Archive for March, 2013

Lessons In Dementia; A Mother’s Love

Friday, March 29th, 2013

 So. The last several days have been interesting. OK, if you have a perverted sense of humor, then you will find the last several days of my life interesting. Me, it’s been but one more week living the drama that has become my mother. This week started with my usual Sunday afternoon phone call to the loony old gasbag I call “Mother”. I had called her Saturday evening and had one of our typical conversations where she was nasty and I tried to be nice. She was especially nasty and I snarked at her before I hung up. So, maybe that means my week started on Saturday. Or maybe I should say that last week’s shit spilled over into this week.

Anyway, I said, “Fuck you, you batty old bitch,” but I said it sweetly in spite of what she had said to me, and I finished the call with, “I love you anyway, Mother.” I rang her number:

Mother: “Who is this?”

Me: “It’s me, Mother, it’s your loving sonny boy making his usual Sunday afternoon call to his mother. How was church?”

Mother: “Sonny who? Sonny Hicks or that other Sonny?”

Me: “Oh, for shitsakes, Mother, look at the Caller ID—it’s me, Mooner.”

Mother: “Well why didn’t you say so in the first place? How come you never call me? And where are you?”

Me: Deep breath, small sigh, “I’m still in Santa Fe—home of the homosexuals—Mother. Where are you?”

Mother: “I’m where I’ve always been—in the special Hell the good Lord placed me for raising such horrible children. I just wish He’d take me now, put me out of my misery. You never call me anymore. Now tell me where you are before I hang up on you!”

Me: Sound of telephone receiver thwacking on skull, low, anguished groan, “I’m still in Santa Fe, Mother. Just as I have been for the last two-hundred thirty-seven times you’ve asked.”

Mother: “If you don’t tell me which Sonny you are I’m hanging up and calling Sheriff Wozniak. How dare you scare an old woman.”

Me: Sounds of me wondering why sweet Jesus won’t take me instead, sound of an idea light bulb going off, “I’m sorry, Mother Johnson, it’s me, Sonny Hicks. How are you doing down there to San Antonio? Do you like your apartment?”

Mother: “Oh, Mr. Hicks, I live in such a fine place. My son loves me so much he’ll only have me living in the best apartment in all of Texas.”

Me: Imagine the sound of question marks and total confusion, “Huh? What the fu… Er, that is to say, you’re son must love you very much. Have you spoken to him lately?”

Mother: “Oh, my yes, he calls me almost every single day. Sometimes we pray together—Mooner is a fine Christian man. His sister is a fine Christian as well.”

Me: Sound of a man sharpening a wooden stake, “That’s nice Mother Johnson. I hear Mooner moved to Santa Fe. Aren’t you afraid of all those homosexuals turning Mooner into one of their kind?”

Mother: “Mooner’s a good boy, Mr. Hicks. Where did you say you are?”

Me: “I’m still in Santa Fe, Mother. How was church?”

Mother: “We studied all about Sodom and Gomorrah, Mooner. Every day I get out of bed and look to see if there’s a story on the news about how you’ve been turned into a stone pillar. You never were smart enough to stay out of trouble, Mooner. You’ll soon be a homo-sex-u-al, and then you’ll see.”

Me: “I think you might be right, Mother. Just today I was driving down the street and I thought to myself, I thought, ‘I sure would like to suck on a big, fat and juicy dick right about now.’ You think that might be a sign?”

Mother: “I’ll pray for you, son. Now put that nice Mr. Hicks back on the line.”

Me: “OK. Love you and talk to you soon. Click.”

I do wish I was a gay man, or at least a bisexual man. If I could stomach the idea of sticking another man’s pecker in my mouth, I’d fucking be gay. No attachments or long term promises of fidelity and all that shit. Then again, it appears that same-sex marriage is going to become a reality, and that will totally spoil the benefits of same-sex sex for me.

Me, I’m wondering if this entire same-sex marriage dealio is going to end up as one of those “Be careful what you wish for” thingies.

Anyway, the second woman in my life who shares familial blood and messed with me by phone was Sister—the aforementioned good Christian woman. Sister is married to my third ex-wife and was excommunicated from the Baptist church about the same time as me—the year, I think, was 1968. Sister has been a lesbian from her first breath and a proud one at that.

Sister seems to feel the same way about sucking on a pecker as do I. And don’t start on my ass about how the fucking Baptists don’t excommunicate their wayward flocksters. Anytime a scolding ends with the words, “…and don’t you ever darken our door again,” you, dear friend, have been excommunicated.

My phone rang:

Me: “Hello, and thanks for calling La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. How might I direct your rude disturbance into my ever so enchanted life?”

Sister: “It’s me, asshole. Call your mother and do it right now! You haven’t called her in more than two weeks? I can’t believe you, Mooner.”

Me: “Huh? What time is it?”

Sister: “It’s a quarter after three here in Texas. Did you lose your watch?”

Me: Sounds of irritation, “I stopped wearing a watch because everyfuckingthing I own has a clock on it, and, well, that makes it two-fifteen here and I hung up from speaking with Mother approximately twenty-one minutes ago.”

Sister: “Mother says you haven’t called her in weeks. Oh, and before I forget, she told me to tell you that Sonny Hicks called her this afternoon. Wasn’t Sonny Hicks the guy who took a crap in the pocket of Mrs. Browningwell’s raincoat?”

Me: “No, I think that was the other Sonny. How’s Anna? I keep hoping she’ll get tired of you and want to switch Johnsons again. It’s been months since I’ve had me any sexing, and…”

Sister: “Not even funny, fuckbreath. You blew that one and it’s my good fortune you did. I’ll tell her you still love her. Sorry I doubted you.”

Me: “It’s OK, Sis. I love you a bunch. Come see me, OK?”

Why is it that some of my favorite people are gay? Sister and her lovely bride, my buddy Lloyd, and George Tokay. Ellen DeG? I was contemplating that question when my phone rang again.

Me: “Hello, and isn’t it a lovely day at Mooner Johnson’s House of Contemplations. Is it better to have loved and lost or to count your chickens before they hatch?”

Aunt Hilda: “Well, Dearie, you seem to have another perplexing situation on your hands. I’ll go with the chickens. Are you getting enough bulk in your diet.”

Me: “Hey, Hilda, how’s it hanging, baby?”

Aunt Hilda: “High and tight, kiddo, high… And mighty tight! Why haven’t you called your mother, Mooner? She’s calling the entire family and boo-hooing all over the place.”

Me: “Oh, for shitsakes, Aunt Hilda. I just got off the phone with her a half-hour ago.”

Aunt Hilda: “Well, call her again. You know she’s a touch forgetful.”

Me: “OK, alright, I’ll call her again. Bye-bye baby. I love you.”

Aunt Hilda: “Me too. Why don’t you try one of those granola cereals with dates and raisins—move your stools right on along. Say “Hi” to Sonny Hicks for me, and go call your mother!”

I wondered if maybe it would be less stressful for me to move back to Texas. For like maybe ten seconds I wondered. Fuck Texas. I’ve never been happier than since I moved to New Mexico. I was counting my many Enchantedland blessings when my phone rang again.

Me: “Thanks for calling the Fuck Texas Hotline, Mooner speaking. Today’s special is your basic crew neck tee shirt emblazoned with our copyrighted slogan, “Fuck Prick Perry and Walmart Too!!!” Available in white, black or tittie pink, these high thread-count cotton tees are….”

Gram: “I’mma kick yer Texas-bred butt from here ta Waco, shithead. Git offn yer ass an’ call yer crazy fuckin’ mother and do it on the pinto!”

Me: “Didn’t you mean call Mother pronto, Gram?”

Gram: “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner, you ain’t got tha brains of a fuckin’ bean. Now quit yer talk-backin’ an’ call yer mother afore I come down there to New Mexico an’ kick yer skinny ass!”

Me: “God, it’s good to talk to you too, Gram. Are you getting any?”

Gram: “Hell to tha yessiree-Bobby! Me an’ tha P-cubed got a couple Aggie boys tied up over ta her place right as we’re a speakin’. Now call yer Mother.”

P-cubed is Penelope Paxon-Parades, Gram’s best friend and the woman whom Gram calls her “Poontanger huntin’ buddy”. Those two old broads are a horny young boy’s worst nightmares, and I got to thinking that I need to try to be more patient and caring for my mother. Dementia is a terrible affliction and I don’t need to inflict my wounded child bullshit on the woman who bore and wounded me.

Which reminds me. Why is it necessary for every single consumer product to now have a clock in it? What makes Time so fucking important that we now need it available in every instant of our lives?

Anyway, with my fancy new ball point pen with a flashlight, compass and clock in its top, I was writing one of those “Ben Franklin” evaluations—you know, wherein you draw a line down the center of a page of paper and write a plus sign on one side and a minus on the other? You put the goods on the plus side and the bads on the minus side. An old fashioned decision-making device that I have used all my life.

I was a good fifteen minutes into my decision-making process, one wherein I had sixty-seven good things about living in Santa Fe, and but one bad one—my new-found allergies—when my phone rang once again. Ring:

Me: “Hello, Mother, and thanks for calling Mooner Johnson’s House of Ben Franklin Decisions and Predictions. Pick your poison and talk to one of our experts. How might we assist you today?”

Mother: “Learned your lesson?”

Me: “Huh?”

Mother: “I did not mumble. Don’t ever mess with me again, Butcher Einstein Johnson. I am your MOTHER!!! Click.”

Me, into the dead phone line: “Sonofabitch. Mother, you’ve been playing me.”

Son… of… a …. Bitch! I guess my mother is going to screw with me until one of us dies. On a brighter note, Cynthianne sent me the linkster for the petition I couldn’t find the other day. Please take the time to sign it.


Manana, y’all.

All That Is Golden Is Not Gold; Fuck Walmart Anyway

Saturday, March 23rd, 2013


So. As a well-traveled man of reasonable reasoning, I have long known there must exist a yang for the incredible enchantments that are New Mexico’s yin. There is no “perfect” anyfuckingthing, and each of the Universe’s ups has a down. My New Mexican yang was discovered Wednesday morning.

I was standing rooftop on a two-story house in Eldorado, New Mexico. Not an actual Zip Code, and not an actual town, Eldorado is a sprawling sketchbook of high desert beauty that is dotted with homes built in a somewhat thoughtful coexistence with Mother Nature’s beauty. The main roads meander for miles, homes are situated on quite large lots, and un-buildable common areas occupy large swatches many times more land area than does the infrastructure and habitats.

Whenever I reach a perch here to New Mexico, I stop and take a moment to look around. With over seventy different, specifically-named mountain ranges, our state has more varying vistas than the cut glass chards in a kaleidoscope—a complex word that I just spelled correctly with my first effort. When I wrote my stupid fucking book, I had trouble rememberating the word, much less its spelling.

Which reminds me. I’ve had but one applicant for my open position for an Editing Assistant. And that one applicant—the lovely and charming former editor, Cynthianne from the ABQ—has agreed to take the position just so long as she isn’t required to perform her job. To misquote myself when I posted the ad for this new position, basically what I said was, “I’m looking for a nice lady to rub my feet while I self-edit this shit before publication.”

What with the ADHD and ADD and all, my original drafts are daffy documents full of drivel. And misspellings and tense changes and wait. See right there? See where I should have said, “Changes of tense?” That sort of shitty grammatical crap litters my verbal landscape like so much fresh dog shit on the little rug everyone has beside their bed. You know, that little rug set perfectly so you can place your tootsies in comfort as you sit on the side of the bed—rubbing your eyes upon first awakenment from deep slumber—to contemplate your first conscious acts of a new day.

Fucking dogs. They wanted to take a long walk yesterday and I didn’t. They felt like cruising the walking trail that runs alongside the Rail Runner tracks, and me… I felt like I was getting water-boarded by my ownself.

“Quit sniffling like a baby, shithead, and take us for a walk,” The Squirt told me after several hours of bargaining. She and the goat dog had offered me everything from their promises to behave to threats of making my life miserable in efforts to barter a walk.

“I’d love to, little Missy, but I just can’t risk going outside right now,” I told her. “And that’s that.”

“Alright, fuckhead, you’ve been warned. On a brighter note, is it still whole fish Friday?”

Once a week I buy a whole fish from Whole Foods, cook it in an interesting way, and then place the head, carcass and whatever else remains after the dogs and I dine, out back for the fucking cat. Honor—said fucking cat—returns from wherever it is she habitates on those days not whole fish Fridays to visit and dine with the family. She purrs and rubs Spring sheddings from her long coat all over the fucking place, pukes fur balls of bones and feathers woven with the hair she’s swallowed hair into little sausage links, eats her fill from the fish offering, and then disappears.

Early this morning, I awoke with a head full of congestion and reached for a handful of Kleenex with which to blow my nose. I got my head cleared just enough to take an actual full breath through my nostrils, and took said full breath.

“Holy shit! It smells like rotten fish in here.” The stench of old fish and camel ass was strong enough to burn my half-cleared nostrils.

I turned and put my feet on that small, aforementioned carpet carefully-placed by most of us at our bedside, and squished both feet into piles of dog crap.

OK, stop. My ADHD has dislodged the train and headed us off into the wilderness. What I was saying is that I was on this roof out to Eldorado Wednesday morning. It was cool, crisp and windless as I surveyed the views of the Sange de Christo mountains and the golden hues of the rolling landscape between them and my house roof perch.

“The golden hues are beautiful, Jerry,” I told the homeowner upon whose roof I perched.

“I call it the Beauty and the Beast, Mooner. That gold you see is the Spring pollination of the Mountain Juniper. Some people are allergic to it,” Jerry told me.

We surveyed his roof for a good half-hour and stopped to look at the mountains a last time before taking the ladder down. “Look over there, Mooner. See where the wind is coming over the mountains and stirring the juniper trees?”

It took me a couple seconds to see what he saw. When I caught the sight, I could see the wind starting and puffs of golden smoke bursting from the trees. As the wind thickened and moved downhill towards us, the air quickly filled as if by a dust storm. It was actually quite interesting to see the sky grow golden as the wind pushed—harder now—towards us. The first wind hit my face as I held the ladder for Jerry, and by the time I said “Goodbye” and got to my truck, its white finish was already covered with gold dust.

It wasn’t until ten minutes later as I reentered the Santa Fe City limits that I first sneezed. Ten minutes after that that my eyes itched enough to want them scratched out. And within an hour of first exposure to juniper pollen, I became a test dummy for self water-boarding.

“We’re going to rename you Snot Bucket, asshole,” were Squirt’s words to me last night. “You’re hacking and spitting and blowing constantly.”

Anyway, I’m miserable in a major way and maybe the pollen will go away soon. Which brings me to this instant—the one wherein I’m first drafting today’s missive. I just flipped the page of my wall calendar to take a peek at April, and was greeted by a photo of one of Salvador Dali’s’ melting, exploding clocks. It’s a photo of the same Dali’ exploding clock I have tattooed on my left arm. The calendar has a different Dali’ painting on each month, and this painting was inked on my arm when I first learned that my father was dying from cancer.

Now, I can’t tell if the tears spilling from my eyes and the snot bubbles billowing from my nose are from the allergy to juniper pollen or my allergies to the loss of Daddy. But as my Gram always says, “Oh, who gives a shit, Mooner. Yer a fuckin’ mess. Now go put a bag on yer head an’ walk them two dogs a yers. Maybe you’ll run inta that alligater crawfish lady an’ git ya some poontanger.”

Huh? Alligator crawfish lady? “Oh, you mean Allie McGraw, don’t you, Gram?

“Lik’ I told ya, Mooner, I don’t really give a shit who ya choose so long as ya git yersef laid.”

After all these years my father’s death still leaves a huge hole in me. I loved him when he was here and realize that I took him for granted. The tattoo was a manifestation of my commitment to not fall victim to the slippery explosions of Time’s realities melting away. I think S. Dali’ was fantastically brilliant, and his insights into Time sublime. Take a minute to find some of his clock paintings and linger with them… See if you agree.

Me, I’m putting a wet gunny sack over my head and taking a walk with the dogs. Maybe Allie McGraw will be out with her puppy charge, and maybe the wet gunny sack fabric can filter enough pollen to prevent my death.

Manana, y’all.

Selective Absolutism; Simple Solutions To Complex Problems

Sunday, March 17th, 2013


So. I was driving I-25 between Albuquerque and Santa Fe on my way home last night and a thought hit me. Ed Schultz was on the radio and he was discussing the asshole Republican from Ohio, Senator Portman, who recently found out that his son is homosexual. This man, upon learning from his own child that the son was “born homosexual” and didn’t choose “the life” and that this young man has “always been” homosexual, has gone from sponsoring the Defense of Marriage Act to supporting the freedom to marry whoever you choose.

Whomever you choose?

This man’s son having had this particular conversation with his parents is hardly remarkable in today’s World. I’ll bet this very instant there are thousands of young people girding their loins to have the same talk with their parents—sweating and fretting and frittering brain cells away in the angst all children experience when we worry that we will disappoint our families in some major way.

Nothing remarkable about these closet cleanings happening across the globe with an increased regularity. Me, I find this heartening in every imaginable way. Our world becomes more enlightened every day. If only so many of us wouldn’t close our eyes to the light that makes us uncomfortable or those rays of truth that challenge our dogma.

But what is remarkable about this particular closet evacuation is that this Republican congressman from Ohio has been a staunch opponent of same sex marriage his entire career. Every chance to attack the issue, this shithead managed to find face time to condemn gays from having this most basic human rights. He fucking sponsored the Defense of Marriage Act!

Until it hit home. His home. Now, he’s “rethinking the issue”.

Ed Schultz brought up the issue that these right-wing Christian fuckballs are against each and every human right and social issue until it hits them there square to their house. Then, they decide they need to “rethink” the issue. They choose to be absolutely against something because of their “core beliefs” until it helps them to rethink the issue.

This made me think about “Someone Shrunk My Teddy” Cruz—the unimaginably dense US Senator from Texas. This boy’s momma dried his undies in a way-too fucking hot dryer when he was a kid and pinched his brains up tight against his asshole. Cruz talked-down to Senator Feinstein on the Constitution and Bill of Rights like she was a first grader. Using the stupid logic and lies so often employed by people with no facts at their disposal, “All-shrunked-up” Teddy chose to defend, with absolution, certain sections of our Nation’s Charter while pretending other sections and the grammatical modifiers don’t exist. He, in effect, rewrote the Constitution and Bill of Rights to say what he wished they said.

And that made me think of the arch conservative Christians—the ones who choose to believe that the Bible is the literal words of God, except for when they don’t.

So. Like I said, I was driving between the ABQ and Santa Fe. I was at that spot whereat you crest this one hill and suddenly see the valley where Santa Fe starts its meandering that ends in the Sangre de Christo Mountains. Each time I see this sight I almost cry with its beauty. Last night as it came into my view, I had an “Ah-Ha!” moment.


I yelled it and slammed my hand on the thick, padded steering wheel of my work truck. “Son, of a fucking, bitch! Now I get it.”

What I got was the answer to a question that has pestered me for decades. The question? “How can you easily identify an asshole?”

The answer? “When they practice Selective Absolutism.”

Anytime a person has absolute convictions to a small part of a policy or issue or doctrine yet denies validity of other parts—that, dear friends—is the asshole marker. Like the Christian shithead who will condemn homosexuality because he believes that the Bible is the literal word of God. If the words in the Bible are God’s literal words, then why aren’t these same charismatic Christians killing all their current Prophets?

In Deuteronomy 18:20-22, God said, “…A false Prophet is one whose words don’t come true, and they must be put to death…” Then in Ezekiel 14:9, God tells us that, “…A Prophet who is deceived is deceived by God and, again, must be put to death…”

Therefore, and ipso-fucking facto, anytime Pat Robertson made a boo-boo in his predictions… He was to have been sacrificed in the name of God for his sins. The actual act of making a prediction that doesn’t come true is God taking action against the impure—some shithead who uses God’s name under false pretenses.

And Selective Absolutism doesn’t apply just to right-wing conservatives. The same logic can be used with liberals as well. Like Jessee “The Crazy Made Me Do It” Jackson, Jr. Jessee—dude—when you stake a claim to defend the downtrodden and then steal their money… You are an asshole. You’re a liberal asshole, but an asshole none-the-less.

Holy shit but does this ever make life easier for me. I spend so much time in my attempts to specifically distinguish precisely what it is that makes a person an asshole, that it wears on me. Now it’s easy. Now I have more time to pursue Allie McGraw. Now I’m taking the puppies on a walk over to the railroad tracks walking path for a chance encounter with Mz. Love Story.

Manana, y’all.

Black Smoke- Whaaaa; Catholics Catch A Day Of Peace

Wednesday, March 13th, 2013


So. Black came billowing from the Pope Alert Smokestack rather than white yesterday, marking a day of freedom for the world’s Catholics. Me—if I were Catholic—would rejoice. If I were Catholic I’d be glad that my chosen religion had managed to survive a full day without one of the string of God’s second-hand men. For those of you wondering why I didn’t say “God’s right-hand men”, to me, there is nothing right about the hierarchy of the Holy Roman Catholic Church.

OK, please allow me to stop right here because if I were Catholic I’d have slit my own throat years ago and none of this would matter. That said, would somebody please answer me this question. Where in the Bible did Jesus say that He wished to be honored and worshiped in giant fucking cathedrals? Wasn’t Jesus the guy (Guy?) who told the money-grubbing currency exchangers to get the fuck off sacred religious soil? Didn’t our boy (Boy?) Jesus encourage us to gather and hunt for our salvations in small groups rather than in mega churches?

In all of those childhood Vacation Bible Schools I attended as a kid, did I miss the part where Jesus said, “OK, boys, here’s what you do to honor My spirit (Spirit?). Find the fussiest old prune-faced male pedophiles among you and dress them up in silly red gowns. Have those assholes elect a Queen from among themselves to serve as front man, and let me reinforce that I said men. Oh, and how about we have all these shitheads wear really ornate headgear. You know how I love the headgear. Once you’ve got yourself a Queen, figure the best way to raise cash in My name. I’m OK with you raping and murdering and pillaging and spreading disease and poverty, just so long as you do it in my name. Oh-oh-oh… Do it this a way. Be all humble and shit and mimic forming a cross over your heart, and say, ‘In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.’ And somebody will need to figure out just what the Holy Spirit is. In a few thousand years there will be this guy who has real trouble with that one.”?

And I do. That entire Holy Spirit shit has perplexed me from the beginning of my religious indoctrinations. I get the concept of God just fine. Anytime we aren’t smart enough to figure something out as a species, we can use God as the originator (Originator?). Anytime something good happens we can thank God. And anytime something goes terribly wrong we can blame God.

But wait once more, as we’ve just hit upon another instance whereupon I don’t get the Christian shit. If I’m to place all my faith in God, and He fucks me over… I’m finding fault. If the big boy (Big Boy?) wants me to credit Him with every little thing that I do or that goes right in my entire pitiful life—if He is so needy and insecure as to require credit for making every good thing happen—the the Big He needs to suck it to and to take some fucking responsibility.

Be a man (Man?), God. Teach us how to bear responsibility for our own shit with Your example. I think this little screw up of yours is where the entire religion-as-a-life-format has gone so terribly wrong. As long as we can use You for justification, we’ll misuse Your name (Name?).

Which reminds me that I’m not at all pleased with the capitalization rules for God’s grammar shit. We either need to capitalize all references to God and His stuff, or none of it. Like that last word in the previous paragraph wherein I questioned the capitalization of God’s Name (name?).”

Anyway, I was awakened by the dogs in their obvious confusion as to the recent time change—another of Mankind’s misconceptions as to how to better live life. Just like with that “Holy Spirit” bullshit, I’ve been waiting fifty years for someone to tell me just one logical reason to ruin my life twice every year by rearranging the time. I’ve got one dog springing forward for an early breakfast and a second shitting in my shoes because she doesn’t like my explanations as to “Why it’s not breakfast time” any better than I like my explanations.

“Makes no fucking sense, Mooner,” the Squirt told me at the new 4:00 am MDST. “Now get your ass up and feed me before I take a dump in your new shoes.”

So I’m up and bothering you guys. Manana, y’all.


The New Mexico Oil And Gas Association Are Chickenshit Asshole Pig Fuckers!

Sunday, March 10th, 2013


So. It is, indeed, another day in Paradise. There’s this miraculous snow falling in the dead-still air—tiny, fluffy flakes that appear to crystallize before my eyes. The flakes are so small and light that they look like miniature feathers see-sawing on their way to earth. I sat at my dining room table this am, with the newspaper spread before me in preparation for a Sunday’s dissection, cup of steaming Joe at my right hand and Chris Hayes’ MSNBC show on the tube.

But it was this marvelous snow—this itsy-bitsy micro snowfall that held my attention. Raptly. I had started to imagine Allie McGraw sprawled nekid, on her back, on Aunt Hilda’s African blanket that I had spread under the leafless cherry tree outside the window. I could see these little snowflakes lightly land and settle on Ms. McGraw’s nipples—pink and puckered from the chill. She had her eyes shut tight with pleasure, the huge smile on her face a testament to my adoration of the scene. Flakes had landed on her lips and melted into small droplets. The droplets began to gather and run down her cheeks.

Allie McGraw opened her eyes and tilted her head to look straight into me. Her lips parted and she carefully extended her tongue out and into a point.

“Hey shithead, snap out of it. We’re hungry!” I was jolted as if slapped with a wet smelt.

It was the Squirt. “Come on, asshole, it’s breakfast time.”

I started to tell her that the seasonal change of time zones had come to interfere with her meal planning, but she cut me short. “And don’t even attempt that Daylight Savings crap again.”

I guess that cheap tricks are quickly learned by old dogs. “OK, little lady. Go get the goat dog and meet me in the kitchen.”

After I fed and bathroomed the dogs, I sat back to the table for the paper. There on the front page was an article about the New Mexico Oil and Gas Association. Turns out those sleazy ground and air polluting assholes have been intentionally breaking the law here to Santa Fe, and… OK, stop.

Does everyone know what the purpose is of every “Oil and Gas Association” in every state in America happens to be in 2013? To sell fracking as a safe and useful tool to fill our country’s future energy needs. They sell their weird science and job creation and charity and other bullshit, all the while knowing that they are killing our planet as they move from state to state with their grizzly machines of ruination.

And they break the law. They break laws accidentally and they break laws with the strongest of intentions. They break laws both great and small. They break laws with small and major consequences. They break the law and create $Billions in environmental damages with dozens of dead bodies in the wake, and they break small laws that indispose the lives of ordinary citizens trying to protect the livability and privacy of their homesteads. They create the Deep Water Horizon disaster and they create the disruption caused by their continued disobedience of the Codes of Santa Fe, New Mexico.

The New Mexico Oil and Gas Association are a bunch of chickenshit, asshole pig fuckers. What they have done is rent a home in a beautiful residential area very near to the State Capitol so that their lobbyists won’t break a sweat walking over to the offices of our elected officials. They wanted to be close to those they pander to and at, and they don’t care any more about breaking the law in Santa Fe than they do about spoiling the environment anywhere else.

As we all know, lobbyists are either lawyers, former Congressional members, former regulators or some of all three mixed together. But each Association has a lawyer who oversees things, and lawyers know that a business operation must operate from a location that is properly zoned for their uses. When the New Mexico Oil and Gas Association rented the home wherein they placed their business, they knew they would be operating outside the law. If not, they are both evil and stupid. They even filed for a “home occupancy” business license knowing that no person would be residing at the address.

So, they knew they were breaking the law, they falsified legal documents to obtain a business license, and they began plying their trade last year in the months before our State Legislature began their Session.

Upon noticing this breach of City Code, neighbors protested to the City and the City responded by revoking that business license and telling the New Mexico Oil and Gas Association to move their shit shop elsewhere. That also was last summer.

But in typical lawyer fashion, the New Mexico Oil and Gas Association has dragged their feet using every possible legal and illegal maneuver possible. And now—just weeks before the END of our Legislative Session—the New Mexico Oil and Gas Association says, and here I’ll quote Mr. Wally Drangmeister, Head Liar… er, I mean Spokesman for the New Mexico Oil and Gas Association.

The Association admits that it has continued to use the illegal office since the City notified them it was illegal. “We have worked on a plan to make it all work out… We are taking care of it. We will be out of here—if things work out—real quick.”

Oh really, Wally? You’ve already continued your knowingly illegal use of a residence for seven months and you plan to be out “real quick” if “things work out”?

What things need to be worked out, asshole? Is it to buy enough votes? Is it to make enough threats? Or might it simply be for this Legislative Session to expire and you no longer have need for this home?

In the article in today’s The New Mexican from which I’m quoting, Mr. Wally’s Oily World continued—and folks, you are absolutely going to love this shit—to say, “It’s one of those things… We are very active in the community, and we are sad to not be able to utilize this house. We are sad that it didn’t work out. But we are going to try to find somewhere else in Santa Fe and continue to work on behalf of our members and doing all that our industry does to support the State of New Mexico.”

Seems Wally and his crew are already targeting new neighborhoods to fuck over. Wally didn’t say, “We are sorry that we violated the law,” he’s instead, “…sad it didn’t work out…” for them. Wally didn’t ask what the New Mexico Oil and Gas Association can do to repay the neighborhood for fucking them over, he just promises to move out “real quick”, but even then only if “things work out”.

Work out for who, Wally? Work out for whom?

When I finished reading this article I was so pissed that I realized I had found my new protestation target. I had started to write down possible protest sign language. “Fuck the New Mexico Oil and Gas Association” seemed to be one side of each idea I had. I always print different slogans on each side of my protest signs.

OK, let me try to wrap this up. My granddaddy told me that the best way to judge integrity is not in the large things someone or something does, but rather, it’s in the small things where real integrity lie. “If you corner a man and he strikes back like a caged animal, that don’t make him a bad man, Mooner. But if that same man’ll smack his wife for getting dinner on the table late, or if he cuts your fence to let his pigs eat your corn and then tell you he don’t know how it happened… That there’s a man needs an ass kicking.”

The New Mexico Oil and Gas Association needs an ass kicking. Fuck the New Mexico Oil and Gas Association. Fuck every Oil and Gas Association everywhere in the World.

Manana, y’all.


Antimatter Matters?- Mooner’s Latest Scientific Treatise

Saturday, March 9th, 2013


So. It all started about a month ago. This unlikely chain of events that has created a wonderful mass of conflicting emotions never before experienced by me. It started, as many of my New Mexico unlikely chains of events do, with a conversation with the Squirt.

“Looka here, asshole,” the adorable bundle of brown fur and unfettered opinions told me this one Wednesday afternoon. She and the goat dog were playing in the back yard here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe, and I was sitting on the red stone wall—drinking Carta Blanca beer and sucking on a doobie fat as a frankfurter—while commenting on the state of my love life.

Squirt had walked over to where I sat, jumped into my lap and stuck her nose in my face. “Listen to me, shithead. You need to find something to occupy your time before Yoda and I take out a contract on you. You’re driving us batshit crazy with your moping around, and Honor the cat knows a guy who knows a guy.”

Huh? Was she telling me they were tired of all my parenting and animal husbandry? “What the fuck are you talking about, little lady? I rededicated my life to being a better parent to all my pets, and since Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are stuck in Austin and the fucking cat only visits on whole fish dinner days, you two puppies are the beneficiaries of all my love and affection.”

“You’re loving us to death, Bwana Mooner. Find something to do away from the house or I swear, we’ll have you snuffed out. We’ve saved all our allowances and we can cover the five-grand price tag.”

Maybe it was a bad idea to raise their allowances. Which brings up a point. How much allowance should parents give their kids? What should they do for that weekly stipend?

“Contracts for a hit are two-way streets, shitbird, but I guess I get your point. Maybe something will come up,” I told her.

And that reminds me. I was at the computer playing a game of Spider Solitaire. I had but one stack of cards to play and I hadn’t turned a single five card. Seriously, eight decks of cards in play and I’ve seen at least sixty cards and can’t turn a single fucking five. “Where are all the fucking fives?” I almost yelled at my computer screen as I jabbed the button to turn my last ten cards. And there, big as life, were eight fucking fives. Swear to God. All present and accounted for, and all with no place to go.

After first cussing and then staring in wonderment at the eight fives and attempting to calculate the odds of the event, I started surfing around somewhere on the great I-net. I came across a video on Antimatter—you know, that stuff that is the other dimensional mirror image of actual real-life matter shit that famous physicist, Paul Diroc, discovered back to the 1920’s sometime. Story goes that the Big Bang should have produced antimatter in equal amounts to actual matter, but there’s this huge shortage of antimatter. One theory says that there’s this entire second antimatter universe that suffers a shortage of matter, but I have a second theory that holds as much water as that one.

See me, I am firmly convinced that science hasn’t quantified all the antimatter assimilated into the hearts and minds of America’s right-wing Christian conservative fuckballs. Physicists say that one milligram of antimatter is enough to to match that of the Hiroshima Fat Boy bomb. I say that the antimatter in our right-wingers is enough to destroy the world.

Anyway, the day after the Squirt threatened to have me eliminated, I had lunch with some friends from Albuquerque who own the largest and finest business of its kind in all of New Mexico. Smart, fine people I’ve known for decades. They asked how I was doing and when I told them of my dog’s plans, the man said to me, he said, “Well, maybe this is a coincidence of good fate, but we’re doing so much business in Santa Fe that we want to open an office here. How about you run it for us?”

After three-seconds of serious and detailed consideration, I said, “OK, when do I start?”

I’ll do anything to stay alive, including work for someone else. I love my life even without sex. Maybe if I was getting sex I wouldn’t be able to stand it. Maybe there is something as being too happy. Maybe a person’s heart would explode if their life was filled with too much joy.

Bottom line—and the conflictions mentioned way up there in the beginning, herein—is that I’ve been working my ass off and having a ball while at it. I haven’t worked as an employee since I was a kid, and I have never in my life been involved in any business enterprise wherein I had no financial risk to the business’ success and profitability. My new boss and friend says that my fiscal responsibility and management experience make me especially well suited for his needs. I say that the constant worry that it isn’t my money at risk is a burden. I’ve never worried about costing another person money if I make a bad business decision. All my boo-boos, blunders and basically hard-headed mistakes have only cost myself. Now I carry the additional burden that if I fuck something up it hurts another human whom I care for. OK, stop. My mistakes only hurt the finances of people for whom I care.

Ugh! Being an employee is tough.

But I love what I’m doing and having a blast doing it, and that reminds me of something else. The Holy Roman Catholic Church is electing a new Pope. Do you think he’ll be vetted to first determine if he’s a pedophile, and second, determine if he’ll move the Catholic position on rapist priests into at least the Nineteenth Century?

Me, I’m thinking not. I think that as long as The Church won’t allow women to become leaders and they prey upon the purses of the World’s poor and uneducated, that institution will still be run by fucking Nazis.

Maybe if they make the black guy Pope I’ll feel differently. Until then, fuck the Pope and fuck Walmart too!

Manana, y’all. OK, maybe manana de la manana or thereabouts.