Cynthianne From Albuquerque Finally Puts Out; Is It Incest?


So. Never let it be said that your shit doesn’t come around to kick you in your own butt. I asked Cynthianne to do a guest posting and she did. Here it is in its unaltered and uncensored states. OK, except that I changed the font size to 13 and double spacelated the entire dealio.

I will, however, precondition readers to several modifying facts: First, if I can’t drink Carta Blanca I don’t drink beer; Second, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson did attend the after and aforementioned meeting. As I’ve been in serious needs of sexing, I flew her in on the contexts of needing emergency therapies and mental adjustments. While those contexts are accurate in their essences, they were but smokescreens used, by me, in another feeble attempt (attempts) to bed my lovely ex-wife.

Anyway, and without further ado, I give you Cynthianne from Albuquerque:



Mooner Afflicted with More Unsuitable Relatives


Guest post from “Cousin” Cynthianne



The Roe v. Wade celebration at the capitol was fun, with birthday cake and speeches and signs and even an impromptu little parade down Old Santa Fe Trail. Sadly, Mooner didn’t make the rally, to his loss. It was probably the highest concentration of liberal cougars ever seen in Santa Fe, if not the whole state, and he missed them one and all. You snooze, you lose, Mooner.


We met, as Mooner stated, at a somewhat loud biker/cowboy bar in downtown Santa Fe. I brought Gloria as my bodyguard, and Mooner brought his psycho-therapist, who was convinced that the only hits on his blog were Ukrainian spammers, to check me out. A body can’t be too careful these days.


I was wondering at first if Mooner had sent a ringer; not only was this person drinking Margaritas instead of Carta Blanca, he was suspiciously coherent and articulate. I was feeling like the hookah-smoking caterpillar in Alice– “WHOOO are YOU?” But then he had a massive giggling fit at something his long-suffering therapist said, and nearly fell out of his seat. Yep, it was Mooner all right.


It was possibly at this point that Gloria decided she was oh so tired and we should leave.


Although Gloria might not agree, I thoroughly enjoyed the visit. I was also mildly intrigued by the superficial resemblance of our features, but laughed it off until I found out about Myrtle. OMG! Great Aunt Myrt who ran off to Texas with the itinerant peddler almost a century ago! Could it be?


After exhaustive investigations (“All signs point to yes,” sez the Magic 8-Ball), it appears that I may be a cousin from the long-lost Louisiana hillbilly branch of the Mooner clan. As if Mooner didn’t already have enough family problems.


Exciting no? Although for some reason, Mooner keeps muttering something about DNA testing…



OK, I lied about the “unaltered states” part as I added the word “finis” and also the quotation marks to delineate Cynthianne’s prose from that of my own. As for that whole “we might be family” dealio, I’m uncertain as to what I might say. So I’ll say nothing. Except to say that Cynthianne would be a quite welcome addition to the manic menagerie I call The Family Johnson. Why she might wish that inclusionary addition to her heritage is a mystery.

“Nuff said. Manana, y’all.


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15 Responses to “Cynthianne From Albuquerque Finally Puts Out; Is It Incest?”

  1. Squatlo says:

    Aw, dammit, I was hoping for some details on Mooner’s interactions with the aforementioned ex-wife Dr. Sam I-am Johnson! Since he was in spawning mode, I’m sure it was quite a spectacle, which explains why someone of Gloria’s tastes would bolt for the door as often as possible, trying her best to drag Cynthianne away as she ran… The film footage I’ve seen of the Bluebird of Happiness dancing provocatively in front of the not-so-impressed female is what I’m seeing when I envision this scene, but it’s possible I’ve seen to many nature documentaries for my own good.

    Cythianne, I should also inquire: did Mooner pick up your tab at the restaurant? Or did he offer to pay at least part of his own bill? We noticed when last he was with us that his wallet must have been in his other pants, or other state, because it never made an appearance in Tennessee that we’re aware of…

    Hey, Mooner, when you and Cynth get this DNA swabbie done, will there be a double blind test to confirm your relativity? I wouldn’t want you pranking around with the samples just to get another woman into your menagerie at the Johnson Compound.

    Anybody else smell Ivory soap?

  2. Cynthianne says:


    Don’t know how to break this to you gently, so I’ll just state it baldly: the Johnson menagerie is arguably marginally saner than my Greenlea/Jones raft of relatives. Most of them (now mostly deceased) were squirrelier than 40 square miles of piney woods.

    For me, crazy antics from my relatives is just another Tuesday.

    One day I must tell you about my drunken Irish great grandfather and the mule, and what happened when his Amerind wife went for the knives…

  3. Squatlo says:

    Oh my God, drunken Irish women with blades!!!!!! Donald, you must, forthwith, (forthwith-itly?) get on this detail and bring it all to light!

    To tell you guys the bald faced truth, I’m jealous as hell that the two of you have met, co-mingled, and stayed in touch despite all efforts to frighten one another off. I know Mooner E. Johnson to be a generous, happy, funny sumbitch to hang with, and I’ve already cashed a Cynthianne check for nature photos and mugs… so she’s GOT to be good as gold! (it’s a proven fact that people who support starving artists get a two-to-one return on karma brownie points compared to stingy Babtist assholes who keep their coins for the collection plate… I think MIT did the initial study, but subsequent ones were done by reputable universities)

    I had hoped the two of you would spend a day or two at Mooner’s new compound, with the dogs, goats, emus, and distracted relatives of Mooner’s hanging around for colorful additions to the mix.

    Perhaps we need us a full-blown blobber reunion with all of our new friends!

    What say ye, Mooner? Your place, or BJ’s? heh heh heh…… I’ll find Reckmonster, pull her out of hiding, and we’ll get this thing scheduled before someone dies or marries a Babtist.

  4. Mooner Johnson needs sexing says:

    Squat. Fuck you.

    C’Anne. When you are mostly raised by a sex-craved old battle ax whose hobby is the production of halucinogenic potions, you never question another’s strands of DNA. Hells bells, I’d never question your RNA either, not that I could tell you the important differences other than one has the Deoxy melded to its Ribonucleics–an addition that gives it that double helix squigly dealio that reminds me of the dreadlocks that my ex-wife Evelyn La Rousche wore for a few months.

    Festooned with multi-colored strands of foil tinsil, I was fascinated by her hairdo. Fuck Walmart and fuck Squat some more.

  5. Mooner Johnson needs sexing says:

    Squat. OK, somehow your second comment arrived after my response to your first. While I refuse to remove my prior sentiment, I will say your idea of a Blogcon reunion is a good one. I’m thinking that Enchantedland would be the proper landing strip for such an event. Bedrolls, BBQ and Carta Blanca beer.


  6. Squatlo says:

    (… with head shaved into a crude Mohawk, flexing in front of a full length mirror…)

    “You talkin’ to me? Are you talkin’ to me?”

    Okay, so you’re blaming this pissy fit on a tardy blobber commenter spasm? Okay, good ’nuff.

    I poke your ass every once in a while ’cause it keeps you fired up enough to at least respond… lame as it might be.

    A Blog-Con in Enchanty Land. We gotta make this happen.

    Tell ya whut (Murf-burr for “Here’s what we could do…”) After we win tonight’s Powerball we’ll rent out a villa with a view of the mountains, put a Carta Blanca dealership outta bidness, and hire a herd of counselors to fill in for Reck at the VA. Then we’ll roast a pig or two and tell lies about one another for at least an afternoon. You’re in charge of getting a dose or two of your Gram’s potions for entertainment, and we’ll fly in Dr. Sam I-AM to talk us all down from the curtains.

    If you don’t hear from us after tonight, it’s not because we won a lot of money and disappeared. There are tornado-like noises coming from the front yard. Could be raccoons. They get windy this time of night.

    Fuck Wally World.

  7. Cynthianne says:


    Thanks for not banning me from the fambly (or the blog) due to my defective genes. (Although on the hillbilly side of the clan, the T-shirts are pretty ratty too.) As to WHY I want to join the Johnson menagerie, what can I say- I’m a social climber.

  8. Cynthianne says:

    Ooops! It just hit me that I could be banned for committing lame puns. Hope Mooner’s neurons are misfiring today and he doesn’t notice…

  9. bj says:

    Before … I met B.E. (M.) Johnson I thought, “Man! This Mooner guy is WAY, the fuck, on out there!”. After meeting Mooner I thought “Well Hell … he ain’t no wersef than any of my kin folk down to Lascassas and I can understand what he’s saying without having to watch a tobacco stained and spittle flecked mouth!” He’s got pretty hair, too, don’t he? As far as incest goes, I’m trying to remember … ahh yes!:

    Billy Joe and Emma Sue are a redneck couple, and one day they decide to get hitched. So, both clans come out and do the hillbilly wedding thing–shotguns, whiskey, the whole deal.

    On the wedding night, Billy Joe takes Emma Sue out to his father’s hunting cabin for their honeymoon. As he’s carrying her over the threshold, Emma Sue leans over and whispers in his ear, “Billy Joe, I’m a little nervous. You know, I ain’t never been with a man before.” Billy Joe’s eyes bug out, and he drops Emma Sue right on her ass. He shoots out the door and runs all the way back to his family’s house.

    After he opens the door, exhausted with the effort, his father says to him, “Son, shouldn’t you and Emma Sue be makin’ the marriage official right about now?” Billy Joe replies, “I’m sorry, Paw, but I can’t marry that girl.” “Well, why not?” says his dad. “She said she ain’t never been with a man afore.” At this, Billy Joe’s father nods his head gravely and pats his son on the shoulder, saying “Son, you done the right thing. If that girl ain’t good enough for her family, she ain’t good enough for ours!”

    There’s some of my Lascassas kin folk!

  10. Squatlo says:

    There’s a phrase that’s often heard in Texas: “Get off me daddy, you’re mashin’ my cigarettes!”

  11. Mooner Johnson needs sexing says:

    Beej and Squat. I find the two of you to be most inappropriate, and funny.

    As for your talk re: a blogger visit, please allow me to say this one simple thing.

    “Talk is cheap!”

  12. Squatlo says:

    (doing my best Joe Pesci from Goodfellas) “I’m funny? Funny how, funny like I’m a fucking clown? I amuse you?”

  13. Squatlo says:

    What’s the deal? Did Cynthianne’s post shame you outta the blobber bidness??? You on a Reckmonster-like sabbatical? Nothing happenin’ worth writing about?

    Inquiring minds wanna know.

    And fuck Walmart, while you’re up.

  14. Mooner Johnson needs sexing says:

    Squat. Been on unexpected travel leave. More to follow.

  15. Squatlo says:

    Don, I hope this has nothing to do with your mom back in Tayhass…

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