Mayans Send Mixed Messages; Mooner Untangles The Myths


So. It’s Thursday before Friday’s world-ending events possibly predicted by the Great Mayan Calendar. It seems that the entire earth is in for a major calamity should the doomsdayer’s interpretations of ancient stone tablets be correct. Stone tablets, which I might add, that no living human has any real idea how to interpret, other than to say that, rather than ending their calendars for reprinting each twelve modern months, the Mayans chose to scribe their date keepers for page turnings every few centuries.

It’s easy to see how the Mayan calendar ends when it does since the fucking Catholics slaughtered all the Mayans hundreds of years before they even needed to think about quarrying the stone for the next period’s dates.

Evil right-wing murdering Nazi Catholic goat fucking shitheads.

Me, I see this silliness in the same way I see how different shitheads interpret the books of the Bible. Every wing nut and evil-hearted conman has an interpretation of the Bible, and those interpretations range from “Love your fellow man” to “President Obama is the Devil”. The longer I live the less I believe any Biblical interpretations are worthy of serious discussion. The longer I live the more I’m convinced that the Bible has jumped the shark.

That’s right. You heard it here first—the Bible has jumped the fucking shark.

If my grandfather were still alive, he’d say, “The world has already ended, Mooner, so who really gives a shit the Mayan calendar?”

I remember the day that JFK was murdered when it was my grandfather who came to William B. Travis Junior High School to pick Streaker Jones and me up after they dismissed classes. All of us were stunned in some manner or another—students and teachers alike. Streaker Jones and I were in Mrs. Browningwell’s Spanish Class when the Principal announced both the assassination and school dismissal over the loud speaker.

The institutional beige loud speakers at Travis Junior High were Altec brand, and maybe 14-inchers, that hung in the top corners of each room. The speaker boxes were bolted to the walls and the bolts had a spot weld to keep them in place. Seems some enterprising young schoolboy had found an after-market for institutional beige Altec 14-inch loudspeakers.

I always thought it was Mike Martel. We caught him breaking into all sorts of shit and stealing anything from the Valomilk candy in the cafeteria to the Kotex from the Girls’ Rooms.

God I loved Valomilk candy. The snap of the crisp chocolate shell, the way the marshmallow cream oozed out onto your fingers… That one time when Candice what’s-her-name sucked my finger clean. What was her last name?

Several of the girls in class gasped and started crying when they heard the President had been killed. Me, I didn’t quite hear it accurately. I’m sure that my ADHD had my brain spinning with thoughts of Susie Ashburn’s budding breasts or some other thought more interesting than Mrs. Browningwell’s dull lessons on conjugating Spanish verbs.

“Mooner… Hey, Mooner, snap outta it. Sumbody shot the President. We need ta go home.” It was Streaker Jones and he was already standing at my side and tugging on my sleeve.

“Sit… Down, everyone!” Mrs. Browningwell barked. “The Principal said to evacuate civilly and in our assigned order. Assistant Principal Smithson will come to release our room. You are to sit and shut up until he gets here.”

We all waited, squirmed and cried. After a few minutes, Assistant Principal Smithson did indeed stop at our door. He motioned Bat Brains Browningwell to join him where they conferred in whispers. All I heard that was legible enough to understand was her whispering, “It was bound to happen.”

Mrs. Leticia Browningwell was twenty-one and just out of college and just married to then Assistant Pastor of Mother’s Baptist Church, The Reverend Dr. Browningwell. Bat Brains Browningwell was a constant character in my life from the start of that school year so long ago, until today. Her hubby is the self-same asshole who managed to convince my mother to be the mean spirited shitwad that she has become.

OK, look, Mother didn’t need to be convinced to be mean spirited—she fucking IS mean spirited. But the good preacher has provided the focus for Mother’s attacks, most recently gays, President Obama and Public School funding.

When Granddad picked us up from school that day he was in a solemn, quiet mood. Which for Granddad was remarkable. See, I caught the dreaded ADHD from Daddy who caught it from Granddad, who likely invented the fucking AD and HD. When he didn’t respond to my, “Hey, Granddad, how ya doing?” I knew something serious was going on.

“They shot our President, son. It’s the end of the world.”

We rode the rest of the trip in silence. See, my grandfather was a man who felt that civilized people would neither assassinate their own president nor would they even feel he deserved to be killed. Civilized people talked their differences and then voted their preferences.

Granddad would yell at the TV when some shithead said something he thought was stupid. “You ignorant John Bircher ass licking Nazi loving sonofabitching motherfucker,” was his favorite yelled phrase. I guess I didn’t fall far from that tree myownself. Substitute “goat fucker” for John Bircher and “shithead” for ass licker and you’ve got my TV rants.

Anyway, what I want to say is that I’ll be on the road with the Squirt, Yoda the goat dog and likely not the fucking cat. Honor seems to have disappeared again and left nothing but smatterings of mouse blood and fur in her wake. I’m hoping her long hair and hunting skills keep her moving while we’re gone.

Armstrong! It was Candice Armstrong who sucked the sticky marshmallow Vallomilk center off my index finger. I’ll never forget the embarrassment I had from the delayed-action woodie she invoked. Are woodies invoked by sexy women? Evoked, maybe?

Remember boy’s short-short basketball uniforms? Hard to hide a big old boner when you didn’t even realize one had arisen from inside those shorts. We were all standing around after basketball practice eating Valomilks when Candice and the other cheer leaders walked by from their practice.

“What’s on your fingers, Moooo-nerrrr?” Candice cooed.

Then, without any additional foreplay, she grasped my wrist in her velvety-smooth hand and stuck my index finger into her mouth. “Mmmmm, marsh-mmmellow cream. My favie.”

I remember, for some reason, that she said the word “favie”. I think that my thoughts about how she said “favie”, when combined with the tingle running through me for minutes after she stopped sucking on my finger are what invoked that woodie.

Have you ever been standing among a group of friends and strangers and had your rock hard pecker come peeking out from the hem of your shorts? That shit is embarrassing no matter how many times it happens.

Maybe I can look Candice up while I’m in Austin, and maybe Squattie or Beej will stay abreast of the Mayan shit and let me know if the world ends while we’re on the road tomorrow. I’d hate to miss the end of times.

I’ll try to write you while in Austin, but no promises. Manana, (maybe) y’all.


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4 Responses to “Mayans Send Mixed Messages; Mooner Untangles The Myths”

  1. bj says:

    I fuckin’ LOVE Valomilk! And after reading about Candice Armstrong I’m beginning to get a hankerin’ fer her TOO!
    Have you checked to make sure you didn’t lock that stupid fucking cat up in the shed again? Might oughtta check one mo’ again.
    Merry Christmas to you and yorn, Butcher Einstein Mooner Johnson … and if the Mayan thingy happens while yer on the road tomorrow? Take some pictures of the apocalypse to post when you get back. Strangely enough … I can’t help hearing the lyrics from Matchbox 20’s “Busted” ( :
    “Well, I dreamed that the world was crumbling down
    We sat on my back porch and watched it

    (Jesus is knocking on the door of your heart)

    Well, I dreamed that the buildings all fell down
    We sat on my back porch and watched it

    Yeah, well, I dreamed that the world was crumbling down
    We sat on my back porch and watched it
    In my head I heard the sound
    Like fifteen strangers dancing”
    That’s where I’ll be … sittin’ on the back porch and watchin’.
    It’d be somethin’ to see … huh?

  2. Squatlo says:

    Two blobber posts from Mooner in the space of about 15 hours? Sumbitch! He must have found the Gevalia coffee and had himself a couple of mugs!

    Uh… how do we let you know the world has ended if it does, Mooner? I’m a little confused about the potential “failure to communicate” in the event things start flying off the planet into space. With any luck, it’ll just be a rapture thing and we’ll be rid of most of the world’s problems. ‘Cept that MOST of the ones who don’t get sucked off into space (speaking of Candice Armstrong, who would have caused yours truly to shoot off like a Roman Candle if she’d have sucked on a finger when I was in junior high… shit, I didn’t need any encouragement in those days… a Sears catalog would do the trick– and what the fuck happened to Roebuck any damn way?)

    But I digress… back to pressing bidness. Okay, the world’s ending, and me and Beej are shittin’ ourselves as the earth quakes or the heavens rain fire, or whatever the fuck it is that’s ending things… so how is it you want us to let you in on the secret? And what makes you think Austin will be spared the news the rest of us are facing? Is it some sort of Texan Denial? Can’t mess with TExas until everyone else has been thoroughly messed over first?

    Tell you what, if it looks like it’s all over on Friday I’ll buy the last six pack of Carta Blanca in the county and join you in a ceremonial toast to the hereafterness… which can’t possibly be any more fucked up that the hereandnowness.

    Later. Be careful on your drive, and hug yo’ mama, despite the batshit behavior. And you might consider a full risin’ Mooner show for the gun shop on your way outta town next week!

    Gotta go…

  3. Katy Anders says:

    So long and nice knowing ya!

  4. bj says:

    Well, HELL! We’re still here. I guess the End Of The Werld could still happen TODAY …. but if it don’t? A donation has been made in your name to “The Human Fund”. Merry Christmas, Brother ….

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