Holy Mole’; Mooner Mucks-Up Whole Enchilada


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!

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6 Responses to “Holy Mole’; Mooner Mucks-Up Whole Enchilada”

  1. Cynthianne says:

    Sunday afternoon blues…

    Once upon a time there was an old lady sitting at her computer, trying to decide if she wanted to look at a few blogs, or do her taxes. Or maybe make a sandwich, or go to the Smith’s because she was out of ice cream, and had been craving a peanut butter and banana sundae with butterscotch sauce. But she got a headache trying to decide, and went to take an aspirin… Then she discovered that she was missing a couple of 1099-INT forms, so couldn’t do taxes. Foiled again. So she looked to see if Squatlo had posted anything… Nope, but he rarely posts on Sunday anyway.

    Then she looked at Mooner’s new post, which didn’t, at first glance, make a whole lot of sense. But she had been practicing on her friend Gloria, so she tried a re-read. Hmm… An existential crisis over some common words, and mole sauce doesn’t go with guacamole. What else? Something about an essay with an autographed book as a prize. She mused: Shall I essay an essay? But decided not to- she already had the book. And she’d be a little bit bummed if Mooner slit his throat…

  2. Squatlo says:

    How many words was that, Cynthianne? I believe you qualified…

    Mooner, the Pope has apparently decided he can no longer take your abuse, so he’s resigning effective Feb. 28th. I expect you to pay tribute to Benny with an appropriately snarky column, with all due haste.

    I’d do it myself, but as a recovering Catholic (I’m much better now, thanks for asking) I’m forbidden from criticizing the Papal Throne.

  3. Squatlo says:

    Hey, if you can get the Boy Scouts’ national director and the head honcho at Babtists-backward R- Us to resign, you’d hit the trifecta!

  4. Mooner Johnson needs sexing says:

    C’Anne. OK, brilliant. I now realize I should have included the word “so” in my exclusions, but that was fucking great! Instead for supplying you with a second copy of my awful book, I now owe you a drink.

    Squat. I read about the Popester’s abdication of the throne. I guess they want some prick who will spread thicker layers of shit over the church’s sins. I’m thinking maybe this guy’s conscience finally poked its nose through the thick weave of gold threaded robes and said, “You’re about to die, shithead. Wake up and man a lifeboat!”

    Sad to say that this guy might have been from among their best.

  5. Squatlo says:

    Uh, before you get all weepy about Benny’s resignation you might want to check out his previous job description: hiding pedophile priests from diocese to diocese.

    Of course, being “among their best” isn’t sayin’ a whole hell of a lot about a guy.

  6. Cynthianne says:

    Soooo, Mooner (Sorry, couldn’t resist)

    I’d rather have a Costco hotdog. And your book is not particularly awful. Sheesh!

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