe I wanted curtains and not drapes.

Anyway, I do everything possible to buy American made goods and services and I especially don’t like to buy Chinese. I refuse to consume anything Chinese unless it’s my only choice and I really need it. I’ll gladly pay higher prices for stuff to support homegrown business and that reminds me to say that I don’t do Staples or Home Depot either.

And now I’ve lied to you because I consume Chinese food—love it and eat it by choice—and the lady up to the spa where I got a recent rubdown was Chinese, and me glad she was. Maybe I’m showing a prejudice, but I think Asian women—or at least Asian-looking women—give the best rubdowns on the planet.

I used to think it was Scandinavian women who were the best rub-downers back to when I was married to Ingrid. Ingrid owns Ingrid’s Hot Wax Emporium back to Austin and Ingrid has her some magic fingers. Since our divorce, and the subsequent separating of the clinical rubdown from the hard-core sexual aspects of my relationship with Ingrid, I’ve decided that Asian women are the best rubbers.

I spent the entire last week trying to find already sewn drapes NOT fucking made in China. The best I could do was over to the Bed Bath and Way-too-fucking-far Gone, where I found an assortment of drapes that were, as the tags said, “Hecho in China.”

Hecho in fucking China?

I’ve got an appointment with a seamstress Monday morning.

Which reminds me. I’m headed to a party in my honor tonight and I truly don’t know what to think. My lawyer buddy is introducing me to some local folks and I have some confusions therein. Sex is a not-so-recent memory and I’m hoping he and his lovely wife have arranged for some unattached women to be there for me to meet. I’m concerned that I’ll do something to fuck up their friendships. Not that I’d ruin a relationship on purpose, but I’m trolling for sex of an accidental or purposeful nature, either way.

Is it proper to take more than one woman home from a party given in your honor? If things move quickly in one of the new relationships, do we sex it up in the bathroom or should we take it outside. Would it be proper to sex one new acquaintance in the bathroom during the party and take another home after?

It’s been cold at night so maybe I should put some blankets in the car, and have you noticed that my ADHD has gotten better since I left Texas? The Squirt told me just this morning that she thinks I’m getting better since we moved to Santa Fe.

OK, that’s another lie. What my adorable little puppy actually said was, “Not getting laid helps your ADHD—gives you something to focus your crazy mind.”

Then she giggled at me and said, “Shiny objects!”

I said, “Bitch,” and then giggled with her. “Will you check the hairs in my nose for me? Classy women don’t go for men with boar bristles poking out their schnozzolas.”

Blankets and a Barry White CD. I wonder if they’ll invite a nice lady artist. Maybe I should go with a Puccini opera CD. Maybe I should get one of my Navajo blankets in case I meet a nice woman from a local tribe. Maybe I should learn a few pick-up lines in Navajo. Maybe I’m over-thinking this dealio.

Ugh. So much to do. Manana, y’all.


Thinking Of Q; Reflections On A Year Ago

Tuesday, November 13th, 2012


So. I was just reading some comments from Squattie and Beej and it hit me. A year ago today is when I packed my car and headed back to Austin after BlogCon 2011. That memory should have hit yesterday when I learned that Quincy’s wife died. That’s my buddy Q from over to Thank-Q For Common Sense.

My first stop for BlogCon 2011 was to see Quincy and his wife in Jackson. I thought of how the Mrs. Didn’t feel well enough to have dinner and beers and conversation on that November night I stopped in Mississippi to meet the Q. While he never shared with me any details of his lovely wife’s illness, I have never sensed pain from/in Q. I never sensed that he carried the burden that many people with a dying spouse carry like 80-pound backpacks. He was reverential and respectful and always loving towards his mate. But never a “woe is me” was uttered.

When I tried to say something meaningful in respects yesterday, I realized how insufficient words are. I wondered about how we humans have experienced billions of deaths over thousands of years yet we lack any truly comforting words after death.

Why don’t we have a standard statement that will make everything OK—why can’t we say a few words and have things actually be better?

I left Jackson, Mississippi the next morning last November with a new friendship, a half-dozen smelly beer glasses from The Bulldog, and a learned respect for common sense. I programmed the OnStar system in my little Chevy for the outskirts of Murfreesboro, Tennessee, and headed out. I arrived at the McDonalds near to BJ’s place where he picked me up for a “grocery trip.”

The two of us drove central Tennessee for a couple hours and hit four of the best pork and chicken smokers’ establishments in the South. We also established the foundation of one of the best friendships I’ve ever had.

OK, and let me also say that Beej was the assigned vetting agent for Squatlo and the Reckmonster—the toughest of the three of them whose job it was to make certain I wasn’t an ax murderer from Texas who’d driven 1,800 miles to thin the blogger population in Central Tennessee.

Which reminds me. I read that some silly assholes in Texas have gotten enough signatures on a Petition to Secede From The Union to make it official. Got enough other assholes to sign it to force the President to look at it.

Dear President Obama:

I hear that Texas wishes to leave the extreme discomfort of The United States of America in order to form what they consider to be a more perfect union—a union of one. Please grant their wish.

Sincerely (and I mean it),

Butcher Einstein “Mooner” Johnson, American Citizen and Former Texan”

Do those silly asshole even realize how fast Mexico will invade the fucking New Republic of Texas? Davy Crockett and the boys stole Tejas from the Mexicans and the Mexicans want it back. Don’t know why they want it back, they just do.

I wonder if Rick the Prick Perry would lead the Texas Brigade in the second defense of the Alamo. Take his Texas Aggie sword out of mothballs and lead the charge.

And that reminds me to say, “Hip-hooray for the Aggies football team!!!” Kicked that Alabalama butt and did it in Tuskalooser. And something just hit me.

I have always wondered about the elephant in the room with the Crimson Tide. Might that be because the word “tusk” is in their hometown’s name? What if the actual name was Tiskaloosa? Maybe they’d have Miss Manners as their mascot.

The morning I got up to leave BJ’s house exactly one year ago today, he fixed me several magnificent breakfast sandwiches. Bacon, ham, eggies biscuits…

One year ago today. Wow.

Anyway, our country will remain in good hands for another four years and we can all be entertained as we watch the right-wing talking heads explode. Manana, y’all.

Yoda Yellows The Pristine Snow; Happy Veterans’ Day, Beej.

Sunday, November 11th, 2012


So. Here we all are on a fine Sunday morning—a Veteran’s Day morning and a morning for reflections on life. Here to Santa Fe, we got our first dusting of snow and now the air is crisp and clean and bright. The snow fell overnight, and when we first got out of bed I took the dogs to the back door to let them out. Doing our business is always the first order of business for each day and Sunday morning business is always a family affair.

When the three of us got to the back door to go outside, I said to the puppies, “OK, guys, let’s slip on your sweaters. It’s cold outside.”

The Squirt stuck her nose on the door glass and jerked her head back like a shot. “Fuck you, Buster Brown, I’m shitting on the carpet and going back to bed.”

The diminutive brown dog headed back to the bedroom and flipped over her shoulder, “Wake me up when the French toast is ready.”

My mother called me Buster Brown whenever I pissed her off in my childhood and she called me John Henry when I pleased her. I guess I should be glad I earned the nickname of Mooner back on the first day of school. Buster Brown would have been tough to live with.

Yoda and I dressed for the cold and went outside. This is the first snow the goat dog has ever experienced from the outside of a tiny wire cage. The first year of his life was lived inside the hog wire prison of a puppy mill over to Oklahoma, and most of our experiences together are firsts for him.

I wish he could talk to me like the Squirt. I can’t get anyone to tell me the specifics of who’s and wheres regarding that dog factory. Then again, I fear that Oklahoma jails are far less friendly places than my usual barred haunts.

He and I walked the back yard and marked our territory in the usual way. I think he actually giggled when he first peed into the pristine white snow. The ice crystals cracked and fizzled and steamed before turning yellow, and the little dog snickered like a boy. Which made me snicker too.

“Let’s write our names in the snow,” I said, and I wrote as much of mine as I had ink left to write.

Yoda looked down at what I’d melted into the white snow, looked up at my face and back at the snow again.

“OK, it says ‘Moo’, shitball. All I had left was enough to write a cow sound.”

We both giggled some more. “Now you,” I prodded.

The small white half-Chihuahua half-Whippet looked up at me like I’d asked him to define Pi. “You’re right. Here,” and I picked him up, “you pee and I’ll spell.”

Have I ever told you that Yoda’s name was Pi when I first adopted him? What kind of name is that? What character traits might a dog even have to resemble a Pi?

Stupid fucking dog name.

Anyway, I got some news from Texas as Gram and the P-cubed had Ralph drop them off down there to the ranch rather than back here. They drove out to New Jersey with a Hummer limo full of “supplies” for the hurricane victims and then headed home to Austin rather than back to Santa Fe.

“We’re a moving Mr. Dave over ta tha old folks’ homie down to San Antonio. Seems he’s been taken by tha same dramentia as yer fucking mother.”

“It’s dementia, Gram, but I get the picture. Anything I can do?”

“Nopers. Ralph’s gonna load up tha Humdinger an’ drop Mr. Dave off with yer mother. He’ll stop back here to tha ranch to load up some shit fer you afore headin’ back yer way. Wacha want?”

I gave Gram my list and told her I love her, and when I hung up I felt melancholy. To think that Mr. Dave has the same dementia as Mother unsettled me. Mr. Dave is a gentle man and a gentleman in every way. My mother is an angry and mean spirited woman, and is so in most ways. My hopes there are that the giant peckered old gentleman can fuck some good nature back into my mother.

Otherwise, I’ll get him his own apartment.

Anyway, French toast and bacon are the order of the day. The bacon is the last of my stash from Texas and one of the staples headed this way in Ralph’s Hummer limo. So is the maple syrup Streaker Jones brings back from Vermont. I need another few gallons.

I wonder if Mr. Dave’s dementia will make him forget he’s a good man. It hasn’t made my mother forget to be a shithead so maybe he’ll be OK.

Which reminds me. Did you guys hear that Mitt Romney cut off the credit cards of his campaign workers before he gave his concession speech? He made them pay for their own ways home from Boston on Tuesday night.

I wish every American would carefully think about that. Manana, y’all.

A Message From God; Big Guy Twists Mooner’s Arm

Thursday, November 8th, 2012


So. I’ve finally sobered enough after the Elections to sit still and tell you some stuff. I’ve a long list of entries today, so let me start by saying that I rejoice in the American people and their sensibilities shown on Tuesday. We narrowly avoided taking a terrible pathway to the destruction of our civilization.

Hoo-fucking-rah for sanity!

Second, I got a phone call about Gram—American Express contacted me about a questionable charge on the family credit card.

“We have a tire store in central New Jersey placing a $14,696.44 charge on your AMX credit card, Mr. Johnson,” the nice lady, Marlene, told me. “Snow tires, the manager says. It doesn’t fit your Cardholder Profile, and we’re concerned.”

“Do you have the store on the line?” I asked.

“Yes sir,”

“OK. Ask if the tires are for a giant stretch Hummer limo.”

They were and now I know what’s shaking and where my Gram has been. And don’t even start on me about how I should call her or be actually worried over her disappearance. She’s a big girl as often said to me by her, and she doesn’t like me to, as she also says, “Stay tha fuck outta my beeswaxxies, ya little shitbird. I was a wipin’ yer ass fer ya afore ya could scratch yer own balls.”

I guess Gram and crew decided to drive up and see what they can do to help with the devastation up there to the East Coast.

The last thing I want to tell you is that God stopped by again yesterday afternoon, a happening that is starting to bug me. I don’t have enough shit on my plate already that God doesn’t need to add an extra helping on top.

He—this visit God appeared in the visage of a homeless man that used to hang out in downtown Austin many years ago. Man wore an old top hat—tall, cracked and faded—that served as the container for a head of hair that hadn’t seen scissors or soapy water for ten years. Man would take his hat off to salute any donation and reveal a finely-woven log of greasy hair in the precise shape of the tattered old hat.

I was sitting out on the portal with my bare face exposed to the high desert sky. Through my closed eyes, I could see the shadows of the afternoon sun, one of our big Ponderosa pine trees and one of a hovering Abraham Lincoln.

“What’s shakin’, Mooner my main man? You look pretty happy with yourself today.”

I opened my eyes expecting my visitor to be the lone Republican president I have ever really given a shit about. “I am happy, Mr. President, err… Louis?” I answered. “Is Louis still alive, Sir? I really liked that crazy dude.”

“Nah, old Louis met his Maker, Mooner. I just thought I’d use his image to set the tone for this little conversation we’re about to have. I need you to do me a favor, son. A big favor.”

Oh, shit, I thought to my self, God wants another favor.

“Look, Sir, please don’t ask me to kill my firstborn son, he’s doing really well right now. And I’m really not up to starting a Crusade—my knees hurt and my back aches and I’m really much more of a lover than a fighter.”

God laughed at me—a deep rumble that sounded as if it had originated from a cavern. “You’re a hoot, dude. I say ‘problem’ and you think ‘World War III’. What I want you to do is give a message to some folks for me.”

“Thank God,” I said. “I was worried you’d want me to do something I really don’t want to do.”

“You’re welcome, but who said you would want to do this?” God told me. “What I want you to do is tell the losers of Tuesday’s elections some things to help them in the future.”

“Huh? You want me to help those shitheads?”

“Yep. I’ve got some advice for them and I want you to give it to them.”

Huh? “No fucking way, God, I won’t do anything to help those assholes. They’re trying to ruin my country with their idiotic religious insanities. Look, how about I sacrifice my second-born son?”

Again, God laughed heartily. “Don’t be childish, Mooner, this won’t hurt a bit. It’s a simple request.”

Why do people always say, “It’s a simple request,” when it’s never a simple request? “Oh, alright, Sir, sit down and tell me what I can do for You. My neck is starting to hurt from looking up at You.”

God sat in the chair beside me and drank deeply from a bottle of Carta Blanca beer that materialized in His hand. He wiped His mouth on the sleeve of His black Lincoln long jacket, burped and said to me, He said, “I want you to tell the right-wing conservative Christians of America that I heard their prayers for this election. I heard them pray for Obama’s defeat. I heard them pray to send their anti-abortion candidates to Washington. I heard them pray that I would end Obamacare and I heard the prayers to increase the military budget.

“I also heard the angry and bigoted prayers—the ones wishing for the President to drop dead and for his assassination. I heard the millions of prayers asking me to send all homosexuals straight to Hell and give America’s governments over to them, the ‘real’ Christians.”

God took a deep breath and another swig of beer, and He grasped my wrist with His left hand. “Look at me, Mooner, listen carefully to what I want you to tell them.”

I did, and when I did I saw deep-brown eyes shimmering with tears. “Tell them I heard every single one of their prayers, Mooner—Every… Single… One.”

God blinked away the water from His eyes and strengthened His grip on my arm. “Tell them I heard those prayers, Mooner, and tell them they have received My answers. Tell them I responded and that praying louder won’t change anything. Tell them to not ignore me again.”

And He was gone.

Ugh. I thought this was going to be easy. Why does God always ask us to do shit we don’t want to do?

When I showered this morning I was pondering what would happen if I didn’t write about this recent visit. And should that be a capital “V” Visit since it was God’s Visit? I was thinking that I would just tell you about the Gram sighting and some other stuff and I started soaping my arms to wash. When I slid my wash rag down my arm I yelped when I got to my wrist.

“Ouch!” I yelped, “what the fuck?”

I rinsed the soap off to expose a purple bruise shaped exactly in the image of a firm grasp. Maybe that should be “Bruise” and “Grasp”. I finished bathing and sat down here to do my task.

My final word to all of you right-wing conservative Christians out there is this. God heard your prayers for this recent election—each and every one. And He answered them.

Take a hint from His answers.

Manana, y’all.

A Fistful Of Fucks: Mitt Romney, Bigotry and Politics

Tuesday, November 6th, 2012


So. It’s finally election day and I, for several, am glad of it. I say I for several because I have mixed feelings about this election—I’m confident that President Obama will be reelected and I’m terrified that he might not.

It is still astounding to me that bigotry and religious radicalism can have such strongholds in “The Greatest Nation On Earth”. I’m amazed that the right-wing Christian radicals can’t see the parallels between themselves and the Muslim extremists they seem to hate so deeply.

Somebody please ‘splain this one to me. What is the difference between a Muslim thinking he can get to heaven, where 72 virgins await him if he blows up a crowded school bus, and Mitt Romney thinking he will get his own planet over which he gets to be God if he blows up America’s middle class?

Please. Wherein lies the philosophical or logical or practical difference? I mean other than the color of their skin or their religion, how are the Muslim shitheads any different? All of this fucking “Will of God” talk will be the death of us.

I have a good buddy who thinks that Armageddon is the self-fulfilling prophesy that will come about in a global religious war. He thinks all of these Christian asshole extremists WANT planet-wide war, that they actually pray for the “Rapture”.

I had lunch yesterday with my lawyer buddy down to the Del Charro. I’ve decided to start a contracting business with Adrian and Pedro and we needed a Registered Agent in order to be licensed in the state of New Mexico. I decided to get into this venture out of self defense, what with all of the repairs and remodeling I’ve had to do on La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe.

We both ordered the Monday Special—pulled pork sliders—and our central topic of conversation was, of course, the elections. The pork was tasty and the topic of conversation somewhat tasteless. “How can this election even be close?” I asked.

We talked about the President’s solid record of accomplishments and Romney’s lies, attacks on women, flip-flops, and all the rest of it. After a few minutes of talk we had a thirty-second period of dead air, as each of us pondered the answer.

“Bigotry,” we both said at the exact same instant.

“Racial bigotry,” I said in follow up.

“Religious bigotry,” he added.

Which reminds me. Why are most Republican surrogates fat and gray-headed white men?

And will somebody explain this one to me. How can we call America the planet’s greatest if we deny social services to the needy and make public education a secondary budgetary issue? How can we say we’re the finest if we make it more difficult for retirees to live in comfort after they worked so hard to retire?

Somebody needs to tell me what would make Mitt Romney’s America the Greatest Nation on Earth.

Fuck Mitt Romney. Fuck bigotry. But please don’t fuck America.

Go vote!!!

Manana, yall.

Be On The Lookout; Please Vote!!!

Monday, November 5th, 2012


So. Today is November 5, 2012 and the last day before our actual Presidential election day. Anyone who isn’t sick of political ads is either a political hack or an ignorant asshole.

OK, maybe they could be an ignorant asshole political hack.

As soon as this election cycle is over, I’m going to push for legislation that limits the number of times an opponent’s name can be mentioned in a paid political ads. Stop telling me what’s wrong with the other guy and tell me what’s right about you.

If America gets it right, the President will be reelected and he’ll get some added seats in Congress to help ease Congressional deadlock. If America gets it wrong…

Which reminds me. Has anyone seen a stretch Hummer limousine with New Mexico plates, driven by a nice man named Ralph and carrying two randy old women and a mangy fucking cat? I haven’t heard from Gram and her crew since last Tuesday and I’m starting to get worried. The tracking chip in the cat’s collar showed that they left Santa Fe and headed north into the mountains where it stayed until Thursday afternoon.

Then it headed east to Chicago, where it was slipped into the G-string of a Stripper named Tawny Port along with three twenty-dollar bills and one of my business cards. Tawny called to ask me out but had no news on where the Johnson Family wagon train was headed. All she could say was, “Your granny is awesome, dude. How about I come out for a visit?”

After rolling the sounds of, “Tawny Port Johnson,” around in my mouth for a few minutes, I called her back to say I’d pass on the date.

I’m only somewhat concerned about their safety but I’m worried that Gram and the P-cubed haven’t voted yet. While their votes are likely lost ballots in Texas, it’s important that they vote anyway. Every vote actually counts, even in the Hellhole that is Prick Perry’s Texas.

Me, I’ve been invited to serve the Obama campaign as a poll watcher—a policeman, if you will, to insure that Romney’s right-wing assholes don’t intimidate any voters.

Shithead right-wing conservative Christian voter suppressing fuckwads.

I’m thinking of wearing my bulletproof vest and kidney belt just in case. Anyway, please vote. It is mightily important no matter where you live.

Manana, y’all.

An Actual Uncommitted Voter; Mooner Match Makes A Cougar

Thursday, November 1st, 2012


So. I’ve been busy grading the driveway and small front yard here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe getting things ready for gravel, Xeriscaping and a new set of front steps. I met two men, brothers, when I first got here and they have been helping me with all of my remodeling endeavors.

As a sufferer of the dreaded ADHD, I have the knowledge to understand the hows and whereofs to perform most any job around the house. Likewise, as a sufferer of the dreaded ADHD, I have the ability to fuck any job all the way to Hell, and back.

Take, for instance, using a pick ax. A simple task, pick axing—grasp ax near top end and middle, raise ax over head and apply downward force to direct pointy end at soil area desired to be loosened, lever ax handle to pry now-loosened material, raise ax to repeat.

The plumber finally finished repairs to my main water supply just before dinner last night. We had the remaining chicken and carrot soup that I made Sunday with the fresh, local produce I got from over to the Farmer’s Market down to the Rail Yard. Carrots and kale and onions and a big chicken.

This one vendor had a huge basket of various carrots—yellow, golden and purple—none of which looked like your typical chain grocery produce. The purple carrot I bought grew to look like that Wookie character from Star Wars. When I got my bag of stuff back to the casita, the dogs and I had a blast making jokes about the appearances of the various produce.

“That gold carrot looks like a giant double dog pecker,” Squirt laughed out. “How about you give us a few minutes alone. I’ve been feeling a little tense lately.”

I love that adorable little lump of brown fur and keen humors.

Which reminds me. I met an uncommitted voter yesterday. I’m not speaking about one of those assholes who say they’re uncommitted to get attention, I mean I met a woman who truly still has mixed feelings between Obama and Romney.

I went over to the Ace Hardware store to get some stucco patch to repair a couple nicks I axed into the side of the house. Adrian—he’s the older of the two brothers previously mentioned and now almost a part of my family—is a greatly-skilled stucco repair artist. I parked my car next to a several years old Honda of pristine condition and wearing a bumper sticker plastered to it’s back window that said, “God didn’t teach me to hate.”

“God didn’t teach me to hate?” I said to myself, and I guess aloud, as I stood hands-on-hips to read the sticker several times over. “Whatinthefuck can that mean?” I said to myself, and again, I guess aloud.

“It isn’t polite to curse, young man, and it means precisely what it says.”

My chastiser was a pixie in gray body stockings, fur-topped leather boots, a full head of perfect white hair and an angelic face crowned with half a tube of ruby red lipstick. “I’m a cranky old woman, buster, and I don’t like men to curse around me. It’s disrespectful.”

“You’re right, Ma’am, and I truly apologize for the foulness of my words. But your bumper sticker has me flummoxed. What does it actually mean?”

“Well, in context, it means I’m troubled by the current political climate where it seems America is a two-faced country with the right hating the left. I hear all this religious talk from both sides filled with hateful words. I want it to stop,” she said with a calm that defied the fury I saw in her eyes.

As I was wearing a dusty “Fuck Mitt Romney” tee shirt, dirty jeans and muddy work boots she seemed to figure me out quickly. “So you are an Obama supporter. Why?”

Huh? “Well,” I started, “I guess we can start from the simple fact that Mitt Romney is a lying, sniveling shithead—er, ah, I mean he lies just for sport—and then finish with his political positions.”

I then enumerated my thoughts on social services, women’s rights and the rest for maybe thirty minutes.

“Interesting,” she told me. “I’m Catholic and I’m torn. My church is demanding I vote Republican for no more reason than the abortion issue and my heart tells me that’s not reason enough to vote against self interest. How about we discuss this again sometime when you aren’t so filthy-dirty. You look like you’d clean up nicely.”

I’ve never dated an older woman before and an older Catholic woman at that. I’m thinking I’ll take her up to Chimayo’ to this nifty restaurant up there. Maybe Ralph and the girls will be back from whereverinhell they are by Friday night and we can make it a group date. New Mexico isn’t a swing state but maybe we can swing Lucille’s vote the right direction for practice.

I was wondering if Lucille’s rug matches her white curtains. I wonder if Catholic ladies practice body hair controls. I wonder if it’s appropriate to take your straight razor and edible shave cream on a first Catholic date.

Adrian is Catholic, maybe he can give me some pointers. Manana, y’all.