Archive for August, 2014

Mooner Solves Texas Border Crisis; Not A Camel Toe Story

Monday, August 18th, 2014

So. The dogs and I have just returned from what should have been a relaxing trip down to Ruidoso, New Mexico. Ruidoso is a beautiful little mountain town, situated dead-center of the state, with a big horse racing track, ski hill and a casino. The Apache Tribe owns the casino and, as it turns out, fucking Texans own everything else.
“Holy shit, Mooner, look at all the Texas license plates. It’s like we never left Asshole Land!” the Squirt exclaimed to the crowd in our Mini Countryman stuffed to the gills with the three of us plus enough dog provisions to support the two small puppies for a year. Packing for weekend trips with the small bundle of brown fur and bad attitude I named “Squirt” has become worse than back to when I was married to an opera singer.
“Ahh needhs eenouff klo-theengs to match eenie ohhcashhh-ion, Moo-near mon cheri amour.” That was how my mocha brown skinned ex-wife had put it to me as we stood at the Delta Airlines check-in counter, her thick French accent dripping with sex and honey.
“But, my darling wife. It’s gonna cost an extra thousand dollars for the last six chunks of luggage, and we’re only going to be gone for a week,” my meager attempt to save a thousand smackeroos.
And that reminds me. Santa Fe has what is truly a world class opera. Set rather than inside a stuffy closed box with acoustics that have been enforced with the rigid, manufactured materials sound engineers use to make things sound “natural”, our opera is housed in an open-roofed natural amphitheater that can deliver the actual sound of a sharp intake of breath from the stage all the way to the last seat a hundred yards away. OK, maybe it’s eighty-six yards.
But who really gives-a-shit, right? Eighty-six or a hundred yards, it’s all the same dealio.
We were just arrived into Ruidoso and were stuck in quite heavy traffic there to Sudderth Street—the main drag when entering town from Roswell, the direction Texans enter to shit on our pretty state.. “You’re right about the Texas plates, little lady. I haven’t seen so many Cadillac Escalades since you jumped out of the GTO at the Austin dealership to chase the fucking cat.”
Honor, said and same fucking cat, had decided she was unhappy about something that cats get unhappy about and had left the car when we stopped for a red light over to Research Blvd. Now, and as I’m reminded to tell you, Honor has been AWOL for what is now a month. Last two fish skeletons have gone without her attentions, and if I don’t stop this brain swill right now, my ADHD will drive us right on over the cliff.
Seems that Texans have invaded central New Mexico and centered that invasion on the environs of Ruidoso. Texans everywhere—at the motel where we stayed, the restaurants, stores and the casino wherein I played. I was playing no limit Hold “Em Saturday night with a table full of cowboys just finished with a day at the horse races. And let’s be clear here when I say that maybe one of these sanctimonious assholes was an actual Texas cowboy. Rest were typical pretenders to cowboydom, the standard Texan’s posture. Maybe that should be “cowboyness”.
After they bored of talking racing horse stories the subject turned to the terrible crisis they think Texas has with the invasion of brown-skinned children. I endured maybe fifteen-minutes’ worth of their bigoted bullshit before I’d had it.
“Here’s a foolproof way to stop all those little urchins from crossing your border, guys, and I’ll give it to you for free.”
I guess my having taken several of their stacks with superior holdings gave me some deference as they all looked my way for this supposed solution. I made them ask several times before I said to them, I carefully explained, “OK, here’s what you do. Pack all your shit and every Texan from around the world goes home from wherever-in-the-fuck it is they are that isn’t Texas. Stay there and mow your own lawns, clean your own houses, pick your own fucking cotton, dig your own ditches and work in the fertilizer plants your own damn selves. That’ll solve your immigrant issues and mine as well.”
And that reminds me of what I meant to tell you in the first place. I’ve long been monitoring this entire charismatic Christian bullshit wherein some are claiming that the second coming of Hey-soos is just around the bend. Seems I’ve discovered another sign that they might be on to something. Every day our local newspaper prints the previous day’s police blotter and I read it each day. Last Friday’s Santa Fe New Mexican police blotter had an entry, and I swear to God this is the truth. It read, “On August 10th, a burglar stole twenty pieces of gold from a home at …”
When I read the listing to the Squirt she told me, “Looks like some asshole is preparing to shit in Jesus’ mess kit a second time.”
We laughed until it dawned on me it might be true. So fuck Walmart while you still have the time.

Changing Perspectives; Mooning A Senator’s Wife

Sunday, August 3rd, 2014

So. I’ll begin this posting with another attempt to outsmart my Word Press bloggie software. I’ve so far made attempts in vain, efforts that have nothing to do with vanity, another of our language’s many vagaries and conflicts of interest. If the outline format and numbers appear once more herein, please know that I will continue my attempts at correction. I realized earlier this beautiful New Mexico morning that first, my lack of computer knowledge is a handicap and, second, my ADHD both handicaps and trumps my lack of knowledge.
If there truly is a God as the modern American extremist charismatic Christians seem to see It, then one man would not be required to be dumb AND have less focus than the cracked lens of my old Brownie camera. Plus, said loving God would require—and I do mean require—all His/Her/Its followers to look at both sides of every situation rather than to focus on only the one side. The side that suits their bigotries.
Having made that preamble, please allow me to tell you that I took a break from mourning my sister’s death—and gritting my teeth at my mother’s actions thereabout—and hosted a neighborhood meeting for the New Mexico Democratic Party. I’ve decided—at my psycho therapist’s urgings—to get myself involved with local politics in a more proactive way. The little soiree was attended by maybe thirty-five likeminded residents and held in the adorable back yard here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. Lucky we were like-minded, as an hour in a big thunderstorm blew through and forced the entire crowd to bunch up on my portal.
For those of you not familiar with our culture, a portal is an outdoor living space some would call a covered porch even though calling it a covered porch doesn’t quite cover it. Our portals are often separate structures, and here I’ll stop myself from getting into all the whys as to how our New Mexican portals put your covered porches to shame.
The honorees in attendance last evening were our candidate for Lt. Governor, Deb Haaland, and the wife of our state’s senior US Senator, the most honorable Jill Udall. Lovely women in all ways were they both. The Democratic runner for Lt. Governor is a Native American woman with the perfect background to be a leader, and lucky for us all that the previously-mentioned psycho therapist had admonished me earlier in that day to, as she put it, “And look me in the eyes, Mooner Einstein Johnson—I said look me in the eyes you inappropriate numbskull—do not, repeat do n…o….t use this meeting as an opportunity to meet women!”
I spoke with the Squirt after, when we were cleaning up the meager trash, and she said to me, she said, “I saw several qualified prospects, Bwana, including the future Assistant Governor.”
When I tried to tell my little brown puppy that a Lt. Governor isn’t an assistant governor, she almost scolded me when she said, “Listen to me, shithead, and listen good. That is a smart, strong and focused woman. She’ll assist and then she’ll take over.”
As host, Jill Udall felt compelled to spend a few moments interacting with me, moments she likely regrets. She thanked me for hosting the event and complemented me on my quite comfortable and attractive back yard. We discussed local politics for a minute and then she excused herself to go to her next event. I made some silly-assed comment about how she must be busy, what with her husband up for reelection this November, and then as she turned to leave, she turned back and said to me, “I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson, but I have to ask you. How did you come to be named Mooner?”
I showed her.
“Oh for shit sakes, Mooner,” Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson scolded me in my Friday session the next morning. “Don’t you ever think before pulling your ass out?”
“I don’t understand what the big deal is, Sammie. My left cheek was already shaved to say, ‘Vote for sanity’. I’d have finished but my new shave artist is having trouble balancing the right cheek to match it. Seems “Vote Democratic!” is difficult for one cheek’s worth of fur,” I thoughtfully explained. “My plans are to stand on various street corners and encourage people to vote sanely.”
The good Doctor stared at me over the Skype machine for what felt like ten minutes. “You’re wasting my therapy money, Sammie, so say something.”
“OK, asshole, try this on for size. Have you thought—even once—that you flashing your backsides on a street corner would create an urge in sane people to vote sanely?”
After some careful thought, I shaved both cheeks this morning so the hair will grow back evenly for a new slogan. I’m thinking “Vote for Women- Vote Democratic!” will fit the appropriateness bill. That one doesn’t have all that push-pull.
Anyway, yesterday I went to another Democratic soiree attended by Senator Udall and his friend, Senator Al Franken. I love the word “soiree” and it was a doozy. Fodder for another day. So:
Fuck Walmart.