Mooner Johnson: Modern Day Prophet or Simply Pathetic?


So. It’s snowing in Santa Fe. Finally, it’s snowing. It will be just a few inches of fluffy moisture but we are in need of it. We need it for agriculture and water supplies, and we need it in order to open the Northern New Mexico ski slopes.

The “not created by mans’ sillinesses” global warming trends have already altered the ski seasons in the Western US, and this year has been brutally dry. Here to Santa Fe, the hoped-for Thanksgiving opening of ski slopes is now a Christmas prayer.

Which reminds me. God paid me another visit last night and it was the strangest of all Their (God’s) appearances. The dogs and I were sleeping and I was having a quite weird dream. I was in my mid-twenties and working for an older gentleman selling orthopedic shoes in his store. I was dressed in an Armani pinstripe suit—medium gray with tiny, thin lighter gray stripes—and I wore a pair of highly-polished handmade oxblood Oxford dress shoes from England. The tops were sewn to the sides with thick, waxy threads, and the expensive shoes’ soles were comfortably cushioned for walking.

I could see my face in the reflection off the tops of my shoes as I hoofed my way from the retail store to home. The face that blinked up at me off the shoe tops as I looked at my walking feet was a not happy one. My eyes were narrowed and my mouth was screwed up into a tight knot.

It was the face I seem to always have these days when disconnecting the phone after talking to Mother.

Home was a dream house I’ve never owned and occupied by a dream wife I’ve never married. She was a stunning, nubile young woman wearing a silk muumuu swirling with colors, and her perfect breasts were outlined on her chest as she lounged atop a pile of plush velvet pillows. The sight reminded me of that one time when I saw this 100-carat opal that was nestled in a cushioned display case—beautiful, colorful. Cold.

“I know those breasts,” I said to myself as I approached the wife.

The wife stared lasers at me. “It leaked again, shithead,” she told me as I neared her, “you, Mooner Johnson, are a terrible husband.”

“You’ve got great titties, wife, but what a bitch you are,” my feeble response.

“I’m a bitch and you’re a complete failure; we’re the perfect couple,” she said with what seemed like glee. “Go look for yourself. It’s a mess.”

The wife shifted on her pillows and her lush hips rippled waves in the silk of the filmy dress. The sight of her gave me instant night wood but I passed her by. Somehow my desire for sex was overridden by good sense. Not my awake life Modus Operandi.

I walked to the master bedroom of the big house and found water on the floor. I remembered that I was supposed to be at work and called my boss at the shoe store. “I’ve got problems at home,” I told the older man, “this may take awhile.”

“Home IS your problem, Mooner. Fix your leaks and love your mother.”

“Huh?” I said aloud.

When I looked down at the floor, the water trailed back from where I had just come, and several men from the home builder’s office were standing in the bedroom with me. They wore uniforms with their names on the chest. One said “Larry” and the second read “Moe”. I looked at the third man’s name and it was in an Arabic script. I somehow knew him to be Curly.

I was on one side of a giant four poster bed across from the men, and there was a huge spider web hanging off the posters and rails between us. Sunlight glistened from the ropes of the spider’s ladders and drops of sticky moisture ran down the central spine towards the bottom.

“That’s from the scene in that James Bond movie where Sean Connery impersonates a Japanese man and the bad guy on the tiled roof kills the pretty, sleeping girl by accident when the poison drops slide down the silk line into her mouth by mistake,” I told the men. “I masturbated to the memory of that girl.”

The men were nonplussed.

It was a classic movie spiderweb and there was a fat rat spun into a cocoon of the spider’s twine. The rat hung like a miniature ham from a smokehouse rafter. I reached down and twirled the little cocoon like a top. I watched as it quickly wound its spider rope into a tight knot and then gazed while it unwound—up and down again, as heavy weights at the end of strings tend to do when twisted by some moron.

I left the room and walked back to the wife. “There’s a giant spider web with a dead rat cocoon hanging off our bed.”

She lifted a glass of Chateau Margaux wine and took an elegant sip. A drop of the wine hung on her bottom lip like a dollop of honey. She tipped the glass to me in a mock salute and said to me, she said, “And I’ve got a killer body and a bottom sheet covered with your stains.”

I awoke on my back with the Squirt’s nose jammed up my ass and the goat dog wrapped on my neck like a muffler. Yoda’s warm breath smelled like a landfill on a sunny afternoon. “Holy shit, you two, you’re making me dream some very weird stuff.”

That’s when I felt pressure at the foot of my bed and heard a deep, hearty laugh. I wedged myself up to my elbows to see the wife from my dream sitting Indian-style at my feet. She held two glasses of wine and a magnum of the Margaux from the dream. “Here,” She said with a proffered glass. “I took the liberty of opening this.”

It was God, wearing the dream wife’s bright muumuu. Her breasts were clamped tight to the front and I could envision the curves of Her hips. I took the offered glass, sipped from it, and said “Nice tits, Ma’am. I think I’ve seen them before.”

God took a swallow from Her glass and replied, “Thanks. Jane Fonda—Barbarella. I remembered how much you liked Ms. Fonda in that movie so I dredged her up for this visit.”

I appraised God with a more critical eye. “You’re square on with the body, God, but that’s not Jane Fonda’s face. Whose face is it?”

“Why, I’m Betty Jo Bialonsky.”

Fire Sign Theater humor, my favorite. I think the world would be a far greater place if everyones’ Gods quoted Fire Sign Theater. Hard to start a war when your God is telling you, “I think we’re all Bozos on this bus.” Or, how do you hate other people when your God says, “Don’t crush that dwarf—pass me the pliers.”

God shape-shifted into an unrecognizable form I can best describe as a ball of metallic colored gas reminiscent of the aforementioned opal. The gaseous ball made me nauseous to look at Him. Her? It, maybe.

“You’re making me sick to my stomach, Sir. Can you do another trick?”

“No, son, I’m getting you ready for Christmas. It won’t be a pleasant trip back to Texas.”

“Whatthefuck does that mean, Sir?” I demanded.

“Not saying. You need to live it in real time, kiddo.”

God can be a real asshole sometimes. “How about I puke last night’s chicken soup, caramel candies and Carta Blanca beer all over your pretty gas ball?”

I heard a loud “Crack!” and suddenly found myself sitting in the back yard with the dogs curled in my lap. I was on the rock wall that we built this summer, wrapped in a quilt and covered with snow. A branch of the big Ponderosa pine tree had snapped off, I guess from the weight of heavy snow.

God—now looking like Sophia Loren—sat next to us. She reached for my hand and placed my palm to her soft cheek. My hand was icy cold and God’s warmth spread from Her face through my arm all the way to my heart. In thickly accented English, God said to me, “Hold your water, Mooner. Your Mother needs you.”

God set my hand into my own lap and started rising into the snowy air. As She rose She changed form into Michaelangelo’s classic God visage. I looked up to follow God’s ascent and yelled to Him, “Hey, asshole, is that all you’ve got? You punished me like this to tell me to be patient with my crazy mother?”

God laughed his deepest belly-buster laugh. “OK, Mooner. One more thing just for you,” and He belly-laughed again.


The bellowed God sound reverberated from the walls in the backyard, knocking snow off the tree onto the dogs’ and my head. When God was almost out of sight, He whispered down at me, “Merry Christmas, shithead. Be a good son and surprise me.”

God’s laughter trailed off into the sky—drifting into nothing in the fat snowflakes.

The Squirt, her face dusted with white powder, looked up into my eyes. “Sounds like good advice to me, Bwana. Mother’s been a pip lately, but she’s still your mother.”

“I think I might be a prophet, Squirtie girl. From what I remember from Vacation Bible School, one Godly visit is a vision. Multiple visits make prophecy.”

The diminutive brown puppy stifled a giggle. “And telling folks that God visits you makes for crazy talk, shithead. Think Pat Robertson.”

She was right. Maybe I should keep this to myself and gird my loins for Christmas. My mother has been especially nasty lately and I’ve been thinking about not visiting her in San Antonio when I go back to Texas for a week. I’ve had that whole “Love/Hate” dealio swirling in my skull for days now, so I guess God came by to give me some guidance.

Ugh. It can be hard to be a good son.

Manana, y’all.

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9 Responses to “Mooner Johnson: Modern Day Prophet or Simply Pathetic?”

  1. squatlo says:

    I’m not sure lusting after God’s breasts is the best way to get into heaven, but whatever makes your tiddly wink works for the rest of us, I guess…

    Snow, huh? We used to get a little snow here in middle Tennessee every year, one or two good snows a year. When I was a kid in east Tenn we would sled down the hills around our neighborhood for days at a time, even took to pouring water on some of the roads to get a base coat of ice for the next day’s sledding. Now we see a few flakes every year and it’s a big damn deal if it sticks to the ground long enough to cover the crab grass.
    I’m not saying this anecdotal shit is proof of global climate change, but on the 8th of December (three days ago) my lovely (and dangerous) wife and I sat in shorts, barefooted, and played Scrabble on the back porch while drinking icy Bloody Marys. On December the fucking 8th. December…

    If this keeps up we might be able to grow tomatoes year ’round here in the Volunteer State, while Florida goes underwater.

    About these visits from The Big Guy… keep in mind that Jim Jones and David Koresh got regular visits, too. And Moses spent forty years wandering in the desert being bitched at by Jewish women who carped because he wouldn’t pull over and ask for directions. You might want to check with your psycho therapist and make sure you’re meds are balanced out…

    Or try to get God to give you the Powerball numbers for next Wednesday night’s drawing, just as a sign of authenticity. Promise her you won’t personally profit from the information, but just want to confirm her divinity.

    I’ll handle the finances for you up here. Free of charge, too! I’ll use it as starter funding for my year-’round grow operation.

  2. Mooner Johnson needs sexing says:

    Squat. OK, first, my relationship with God is a very personal one. I’ve never been one to attempt to tell others how to worship unless, of course, they attempt to ram their silly God up my ass. As for God’s tits on that last visit, you’ve seen Barbarella, right?

    Besides, Jim Jones, David Koresh and Moses were nutcases looking for publicity and public adoration. Me, I’m just trying to get through the night. That said, if you catch me saying that God told me to ask you for money, shoot me. Please shoot me.

    As for global warming, I’m starting to wonder if it’s not already too late to stop it.

  3. squatlo says:

    I do indeed remember Barbarella, and how very much I wished to be in charge of Windex-ing that plastic nipple holder Jane wore for most of the film. But I also take into account that I was fifteen when I saw that movie, and that was one of the first nipples I’d seen that wasn’t coming at me from a National Geographic Magazine.

    Now that I think about it, seems like movies were a lot racier in those days. Exploitative, yep. Objectifying, yep. Arousing to a teen-aged kid who’s best friend was Rosie Palm? Yep.

    “Rosie you’re alright, you wear my ring,
    When you hold me tight, Rosie that’s my thing,
    When you turn out the light, I got to hand it to me…
    Looks like it’s me and you tonight, Rosie…”

    And I’m not sure about your final instructions, so maybe we better clear this up… Do I shoot you if you ever ask me for money, or only if you tell me God told you to ask me for money? ‘Cause we might be standing at the counter of a local barbecue place someday and you might find yourself a dollar short paying for your wings and pork? And I’d hate for there to be an unfortunate failure to communicate that results in a messy scene…

    “He told me to do it, just go read his fucking blog!”

    Never had Moses figured for a publicity hound, but that probably explains the paparazzi… They say he couldn’t turn around without bumping into Cecil B. DeMille.

  4. Cynthianne says:

    Wow, Moo(ner), you get a much better class of bizarre dream than I do. The craziest I ever had was of eating in a pizza place (and I NEVER eat in a pizza joint), where the waiter was a dwarf dressed in a clown outfit, riding a child’s tricycle in and out of the kitchen through a large cat-flap hatch in the wall. That’s it. BORing…

    As to the guilt about your mama- from lurking around your blog over approximately the past year, I conclude you’ve been a pretty good son- you have done all you could, short of becoming a right-wing nutcase yourself. The poor lady was born a follower, and unfortunately has been completely warped by following a corrupted religion that now preaches hate. Despite that, I suspect that she does love you, in her twisted way- but the mountebanks who are her “religious” leaders have convinced her that caring about you is evil. And you love her- but don’t like what she’s become. No way to help that, for either of you.

    So grit your teeth, and go visit her. Give her a present, a kiss and a hug, and ignore as best you can the poison that leaks out of her. (Even if it takes a double-shot of your granny’s potions.) It’s not really her fault, and it’s certainly not your fault.

    I hope that you manage to have a good Christmas in spite of all.

  5. squatlo says:

    Hey Mooner, what Cynthianne said!

    You don’t know you’re dopplegangers, do you? Just sayin’…

  6. Mooner Johnson needs sexing says:

    C’Anne. My dreams are interesting adventures as are my waking hours. But dreams fascinate me in a way the rest of my thinkings can’t. With a bloodstream filled with natural “mood enhancements”, strange shit happening is normal.

    As for my mother, I truely do have a Love/Hate thing going on. I can’t help it. As Gram says it, “I’m up ta here with her shit.” But your ideas are solid and I will (shall?) take them under advisement.

    Squat. Thanks, and Fuck you too.

  7. bj says:

    Are you drinkin’ City water up there to yer Enchanted Mountains? Er WELL water? With dreams like YERZ … ya’ might oughtta gettit tested. Any Fracking goin’ on nearby? just sayin’ ……

  8. Katy Anders says:

    Family ain’t easy, I hear.

    Alas, I have no family left – other than a brother who ran off with my wife.

    So I ought to be giving advice like, “Appreciate what family you’ve got.”

    God just THINKS she’s Sophia Loren…

  9. Mooner Johnson needs sexing says:

    Beej. I’m drinking everything in sight. Got any moonshine?

    Katy. Sometimes I feel like a motherless child. Sometimes I wish it. Maybe I don’t know when I have it good. As for God, She thinks, therefore, She is.

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