Archive for February, 2013

A Timely Posting Of Past Occurrances; Mooner Johnson- Better Late Than Whatever

Thursday, February 28th, 2013

 

So. I awakened this crisp Santa Fe morning with a slight tequila hangover—dry mouth, niggling headache, and breath noxious enough to gag the dogs.

“Wake up, shithead, and go gargle with mouthwash.”

It was the Squirt, it was 4:17 am, and she had tears in her eyes. As for me, I’d been asleep on my side with my right arm wrapped around my head to where I was breathing my hot, aged tequila breath in-and-out between my smelly armpit and a bunched-up down-comforter tunnel.

The adorable little bundle of piss and vinegar was dragging the covers off my body and touching her snotty nose to my exposed skin. “I said wake up, Mooner! What did you eat for dinner last night, marinated donkey ass?”

“Maybe I should get up and brush my teeth and take a bath as well, sweetie. The tequila breath in my mouth and the odor of flop sweat in my nostrils is somewhat disconcerting,” I told her. “Matter of fact, the two of you could use a bath as well. Wake the goat dog and meet me in the bathroom.”

Since we moved to Enchanted Land, I’ve not made the dogs bathe quite as often as when we lived in Sweatboxville. Austin’s heat and humidity would get their coats smelling like the vinyl seats in a McDonald’s booth about once each week. The cool, dry mountain air here to our new hometown has a different effect. It actually seems to help keep their coats smelling clean—same way as when you hang stuff outside on a clothesline, which reminds me that I want to put up a clothesline out back.

I’m thinking something artsy-fartsy in combination with my planned landscaping and perimeter wall paintings. My best-to-date idea is to paint a mural on the adobe wall that depicts the epic grandeur of the Sangre de Christo mountains, and then build the clothesline to look like telegraph poles and wires that serve to frame the mural. I’ve already got these great rocks that some previous owner brought to the house that would help provide depth to the installation.

I also bought a canvas bag full of those old timey wooden peg clothes pins—you know, the ones that look sort of like a glass milk bottle with legs? When I was a kid we painted faces and clothes on the little wooden pegs gave them as gifts to our womenfolk.

I wonder about using the word womenfolk. Is that another commonplace, useful and heartened word from our past that is now seen to be off-putting?

The bag was made to hold the brightly painted clothes pins—thirty-six of them before Yoda ate three. It has a thick wire hanger sewn into its top and the wire has a hook bent in the end to hang it on the line. There’s a way faded picture of a woman hanging laundry in the sun on one side, and a barely visible Coca-Cola logo on the other. When I saw it at the flea market, the guy said to me, he said, “That Coke logo makes it pretty collectible, sir.”

“Fuck Coca-Cola,” was my instant reply. “You can cut the patch of canvas off the back and keep your Coke logo. Then I’ll give you $7.50 for what’s left.”

Ended with the bag of wooden pins and the Coke logo for $16.00, and now I’m searching for an Acme clothesline reel—you know, those red metal drums that your grandmother had on her clothesline. Maybe your great-grandmother. Gram still has hers, still uses it, and those facts are likely why I always want my sheets, towels and underwear dried outside in the clean air.

When the three of us were in the shower enjoying the “Rain Forest Spring shower spray” of my fancy new shower head, I brought the subject into discussion. “What do you think about my clothesline idea, guys?”

The dogs looked at each other like I’d just asked them to go on a diet. Yoda raised his back leg and peed on the side of the shower stall in a spot where no water hit. “I guess that means you don’t especially like my idea.”

To reinforce my understanding that they were lukewarm on the installation, the Squirt squatted and yellowed the water at my feet. Which started me laughing. So, I peed on the wall where Yoda had and that started the dogs giggling. The Squirt made a joke about my Junior High School humor and I rinsed the pee off the wall with the shower head.

I really like that shower head. It mimics an afternoon shower in a rain forest with the sounds to go with the cascading water. It does have a downside as it encourages me to spend too much time in the shower and, therefore, makes me waste water.

OK, it doesn’t make me waste water, I simply waste water when I tarry too long in my new shower’s therapeutic sprays, and maybe my ADHD took too many showers in those last few paragraphs.

“Tell us about last night’s dinner while you scrub my back, Mooner. From the looks and smell of you when you got home, you had a ball. Spend some extra time on my sweet spot.”

For those of you wondering, Squirt’s sweet spot isn’t quite what you might think. It’s the top of her back where it meets the base of her tail. She says it’s too much effort to bend around to chew at the root of her tail when I’m more than willing to do the work for her.

I lathered the dogs’ washrag with ivory soap and then slathered the Squirt. Using their bath brush, I scratched and washed her coat. “It was quite an interesting night, guys. Linda is everything you thought and Mitch is a good mate for her. Turns out they are each, and both, deeper thinkers than we knew.”

I met Linda while purchasing building products for the remodel of La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe, and we hit it off in a friendly way. She’s frank and open in business and one of those people whose word you take with her first words spoken. That “look-you-in-the-eyes honesty” is an important character trait in business contacts and personal relationships both, and Linda has it. She and Mitch invited me to have dinner to meet Mitch and view the 1930’s casita they had remodeled.

“Dinner had been well thought-out and the conversation was great. The margaritas were good and strong, and my glass seemed to magically refill. I think I got a tad bit drunk.”

I applied the washrag to the goat dog and he whimpered with pleasure. “OK,” I admitted, “maybe I was a tad bit more than a tad bit drunk.”

I continued with the merits of the homemade salsa that I slathered on the perfectly-cooked beef flank tacos and the incredible dessert Linda and Mitch served as I rinsed the dogs. When finished, I placed my hands on the wall of the shower with my feet at shoulder’s width apart, and I stood with my the shower beating on my head and back. “Man, I need to stick to Carta Blanca beer, guys. I was having some wild tequila dreams before you woke me up.”

“Yes, we noticed. Tell us about the Ayahuasca, Mooner?” Squirt had a serious look on her face.

Huh? I didn’t remember anything about any Ayahuasca. “I didn’t say anything about that when I got home. I drank a gallon of water, peed and passed out.”

“You were talking in your sleep, asshole. ‘What was that guy’s name with the Ayahuasca?’ was what you kept saying,” she told me. “Sounded like this guy had an exotic disease that you had caught on one of your honeymoons.”

I often dream about the many hallucinogenic compounds in Nature’s bounty that I have ingested over my lifetime. I’ve tried to ingest them all in my personal research, and some more than others. “Oh, that. Ayahuasca is a South American mystic’s brew and native to the Amazon’s indigenous peoples. The only time I tried it was so long ago I can’t remember the name of the guy who had it. OK, or said he had it. I never did trust any potions from unknown sources back in the day. Didn’t stop me from ingesting them, but I was always leery of the promises made as to their efficacies. The guy who had it claimed it would ‘enlighten’ me and ‘change my life’.”

I can only remember that it looked like month-old V-8 Juice that had turned brown, and that my dosing didn’t produce any memorable enlightenments, and the only noticeable change I felt was in my queasy stomach. Then again, when you’ve been dosed with Gram’s potions all your life—starting at birth—enlightenments are no virgin territory when you hit your twenties.

If you’d like to read more about my first dosing of Gram’s magic mushroom potions, buy my silly fucking book by clicking over there ===}}}} on the blogie roller. Amazon has likely got them on sale for less than the cost of the paper pages inside the cover. OK, fuck it. Send me a proof of purchase and I’ll refund you a dollar. I only make about thirty-five cents on each sale, so take my offer seriously.

Which reminds me. How do you feel about tattoos on your skull? Would you date a woman with a tattoo of a snake eating an apple that covers the lady’s head beneath her hair? Would you have sex with her if the snake’s tail was inked down the crack of her ass?

Would you heartily debate these issues before dating and sexing her?

Manana, y’all.

 

A Horse Trade Story- Take A Pair Of Camel Toes For Your Dogs?

Sunday, February 17th, 2013

 

So. Let me begin today’s Sunday morning services with a disclaimer. What you are about to read is not a complaint, neither is it a case of a shithead writer whining about his life. My life is a good one in spite of its many travails, and I’m your basic happy clam when viewing my life from a global perspective.

Which reminds me. Travails—according to the dictionary—are excessively difficult trips or work efforts, or, childbirth experiences. Me, I think it’s unfair that I can compare my life’s tough times to that of when a woman births a baby. I’ve bore witness to three childbirths, and I will tell you that nothing in my life would compare to that.

OK, except for maybe getting raped by my Boy Scout Leader as a kid. Or maybe that one time when I fell into a prickly pear cactus. Or there was the time I went skinny dipping and sat on a hidden fire ant mound.

Or, sweet Jesus, that time my mother zipped-up my preschool pecker into the rusty steel jaws of the zipper in an old pair of Daddy’s work-worn overalls. Terrible stories one and all, but true. And available for reading should you lose your mind and choose to click over there =====>>> to my bloggie roller and buy my stupid fucking book, Full Rising Mooner.

Isn’t it interesting as to how perspectives effect a person’s viewing of any event? OK, and let’s take another anecdotal break to evaluate whether perspectives can also affect a person’s viewing of an event. Since entering psycho therapy sessions routinely some thirty-some years ago, I have been keenly aware that effects and affects are somewhat dichotomous nouns that are almost joined-at-the-hip. I’m way too fucking busy with my life to present the treatise I’ve entitled “Stop Effecting My Affects- Can’t You See I’m Crazy?”.

And don’t even start to correct me by saying to me, “Mooner, dumbass, you don’t ‘entitle’ a scholarly paper, you ‘title’ it.”

Fuck you. I carefully choose my words even when I’m forced to invent them, and that reminds me of the dream I had night-before-last, and that reminds me to say, “Fuck you,” to those grammar snarks writing to bitch about my use of hyphens. Eat-shit-and-die.

I loved saying that when I was a kid. Get into an argument and run out of pithy or cogent output? Just say, “Eat shit and die!”

Anyway, Friday night I took the dogs with me for dinner. It was still in the forties with no wind, and the Squirt had been craving tater tots from the Sonic. We piled unto the GTO for the three-block drive to our neighborhood Sonic, and piddled our way to our parking spot located in front of the door where the roller skating wait staff exit with the food.

We drive and eat in the car instead of walk and sit at the picnic tables because the goat dog will eat anything off the ground that is food, resembles food, or has been within 100-feet of actual food. We park where we can see each tray of food delivered so that Yoda can at least eyeball all the foodstuffs he’s missing.

“Order six totties and tell them extra crunchy, shithead,” the Squirt impressed on me. She calls them “totties” and she likes them fried to make the same crunch as her dry kibbles.

She was standing in my lap while reading the lighted menu, and the goat dog was on the dashboard, nose pushed against the windscreen. His eyes followed each tray of food as it left the door, and his wet snozzola left snotty contrails on the glass. The sticky lines closely resembled the criss-crossing Etch-A-Sketch flip-flops of Mitt Romney’s policy positions, and me—I love the way the British say “windscreen” for a windshield.

“And tell them I want a hot dog, cut the onions, cut the mustard, extra chili, double-extra cheese, and one teaspoon of sweet relish—not one bit more. And tell them I want them to boil the wiener first and then grill it black.”

The little bundle of brown fur and wonderment surveyed the menu with fervor. “And get me an extra-large cherry lime with extra cherries.”

Yoda’s menu selections are more difficult to translate. He “phoopfs” and “pharphs” at everything from the kitchen, so I only order things that he tries to jump through the windscreen after.

When he knocked himself silly in his attempt to get at a tray loaded with Frito Pie and onion rings, Squirt said to me, she said, “Looks like we need to get the Beano out, Bwana Mooner. Shithead is eating some gassy dinner tonight.”

I, of course, forgot to dose the goat dog with the anti-gas medicine, and that reminds me to tell you about the fucking cat. Honor has taken to Santa Fe living as if our new hometown were the Garden of Eden. I buy a whole fish for dinner at least once each week, and leave the carcass with head still attached out back for her. She’ll return home, come inside to shed some fur, sharpen her claws on the quilt hanging on the back of the couch, knead pinpricks on my chest as she nuzzles my face in thanks for the fish carcass, usually puke a fur ball filled with feathers and mouse bones, and head outside to eat the fish.

I’ve never before had a cat, but I don’t know what all the fuss is about.

Which brings me to my original thought. The dry weather here somehow manufactures dust balls. I can mop and vacuum one minute and next minute my clean floors are littered with dust balls again. Fascinating.

And the dust balls and Yoda’s gas somehow stimulated a camel toe dream about which I no longer have time to describe to you. As a tease, I’ll tell you that in the dream I decided to give the dogs up for adoption and this couple wearing tight Lycra bicycle shorts wanted to adopt them.

Now I have to go. I promised Sister that I would try to find a friend of hers who lives here but has no phone. I love adventures, so, manana, y’all.

Did Liberace Turn Elvis?, And Other Sticky Wickets

Friday, February 15th, 2013

 

So. It’s a beautiful Friday here to the Land of Enchantment and all I can think to do for entertainment is walk and play daddy to the dogs. All of my friends are busy, I haven’t met anybody new to drive crazy, and the dogs are already on my nerves. The dog problem started at precisely 2:26 am, when the goat dog had a bad dream and started barking and growling as he tried to trench his way through my pillow, the bed and anything else between here and fucking Beijing.

“Phooph, pharph, phooph… Phooph, pharpf, phooph… Errrrrrrh!” would be my best efforts to spell the cut-vocal cord mania erupting from Yoda’s yapper as he shredded my pillowcase with maniacal, frantic front paw digging.

I made a reach for him but was cut short by the Squirt. “Don’t wake him up asshole. Don’t you know it’s dangerous to awaken a sleep walker?”

“He’s not sleep walking, little lady, he’s shredding the last remnant of my marriage to Dr. Sam I. Am. That pillowcase is all I have left of our stuff. Aunt Hilda gave us a set of embroidered bed linen for our wedding, and I stole Sammie’s pillowcase as she was moving out. I love that ratty old thing, sweetie, so get him off it.”

I do love that tattered old 600-count Egyptian cotton rag. Sometimes I still think I can conjure my first wife back into my bed by breathing through the tattered fabric.

“Wake his ass up and ask him what’s got him trying to dig to China.”

I didn’t hear the answer because my house phone rang and I got up to answer it. It was then 2:29 am, a factoid known to be fact as I looked at the big wall clock in my office as I said, “Hello, Mother, are you OK?”

“Where are you, Mooner?”

“Not in my bed dreaming of sexing it up with Allie McGraw, Mother. I’m sitting at my desk wondering why you called at 2:30 am.”

“Don’t you dare smart mouth me, Butcher Einstein Johnson. I can still bend you over the table and whip your ass with a belt.”

That was my family’s measure for corporate punishment for my sister and me. Fuck up, and you’d be bent over the end of the kitchen table where all the family members could take a crack at you. There was this one time when Streaker Jones—or was it Tony Butts—dared me to give Mrs. Browningwell a Wet Willie. It was right after lunch and I’d bought a Valomilk Cup that I ate walking back to class. It seems that my right index finger had some thick Vallomilk marshmallow residue left from my dessert and the Wet Willie delivered to Mrs. Browningwell’s right ear should have been renamed a “Wet and Sticky Willy”.

Maybe that sort of ear jelly should be called a “Sticky Wicket”.

I had trouble sitting for several days after. Never will forget my Daddy—laughing in my ear before taking his shots. “That might be the funniest thing you’ll ever do son. You remember this day.”

And then he slapped the thin, black leather belt across the tops of my thighs.

“Mother,” I told her, “you just come on up to Santa Fe anytime you want and take a crack at my ass. I dare you.” I figured telling her to come to Santa Fe to spank me would clue her to the simple fact that I’m in Santa Fe.

“Stop back-talking me, Mooner, and tell me where you are.”

OK, maybe not. “I’m in Santa Fe, Mother. I haven’t left Santa Fe since I got back after Christmas and I certainly haven’t left since four hours ago when we last spoke and you asked me ten times where I am.”

“Why are you in Santa Fe? Don’t you know that Santa Fe is run by the homo-sex-u-als? You’re not smart enough to evade one of those crafty homo-sex-u-als, Mooner. You never were all that bright, if you ask me.”

Bitch. Right-wing Christian asshole Republican demented old bitch.

“I think you might be right, Mother. I was just having this dream where I was trying to find Liberace so I could suck his dick. I was getting dream frustrated from not finding him, so I was about ready to suck any old dick that happened by. I guess I need to thank you for waking me up and saving my dream self from burning in Hell.”

Mother believes that all gay folks will burn in Hell. Me, I think gays are all due for a Heaven’s stay, as we straights manage to make their lives here a living Hell.

“Liberace wasn’t a homo-sex-u-al, Mooner. That’s just one more cog in the homo-sex-u-al propaganda machine. Liberace was a man’s man, and a great entertainer.”

I’ve always wondered about when Liberace helped turn Elvis from a singer into an entertainer back in the day. I’ve always wondered if old “I’ll Be Seeing You In All The Old Familiar Places” didn’t likewise turn Mr. swivel hips in other ways as well.

“Mooner, you stop talking like that and tell me where you are RIGHT NOW!!!” My mother seemed annoyed that I would impugn the sexual integrities of her beloved Liberace.

“Jesus, Mother, I’m still in fucking Santa Fe.”

“Well, you watch out for all of those homosexuals…” and the next think I heard was her fumble the buttons of her phone and then the disconnect.

The Squirt jumped into my lap and put her front feet on my chest and her face right up into mine. “OK, first of all, you need to stop antagonizing your mother. She’s old and fragile and she can’t remember shit. Let her go off on you and then just say good bye. Second, you need to spend some quality time with Yoda and me. Silly goat dog is having trust issues again and he’s been dreaming he gets locked up back at the puppy mill. All that digging is him trying escape.”

Then she slurped my face with a rough tongue covered with day-old fish slime. “I love you too, Squirty-Poo,” I told her. “Grab your leashes and let’s take a walk under the stars.”

It’s now noon and we’re on our way down to Albuquerque to take a ride on the Sandia Peak tram and then dinner at the top. Another day in paradise with me at the helm. Manana, y’all.

Mooner Proclamation: All Catholics Are Assholes

Wednesday, February 13th, 2013

 

So. Another wonderful day in paradise and the politics of the world grind on. And on, and on. The President’s State of the Union Address last night was full of hope and plans to create better options for middle class America. Many of his proposals were specific and many require the consent of our dysfunctional Congress.

Of course, the Republicans had their airtime to rebuke the President, this year in the face of Senator Marco “I’m So Nervous My Kidneys Have Bonded to My Sphincter” Rubio—a man who seems to have gone to the Mitt Romney School For Two-Faced Political Gibberish. Marco actually blamed Obama for the recession and accused him of not giving specific plans, and told various of the Republicans’ great lies.

It was while watching the red-faced, dry-mouthed Rubio speak that it dawned on me that all of this bullshit was orchestrated by someone, somewhere. Somebody is pulling the strings for the Repubbies and keeping them on the straight and stupid. There is a man, or men, somewhere who is managing the talking points for these guys and guiding the public face of the right-wing Christian conservatives.

Who? I want to know who it is. Who is so powerful as to take the /-300 conservative US legislators who were stepping all over their dicks and clitorissi a month ago to demonstrate that they “finally got it” about American voters, and turn the entire bunch back into the brain dead shitballs of November 1, 2012?

OK, stop. Maybe that should have been “clitorises”. Clitoratti, maybe. For a man so in love with them, you’d think I’d be better informed.

Then there is this entire Pope dealio. As the only high-ranking church official to ever attempt to arrest and defrock even one rapist priest out of the Catholic church, I see this guy—regrettably—as one of their best. This is a sad, sad statement to say that one of the best men in the Catholic Church is among the best because he wanted to do the right thing once out of a thousand cases. This Pope is a prick, his predecessor was a prick, and his likely successor will likewise be a prick. Until they put a Pope in place who provides local prosecutors worldwide with the Church’s files on pedophile Priests collected by Pope Bennie the Rat Turd, all Popes will continue to be pricks.

We now know that the Church has known unquestionably that the rapes and the cover-ups have been committed by Church officials from the lowliest Parish Priest all the way to the fucking Popes. Multiple Popes have continued the cover-ups. In truth, almost every Catholic Parish worldwide has harbored these criminal abusers. The evidence is so voluminous that it would topple many free governments.

Yet with all of that knowledge, the Catholic Church chugs on, filling its pews with loyal Catholic asses and it’s coffers with the coin of its blindly faithful.

Anybody out there a Catholic? Care to justify to us precisely why you are still a Catholic. Anybody care to tell us how you can pray and worship through the hierarchy of an organization that, basically, aids and abets the mass raping of your faith’s children? Can any Catholic out there provide an understandable rationalization for remaining faithful to your Pope and his silly edicts?

Other than that old tried and true lie about how you take the good with the bad, how do you fucking stand yourself as a Catholic. How can you sleep at night knowing that your monetary tithes, Catholic School tuitions and bake sale proceeds have often gone to feed, cloth and shelter men who raped your faith’s kids. How do you live with the knowing that you—Mr. And Mz. Ordinary Catholic—are funding people who ruin children’s lives in the name of your God?

For many years I have held only the Priests and Cardinals and the fucking Popes to blame for this crime against humanity. No longer. With all of the proof that your church has actually hidden and protected the perpetrators of child abuse—fuck that. The Holy Roman Fucking Catholic Church has encouraged pedophiles to enter and stay in the Priesthood and the everyday members are now fully aware. You have the proof that it is still happening.

Knowing this, I, Butcher Einstein “Mooner” Johnson, do hereby make the public pronouncement that I hold all practicing Catholics responsible for the centuries of rapes and abuses committed on your children by church officials.

Fuck all Catholics!!! Every one of you. How dare you call yourselves Christians and men of God when you support and fund these crimes.

Has to be clitorissi. Clitoris, the dictionary claims, is believed to be from the Greek word meaning, “To shut.” Therefore, I’m convinced it’s clitorissi, and it seems somehow appropriate as I’ve been shut out from them for quite some time. And why is it only “believed” to be from the Greek. Eve had one for shitsakes, it isn’t a newly-evolved appendage. We should know more about them.

Which reminds me. Has anyone heard from the Reckmonster?

Manana, y’all.

Holy Mole’; Mooner Mucks-Up Whole Enchilada

Saturday, February 9th, 2013

 

So. I find myself in an interesting quandary this beautiful winter morning in the Land of Enchantment. After an absence from these pages for +/- two weeks with no outlet for my ADHD-swirling thoughts, I’ve much to say and little motivation for saying it. And having said that (“it”), why is it that I was required to use the word “it” when describing what it is about which I lack motivations?

What makes the word “it” so fucking wonderful that it can encompass any quantity from negative infinity to positive infinity? How can it be possible for me to use that simple two-letter word to be so precise as to describe a single sub-atomic particle, such as a quirk, and, yet, likewise say “it” when speaking of the entire fucking universe?

It, as a word, has always had me flummoxed. Who gave it so much power and scope? Where did its notions spring from?

OK, from where did its magnitudes spring?

Me, I was one of the very few who felt that Wild Bill Clinton spoke his answer with great precision when he said, “It depends upon what your definition of the word ‘is’ is.” I understood precisely what the President meant when he said it. It was clear to me that he might have done it, but its limits and scopes were what made it one thing under one definition, yet—upon application of one of the many different definitions of is—might mean something completely disconnected and discomforting when it (“is”) is viewed from divergent perspectives.

It and is. Words of power and confusion. Powerfully confusing words that seem to be inexplicably joined at the hip.

Ugh. Do this as an exercise to better understand what it is I’m attempting to say. Write a 200-word third party essay describing any complete event as it happens in real time. Take a few minutes to attempt to do so without using the words “it” or “is” in said 200 words without committing any grammatical fouls as you go.

Write a 200-word third party descriptive something that lacks it or is—the reading of which doesn’t make me want to slit my own throat—and I’ll send you an autographed copy of my fucking book.

Which reminds me. I was at the bookstore when I was back to Austin just to pop in and see if my book was selling there. I went to the Local Authors section where it was located, and found instead a Mexican food cookbook by the chef at one of my least favorite Austin eateries. When I managed to get the manager’s attention, I asked her, I said, “What the fuck is this? You gave my shelf space to this hack? Have you ever tried to eat this asshole’s enchiladas without getting a case of the fire squirts?”

“Lower your voice, Mr. Johnson. This is a bookstore, for Pete’s sake.” The nice lady was looking at me with a Second Grade teacher’s expression.

I grabbed the cookbook and fanned through the pages to find a recipe for guacamole and cabrito enchiladas with mole’ sauce. “Look here at this,” I demanded of the nice lady manager—Mary, I think was her name. “Even the kids at Taco Bell’s drive-in windows are smart enough to tell you that you never fucking pair avocado with mole’ sauce. It tastes like shit and it’ll give you the burny-ass fire squirts!”

“I said settle down, Mooner. I moved you to the Humorous Political Fiction section when you vacated Austin for Santa Fe. Coincidentally, you’re on the shelf right next to Governor Perry’s latest.”

I was too busy ripping the guacamole and goat enchiladas with mole’ sauce pages from the shelved cookbooks for my brain to register Mary’s words. I picked up the paper sheets I’d removed and placed them in the recycling bin and marched to my car with the firm knowledge that I, Butcher Einstein “Mooner” Johnson, had struck a blow for Mexican food lovers worldwide.

“Chicken shit asshole fancy-pants right-wing Mexican food subversive fuckballs!” I announced to the crowd that gathered at the door as I left. “Mexican food is traditional!” I said. “Tra-fucking-di-tion-al!”

It was in the GTO leaving the bookstore when I decided to cook a goat and serve it with guacamole. It was from there whence I decided to head over to the Sprouts to take advantage of their special on avocados.

Anyway, I really don’t feel like writing, I feel like walking the dogs. Maybe Allie McGraw is out this morning.

So, write me your essays and I’ll see y’all manana.

 

PS-  For those of you expecting mention of a camel toe…  Stay tuned!

Unexpected Unfeterednesses; Pope Still A Prick

Friday, February 8th, 2013

 

So. Have you missed me as much as I’ve missed you? I had to take an unplanned travel sabbatical back to Texas for awhile to settle some business issues and I haven’t had the time to write to you.

OK, I just lied. I likely could have found the time to write, I simply chose to do other shit. Like sleep.

Unplanned sabbaticals are difficult times for me, what with the ADHD and all, because planning and organization are the keys to my abilities to control my mental facilities, and faculties as well. Said another way, should I think of my brain as my computer facility and my thoughts as my program faculties, unplanned events are like that Trojan Horse Virus that invaded my Word Press bloggie control systems awhile back.

One minute I’m standing at the checkout counter at the Sprouts over to the Arboretum in Austin, Texas, with a basket full of ripe avocados, onions, jalapeños and cilantro, and the next minute I’m sitting in the back seat of Deputy Sheriff Delroy Armstrong’s black-and-white 2009 Ford police cruiser.

Have you ever been held for further actions in the back of a four-year-old police car? Imagine the ambiance of the mens’ room at Chuck’s Chug-A-Lug—located three blocks off Bourbon Street down to New Orleans—the early Wednesday morning after Fat Tuesday. Take that sensory fodder and pack it into an institutional vinyl bag, toast the bag in hot Texas sun for two weeks, then open the bag. Let the opened bag sun-bake for another week and then clean it with institutional bathroom scrub, re-bake sunnyside up, and then use the vinyl to upholster the back seat of a Travis County Sheriff’s car.

It was a good thing that I allowed for some extra ripening time for the avocados. Deputy Delroy “Can I Take the First Whack at ‘Em” Armstrong is a badged member of law enforcement with whom I’ve numerously encountered previously. At our first meeting, Delroy wanted to, and here I’ll give you my best quoted memory of Delroy’s actual words, “Let me cuff this here Hippy an’ take ‘im out back, Sheriff Wozniak. Beat a little sense inta his thick skull.”

Anyway, I’m back to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe with no obvious damage other than the thick, black bruises on my wrists and the knot on my head just above the hairline where my skull “accidentally” banged the door frame of a 2009 Ford Crown Vicky.

When finally eaten by the crew ranch side there to Austin, it was a rich and creamy guacamole, and a perfect condiment for the slow-grilled goat I cooked while visiting. Gram patted-out fresh corn tortillas and Aunt Hilda made the beans and salad. The Squirt made me keep my window cracked on the drive home as Aunt Hilda’s tasty frijoles give me the gas.

Eye-watering, gag reflex farts. Farts I love to loosen into the tight, sealed confines of an old GTO doing 75 MPH between Abilene and Lubbock, Texas, at 10 am the morning after.

For those minds inquiring, I didn’t visit Mother while there, and nobody is sick—unless, of course you count the assholes who broke in and stole all of Sister and Anna the Amazon’s stuff. That’s the reason for my unplanned visit. The girls were on an anniversary trip down to Mexico when the robbery occurred, and they called to ask me to look into things for them.

If you’d buy my stupid fucking book, you might find the hidden reasons why these two lovebirds would choose Mexico for an anniversary trip, and I’d earn a couple bucks I could donate to the Food Bank. Then again, you can be a tightwad asshole and remain in the dark.

Maybe you’re a right-wing Christian Republican Tea Party shithead, in which case you can kiss my rosey-red ass and then go fuck yourself.

Anyway, I’m still too busy to write, but I am back to Santa Fe. I’m re-pissed at the Holy Roman Catholic Church, the Boy Scouts, and Wal-Fucking-Mart.

OK, stop. Can you be re-pissed at something whereat your being pissed was a preexisting condition having been exacerbated upon receiving new pissing-off inputs?

Fuck Walmart, fuck the Pope, fuck the BSA, and I’ll be back manana, y’all.