What Happens When It’s Been Three Weeks? This Silly Shit!


So. How y’all been? Me, I’ve been busy. Plain and simple statement, made simply and plainly. I’m not bitching or whining, just stating the facts, Ma’am. That busy-ness is why I’ve been missing in action for a couple weeks.

Not that I couldn’t whine should I be the type. But I’m not wired to complain unless I’m unhappy about something in my life, and it isn’t my life I’m unhappy about. It’s the lives of the right-wing Christian conservative shitheads—and their attempts to force their religious dogma down our throats—that’s totally and completely stuck right on up my craw.

Asswipe right-wing racist Christian greedy and narrow-minded chicken fuckers.

Which reminds me. My buddy Bob, over to the Squatlo Rant, ran a video of a man—the husband of a woman who was carrying a terribly damaged fetus—who walked his wife into a clinic to the screams and vitriolic “you’re a murderer” tirades of two anti-abortion protesters. This man—a man who was enduring the terrible human condition of knowing that the baby he was so excited to father was already doomed to die as a fetus in its mother’s womb—had been forced to deliver his pregnant wife through a labyrinth of evil-spirited old hags spewing their toxic swill.

Please go over to Squatlo Rant and check out this amazing man’s response to his plight. Take four minutes from your life to see how a decent, strong man handles those maniacs. Watch his calm, measured words. Watch him debate against evil intent with reason and pure logic. His love for his wife and destined-to-be still-born offspring will tear streak your eyes.

And, if you are me, as you see and hear the protesters’ responses, your anger will surface at realizing that truth and logic and personal freedom are meaningless realities to religious zealots. When I watched that video on my lunch break yesterday, I got so pissed that I decided to unpack my old anti-anti-abortion protest sign and find myself some anti-abortion protesters. I was pissed enough to take the afternoon off and put myself even farther behind at work.

See, while I appreciated that incredible man’s reasoned logic and basic parental love-based emotions, I happen to have the experience required to understand that truth and reasoned logic have no place in the life of Christian zealots. The only thing they understand is that there is not someone with beliefs opposite theirs who feels more strongly they do they. They so strongly believe that they have the firmest convictions, when they meet a giant flaming asshole like me—they either shit their pants and run, or they become violent.

My anti-anti-abortion protest program is a simple one. First, go down to your local Fast Signs or Rapid Signs or Signs-While-You-Wait store and have them make you a sturdy, two-sided placard. I like the corrugated plastic type like they use on real estate signs, and I always get the extra thick. It costs a little more, but lasts way longer in the face of a bunch of shitholes trying to tear it up.

Oh, wait. Did I tell you that I bought some earrings from Ali McGraw? Did I? She was a volunteer at Santa Fe’s International Market, and she manned this booth selling Ethiopian jewelry. Wait, maybe it was Nigerian jewelry—stuff confiscated from INTERNET thieves who bilk dumbass Americans with those silly letters about deposed monarchs. Whateverthefuck, Ms. McGraw was manning a booth and I was walking the dogs, attempting to walk-off a serious after-a-lesbian-dream hangover.

I have been getting these hangovers ever since I married a lesbian—ex-wife number three—and had her fall in love with my equally-lesbian but already out-of-the-closet sister, Sister. While hurt and heart broken by the entire dealio, I found a highly-evolved personal perception of the homosexual conditions, as well as a highly-refined level of lust for lesbians.

My psycho therapist—ex-wife number one—has long held the position that my lesbian lust is nothing but my typical over-the-top response to a “you most want what you can’t have” situation. But me, I know that’s not it at all. I know that I like strong women and some of the strongest are lesbian in nature. Lesbian of nature, maybe.

My first lesbian crush was Martina Navratilova. OK, stop. My first crush after Anna the Amazon crushed my heart and married my sister, was the fabulous tennis star. While my buddies all lusted after Chrissy Everett as she “Uhned” and sweated to chase the powerful strokes of my Eastern European diva, me?—I was hang-tongued over the simple grace and focus and machine-like beauty of Tina.

I called her Tina. Still do. That chiseled body and strong-featured face. I’m in my forties, and I’ve got a poster of Tina Navratilova hanging on my closet door. My feelings were quite hurt when ex-wife number seven made me take it down. Wait, maybe it was number eight. Or was it six?

Anyway, I was walking around up to Museum Hill at the International Festival with the dogs in tow and a powerful post-lesbian dream hangover.

OK, stop once more. I just realized that in fewer than three pages of print, I’ve struck the hyphenator key fifty-one times. Fifty-two if you count typing the word “fifty-one”, and two more just in the telling you that I’d typed it so many fucking times. That’s not an ADHD thingie, that’s the simple precision of my word-smithing. The ADHD influences lie in the fact that I’ve now written almost a thousand words and said absolutely nothing.

Maybe I should try to focus and try to tie all of this ADHD-addled word swill together somehow. OK, I had a dream about Tina. She was planning to make a sports comeback and I was her manager. Like many sports stars who had past-their-primed in their sports-of-stardom, my Tina wanted to stage a prize fight. Box her way back into the limelight.

“Look, Tina—sweetheart,” I advised in my best sports manager voice, “you know and I know—hell, the entire fucking world knows—that you’ve got bigger balls than Sean Hannity. But what’s the point? You kick that little pussy’s ass and you’ll look like a bully. Why don’t you fight Rush Limbaugh instead?”

Tina grabbed me by my shirt collar, twisted it tight against my neck and said to me, she dream-said, “Look, asshole. I’ve already asked you to stop with the male analogies. I don’t have any balls at all, and neither does Sean Hannity. Say I’m tougher or stronger or smarter than him, but drop your fascination with your fucking balls.”

She had a dream point. “Oh,” she’d added with a finger pointed at my nose, “that includes that ‘How’s it hanging, baby,’ bullshit as well. All that’s hanging now are my tits and it pisses me off.”

I’ve seen an actual recent photo of my Tina, and I don’t think she’s got saggy anythings, but in this one dream we were suddenly standing together on the boxing ring apron as the announcer was making his pre-fight speech. “And in this corrrr-neeeerrrrr, from the world of tennnn-issss, The Fore-Hand Assassin… Martinaaaaaaaa… Nav-roooo… Ti-loooooooooooooooo-vaaaaaaaaa!”

Anyway, as I was saying, I was walking the dogs up to Museum Hill at the Festival, and I was distractedly viewing the booths on the one side of the aisles while reliving the dream kiss Tina had planted full on my lips after she KO’d that pompous little Hannity prick.

“Hey, shithead, pull it together. Ali McGraw sighting at your 11 O’clock.”

It was the Squirt. “Whaaa?” I responded as I tried to drag my head out of the dream. “Ali McGraw what?”

“Over there, dumbass, on the left. That booth with the striped canopy,” the adorable lump of brown fur and strong will told me. “Get your shit together and let’s go get us a date with Ms. Destiny.”

With that, Squirt started dragging both me and the goat dog to the booth where Ali-fucking-McGraw sat. I’ve spent months practicing my opening lines to be spoken to the Goddess, Ali McGraw. For months I’ve stood in front of my mirrors perfecting every word, each facial pose, the tenor of my voice, the tilt of my head. All in preparation for my first face-to-face encounter with Ali McGraw.

I was ready. We approached… Ten yards away—she’s finishing with the sale of a beaded necklace to a lady wearing the chic-cowgirl look of Santa Fe’s wealthy visitors. Five yards—Ali turns away from my approach and reaches for a glass. The previous night’s rain has beaded the glass with moisture that clings to her long, lithe fingers in much the same way I’d cling to any of her parts, given the chance.

One yard and closing. The glass is at her lips, my tongue is out to touch both glass and lips, her eyes close and she sips, and swallows. Half-a-yard and closing still. Here I am, in the place I’ve dreampt of being for ten long months. I’m less than three feet from Ali McGraw. I’m primed and ready to fire off my well-practiced, highly-intelligent lines.

I cock my head sixteen degrees to the right to give her my best side, plant a gigantic smile on my face, take a deep breath… And just as she lowers the glass, I bump the table in front of her—hard—and that bumps her chair, which shakes her arm, which then spills water down her chin and into her lap.

“Oh, fuck a duck!” I muttered, maybe a mutter.

“Ooo,” whispers Ms. McGraw, raising a slender hand to brush water spilled on her chin.

I watch the water removal operation with embarrassment tinged with a surge of electrified loins. “Say something to her, asshole,” Squirt is chiding. “This is your big moment.”

My lips were locked in the same silly smile I plastered a million times in the mirror and the words were in my mind. I stared at the beautiful Ali McGraw for what seemed a minute as she now looked back into my eyes. Speak, Mooner, speak! This is your big chance!!!

“How’s it hanging, baby?”

I bought a pair of very expensive earrings for no one in particular, took the paper receipt from the cool-to-the-touch, lithe fingers of Ali McGraw, and slinked away from the booth, towed by the dogs.

“You…” the Squirt muttered, “are a mess. A total fucking mess.”

Which brings me back to my point. Print a personal slogan on each side of your dense, corrugated plastic sign. My personal favorite sign says, “A Woman’s Right To Choose Is Sacred!” and the reverse says, “I’m An Abortion And I’m OK!”

Take your sign down to the Planed Parenthood parking lot and join the protesting. Stand among them and raise your voice to one notch above theirs. “A woman’s right to choose is SACRED!!!”

“I’m an abortion and I’m OK!”

No matter what they say to you, stick to your script. No discussion, no other responses. Don’t try to reason. They yell at you, “You’re a Godless baby killer,” you yell louder, “A woman’s right to choose is sacred!”

They scream at you, “You’ll burn in Hell, Mooner Johnson! I hope God burns you slowly on low heat!!!” and you yell back, “I’m an abortion and I’m OK!”

OK, if they call you Mooner Johnson, you have a special problem, but you catch my drift.

Maybe I can start something here. Maybe some of you will join me in this cause. I’m tired of these attacks on women and humanity—all of them. Let’s make our voices in opposition even louder than theirs.

Fuck right-wing extremist Christians, and Fuck Walmart too!!!

Manana (or sometime after manana), y’all.


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21 Responses to “What Happens When It’s Been Three Weeks? This Silly Shit!”

  1. Squatlo says:

    Well, it might take you a month to shit one of these out, but I guess it was worth the wait. At least you sent two or three lost web-surfers over to my place, that’s a start.

    I don’t have it in me to find religious nutbags and confront them, with or without the proper signage. Seems to me that life is already too short, and what’s left of my time ought to be spend in the pursuit of happiness. And that doesn’t include trying to shame or convert zealots. After all, like Dr. House once said, “If you could reason with religious people there wouldn’t be any religious people.”

    But I do admire your determination, Mooner.

    About Ms. McGraw? Aw, man… She was one of my very first film lusts, and I guess if I saw her today I’d be just as slack-jawed and clumsy as you. Why can’t goddesses just be adorable without making us lose our shit when we approach them? What is it that makes the Hooey Gods see our lifetime of lust as something to be toyed with? It’s like Lucy moving Charlie Brown’s football at the last second every time, for all eternity. He never once gets to kick the fucking ball. How wrong is that?


  2. Mooner Johnson needs sexing says:

    Squat. It’s in the anticipation of the kicking wherein Life’s biggest thrills lie. As for my visits to Planned Parenthood, I try to go when real women are likely to attempt to use the facilities for whatever their purposes might be. My disruptions of the protesters provides a sometimes comical red herring to distract attention.

    Hard for an asshole to bother a nice lady when a giant pumpkin-headed tormentor is all up in their face.

  3. Katy Anders says:

    Maybe I just don’t feel passionate about anything, but people who are that intense about an issue – ANY issue, really – just aren’t much fun. It’t not just the anti-abortion crowd. The anti-Obama lunatics are a little intense for me, and the anti-wart lunatics were a little intense for me back in the day, too.

    That’s the last two wars I’m saying “back in the day” about, not the wars that you might picture as being “back in the day.”

    I’m not saying people should not care about important issues, but if you are, say, my aunt, and we’re going to go buy groceries or something, there’s really no need to start screaming at me in the middle of Kroger about how Obama’s Social Security number has been proved to be no good.

    I mean, Jesus. I just want a damn Red Baron pizza.

  4. Mooner Johnson needs sexing says:

    Katy. OK, for starters, you don’t fool me for a minute–your passions are deep, and quite personal. But I do get your point. It’s difficult to engage with looney birds.

    But I have my own crazy gene that auto-engages me when I see group-abusive behaviors directed at people undeserving the abuse. Want to go on TV and rant about abortion and I’ll turn off the TV. Want to preach from your pulpit and I’ll pray to my God-of-many-faces for a lightening strike. Auto-responses.

    Like standing in a long line to check out or buy tickets or get your car license renewed, and there’s this asshole talking into their cell phone with the same voice used when speaking to their 90%-deaf great aunt Gertie. I auto-invade their space and starting in a normal voice, I begin discussing with them–politely–how maybe it’s a good idea to hang up or go the fuck outside. If correct response isn’t immediate, I ratchet my side of things and say quite rude, and personal, things about the phoner. Yes, young blond guy wearing the University of Colorado tee shirt while standing in the long line at the New Mexico Driver’s Liscense. It was me–wearing what I must admit were asphalt-stained jeans and white shirt–who was driven to provide you with a “Drill-sargent-in-your-face” dosing of bean-and-green-chili-burrito breath at 90 decibels.

    Which reminds me. I hate to refer to Squattie’s site again, but in his latest guano post there is this photo of lightening bolts striking a big body of water. Incredible photo, but the caption says everything there is to say about religious zealots. Actually, I like referring to Squatlo Rant. Really good shit.

    Lastly, fuck Red Baron pizza. Go to Whole Foods and get one of their little Maitre Pierre pizza jobbies. Two bucks more than the Robber Baron, not made by a big donor to right-wing politics, and the taste is so good it might make you want to kiss me. OK, maybe you’re another of my strong lesbian fascinations and I definately should have left “maybe” out of this string of words.

  5. Katy Anders says:

    Learning that Red Baron is right wing, I am not even happier that Snoopy shot that fucker down.

  6. Katy Anders says:

    “Now,” not “not.”

    I am NOW even happier that Snoopy shot that fucker down…

    I just flubbed what could have been my best line of the week…

  7. Mooner Johnson needs sexing says:

    Katy. No worries. I’m just not happier that I could fuck things both up, and down.

  8. Squatlo says:

    Katy, you had me wondering when you wrote about “anti-wart” fanatics. I can understand why people might have strong feelings about warts, especially the last couple warts I know about… but fanatics?

  9. Q says:

    I hate when people go overboard on protests. There are some things in this world that maybe worth protesting, I don’t know. However, I don’t get some of them. We had some guys from a town about 100 miles away from mine drive all the way here to protest a Hooters. They said cleavage was evil and essentially were the funbags of Satan. Despite the fact that I do consider myself a man of faith, I refuse to force what I believe on others. It’s just stupid. If people don’t like something, then don’t do it or change the channel or eat somewhere else or whatever. But, as long as something is legal, then people have the right to do it regardless of their reasons for it.

  10. Hugh Jass says:

    Q: You mean like when Apartheid was LEGAL in South Africa and Nelson Mandela went overboard with his protest in Soweto? Or Women and Negroes to vote? Anti-war protests of the 60’s? Overboard like those protests? Sometimes going overboard with a protest is just ….. Common Sense.

  11. Cynthianne says:

    Mooner, your heart’s in the right place concerning women’s rights, and counter-protesting can be effective, but some of the looney-tunes in the anti-choice movement are extremely dangerous. ABQ women’s clinics are currently being targeted by some heavy-duty out-of-state radicals trying to get a ban on abortions after 20 weeks passed here. I don’t think they are infesting Santa Fe yet, but if they are, confronting them could get you, the patients or clinic staff hurt. Be careful.

    Congrats (and condolences) on finally coming face-to-face with Ali MacGraw.

  12. Mooner's on Lunchbreak says:

    Q. I guess for there is overboard and then there’s violence. A protest, by its definition, is a statement. And like the fallen tree, my opinion is that there is no sound unless heard. When dealing with zealots, they don’t hear reason and logic, only noise at equal or greater volume. Zealots are bullies with a cause. My personal experience is that they haven’t been taught how to deal with their own tactics, squared and mirrored back.

    Jass. Your clever name aside, your comment reminds me of this buddy of mine who has been in absence for awhile. Which brings up a point. How can you be “in” absence when you are missing from whatever it is you’re absent from? If you used the word “negro” to add historical texture, fine. If you used it to provoke, please go away. I’m happy, whichever. Just know that we knowingly harbor no bigots here. Either way, when combined with the Viet Nam War, those mentioned protests were my personal training grounds. Again, overboard vs violent.

    C’Anne. How’s it hanging? Thanks for your concerns. I would never intentionally put others at risk. OK, that might be a lie if you consider anyone getting near me might catch the crazies of me. From where are the imported radicals exported? I guess we have too few of those shitheads here to the Land of Enchantment to reach critical mass.

    Careful is my middle name, and I’m thinking that maybe I’ll overcome my stage fright next meeting with Ms. McGraw. It’s a small town an a next meeting is destined.

  13. bj says:

    Uhhh … Don’t you hate when they start with … Uhhh? Uhhh … just commenting to comment that I’m not commenting. But if I were …. Strawberries. I’ll bet they taste like …. Strawberries. Her lips, I mean. PLEASE keep us posted on that destined next meeting ….

  14. admin says:

    Beej. I knew you could boil the bullshit to these essences. I’m thinking the taste and smell of a crisp waffle smothered in butter and maple syrple as it sits next to a slice of crisp applewood bacon. Strawberries would be my imaginations of a young Ali McGraw. Glad to have you back.

  15. Squatlo says:

    Speaking of protests… we’re always told “it’s too soon” when we bitch about gun violence immediately following a mass shooting, but if we’re patient and quiet nothing changes. So… it’s been a while since the last mass shooting. Is it okay to speak now?

    The first protest I was “involved” in happened when our high school band trip to Washington DC unloaded us in front of the White House just in time for activist Dick Gregory’s anti-war speech. I was getting into the humor of his speech, found myself nodding along with everyone else in the crowd, when suddenly the school chaperones (with the assistance of DC police) hustled us kids back to the bus. Their argument at the time was fear of violence, and it was a safety issue… but I was convinced it was because they didn’t want to expose a bunch of young people from east Tennessee to radical concepts like “peace”, or “dissent” or “freedom”. Not to mention there was this extremely articulate, funny black man saying some really interesting things about a war we pretty much ignored most of the time.
    You can throttle back your demands forever and nothing will ever change, or you can raise your voice with the voices of others and make sure it does. Those abortion zealots have raised their voices, and all over America women’s reproductive rights are “changing” for the worse. If no one raises a voice in opposition to this new movement, Roe v Wade will soon become irrelevant. No clinics, no abortion. Maybe getting in their faces and being just as obnoxious as they are is the answer.
    And on another note, I can’t believe BJ’s first comment in months has to do with the imagined taste of Ms. Ali’s luscious lips. And for the record, they taste like new snow and apples. I dreamed about her first, so I get to make the call.

  16. Mooner's on Lunchbreak says:

    Squat. OK, first, fuck you, I dreampt her first and I’m older.

    A voice unheard is a voice unanswered.

  17. Squatlo says:

    Okay, you might be older, but I’m quite sure my dreams of Ali M were far superior to yours. How can I be so sure? Because my dreams involved Ali and MY pecker, not yours, and as far as I’m concerned, those were much better dreams for me to be having.

    And she tastes like fresh snow and apples. With a hint of cinnamon.

  18. bj says:

    STRAWBURRYS! (clinking and rolling two ball bearings together in my left hand and doing my best “Ol’ Yellowstain” impression)

  19. mel says:

    Mooner! What’s up?!?! I too have only recently returned after just being plain busy!

    So. Speaking of zealots…had a discussion with a new co-worker the other day who did not understand or believe that all of the suction dilation and curettages that we do at my place of work were NOT abortions and were in fact women having miscarriages. It started over a dilation and evacuation (when the mother is greater than 14 weeks pregnant) and it was for a fetal anomaly. I had to explain that they were terminating the pregnancy because the poor child would be living a short and very painful life. I still don’t think she got it. And I still don’t think that she believes that many women miscarry on the regular.

    And I still want to throw rotten meat at the protesters at my corner every Friday morning. I’m sure they will be out when I’m on my way home in the morning….

  20. Mooner's on Lunchbreak says:

    Beej. Please don’t encourage El Squattie’s neurotic manifestations. He seems to think that he, a much younger man and 1,800 miles out from any live sightings, has more insight than do I. Poppy cock and balderdash!

    Mel. How’s it hanging, baby? I’ve tried to comment over to your place but since you took the URL dealie down, I can’t. I will say here, however, that you are way too fixated on sharks. And fucking cats.

  21. Squatlo says:

    Beej, Love the quote! “The towline was obviously defective!”

    Mooner has delusions of glamour… or something. He’s not privy to my Ali dreams, and it’s making him jealous. Besides, given his “Swavey and De-boner” approach, I doubt he’ll make any headway (ahem) even if they meet again.

    “how’s it hanging?”


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