Archive for December, 2015

The Power Of Prayer, Or, Please Don’t Boil My Rabbit

Sunday, December 27th, 2015

So. Here we all are the day after Xmas sitting happy, sassy and overstuffed with holiday good cheer. At least those of us fortunate to have money for food and gifts, the safety required for peaceful enjoyments, and the freedom from oppression to have honest expressions, are happily sitting. For the several billion of us humans without the money, safety and freedom needed to enjoy a happy holiday season, today is simply one more day of misery, or maybe simply drudgery.

For my part, I’ve been watching too much TV whereon people keep thanking God for every sort of thing. Things great and small, important or silly, good and not so very good. I’ve been especially impressed with the American Christians whom I’ve witnessed thanking their God. I was looking for this one soft-core porn movie and passed by the Pat Robertson channel and paused long enough to get the gist of old Patrick’s message.

“The all-knowing, all-powerful God of Christ makes everything happen that ever happens on this, his divinely-created Earth. Be grateful for all He does for you.”

If I could remember the name of that movie I might have missed Pat’s message.  It’s the one with Kim Whatshername. The crazy one who was married to Alec Baldwin. And have any of you guys ever been tangled into a love affair with a person like that—gorgeous, sexy as all get-out, and as looney as three-peckered Billy goat with a belly full of Viagra?

I had this one wife—the one I never write about out of fear for my life—who was so fucking crazy that she would hide in my closet, and. Well. Ah. Like I said, she was sexy as all get-out.

Anyway, just this morning as the Squirt and I were finishing our cuppa-Joe, we saw this one woman from over to Birmingham, in the Alabalamaba, describe her elation at having been spared from the tornado that ripped though there Xmas day. She told the TV camera, she said, “God is responsible for all things and I’m so grateful He spared me, and mine. Roll Tide!”

“Don’t start, shithead,” Squirt advised me, “that lady’s got a lot on her mind. Not her fault God decided to kill somebody else and spare her. She’ll worry about the less fortunate after she finishes celebrating a football win and her survival.”

“Alright, little lady, for starters if she’s an actual Christian lady she’d be way more concerned for the souls of the killed and injured and lives devastated than she is for her own family as they sit, safe-and-sound. And the fact that she’s a fan of Alabalama double-downs her insensitivities, if you ask me,” I told her.

“OK, maybe that should be ‘doubles-down’. Or ‘doubled-downers’.”

“Yea,” she admonished me, “but why don’t you give her the benefit of just a little doubt? Didn’t you notice they interviewed her in front of a Walmart store?”

How had I missed that? I never miss a chance to say Fuck Walmart, so I said, “Fuck Walmart, and that’s a big called strike three, little lady. That woman’s an ignorant-Christian-Walmart-shopping-Alabobbaloola-rooting-brain-dead…”

The Squirt barked at me. “Jesus, Mooner, give it a fucking break already. Don’t you ever get tired of ranting about religious people?”

I do get tired of it, really tired of it. But we must stand up to the face of hypocrisy, bigotry, and ignorance in the name of faceless Gods.

“I am tired of it, Squirty girl, but the stilted beliefs of religious extremists are dangerous. If that woman had said, ‘God is responsible for all things so I want to thank him for sparing me and mine, and likewise give Him praise for killing them fourteen folks a couple blocks over, and for creating a hundred million dollars of damage just in time to ruin this holiday for ten thousand…’ You know, if her God is responsible for everything, thank Him for the fumble as well as the touchdown.”

Nine and a Half Weeks. That’s the movie, and Kim Bassinger is the formerly sexy actress married to a Baldwin.

So, once and again, Fuck Walmart!




Critical Thoughts Of The Insane; Car Deals To Match

Wednesday, December 16th, 2015

So. I had hoped to be posting the results in the “Mooner promises to either fully support or do his best to destroy a major auto manufacturing company” contest by today, but—and alas—the results are still very much in limbo. As would be predictable in cases wherein serious money is involved, “integrity” is a tough commodity to own. And, as the car bidness is a tough one to locate integrity in the first place, the discovery of said integrity can be a long voyage. Just know that as with Walmart, I am anything if a steadfast keeper of promises.

Fuck Walmart.

Which reminds me. I think I have had another original thought. OK, stop laughing as I’m serious. Interesting thing about this original thought is that it wasn’t a long cogitated theorem based upon massive amounts of research, careful evaluations, and charts and graphs and shit—the typical methodologies of my ADHD-addled brains—it was, rather, an instantaneous response from my primitive, childish and still addled brain functions.

It came as they oft do, whilst sitting at a poker table. I was down to the ABQ and not at my home casino, because that casino has a giant bad beat jackpot and I wanted to see if I could score a part thereof. For those with no functional poker knowledge, a bad beat jackpot is a pot of money paid out when a person holding a seriously good hand gets beaten with that holding. I’ve got four threes and you’ve got four tens, then I’ve had a seriously good hand that was “bad beat”. Bad beat jackpots are typically paid 40% to the loser of the hand, 20% to the winner, and the remaining 40% to the other players at the table.

As the bad beat jackpot where I played was maxed-out at $100,000, the person with a bad beat hand would get $40,000 for his woes. Table shares for the remaining seven players at the table would be $40,000 divided by seven, or more than $5,700. Reason enough to drive an hour to play cards.

So. I’m sitting at my table down to Albuquerque, playing conservatively waiting for the right cards to maybe hit a bad beat, and not enjoying myself in the least,  when two of the typically several strongly conservatively religious players sitting at any poker table in the world starting mouthing off about, and here I’ll quote the one asshole, “Trump’s right. We don’t need any Muslims in America. All Muslims are terrorists.”

One thing leads to another and the next thing I know they’re discussing the merits of Christianity versus Muslimity as it relates to terrorist acts in America. Muslimanity. Muslimisn, perhaps. Shitheads are carefully laying out the evil ways of the Muslims, what with all that Sharia Law business and those raghead’s hatred of other Gods. Me, I gave them ample time to carefully lay out the details of what monsters all Muslims are before stating clearly, “You boys must be telling us what’s wrong with Christianity. Change the word “Sharia” to “Bible” and “Muslim” to “Christian” and we’ve got us a winner.”

Looks of confusion, angry stares and then, “Oh, you’re that atheist, aren’t you?”

“Card-carrying and dyed in the fucking wool, sir.”

We played cards for another hour or so, the entire time the one guy giving me stern looks while obviously straining his brain with how to deal with the atheist among them. He did that deal where a person really wants to ask you a question but keeps balking the effort. He would look at me expectantly, asking with his expression, “Please ask me what I want,” but I ignored him.

As expected, he finally couldn’t stand it any longer and he asked me, he said, “I’ve never understood how a man can be an atheist. You’ve got to believe in God. Why are you an atheist?”

My answer was, I think, an original thought and an instant response from the roiling swill inside my skull. “Well, sir, I was raised in a strict Baptist family and was made to follow, and strictly so, the edicts of the Bible. You read the Bible, don’t you sir? The Bible tells me, and repeatedly so if I must say, that I shall not worship false Gods. [Two, three, four] So I don’t.”

[Two, three, four, five, six, seven…] The one man is likely still thinking upon my answer with a dumbfounded look on his face, dumbfounded the keyword to his logicicalzations. But count of eight brought a snicker from the dealer, and a sly smile from the man sitting directly across from me. The one guy still not getting it says to me, he says, “That doesn’t make any sense. Are all atheists dumb? Uh, ah, I don’t mean dumb, I mean, uh, well, uh difficult?”

I started to tell this shithead that some of the most famous atheists are of genius IQ and great accomplishments, but decided instead to let him live his life in the darkened closet of his bigotries. I’m practicing tolerance this holiday season in an attempt to be a bigger man. That’s why I refuse to watch any TV. Every time I hear some conservative asshole spout hate I lose the desire to be better.

Anyway, I’ve a 10:30 appointment with the car people to, supposedly, negotiate a final solution to my auto issues. Stay tuned for more.

And please, Fuck Walmart!



Mustard Gas And Smelly Ass; One Man’s Efforts To Socialize

Monday, December 7th, 2015

So. Another productive week from our Republican controlled Federal Congress. For the some-dozenth time a vote to repeal The Affordable Care Act, and less than two weeks after the terrorist attack on a Planned Parenthood clinic in Colorado, Republicans voted to punish the victim by defunding PP and, likewise, reward the lunatic terrorist by insuring he can purchase another assault rifle should he get released and choose to repeat his terrorist act against women.

And I call them “do nothing Republicans” and I take it back. I call them bigoted and greedy shitheads as well, but that one I’m not taking back.

In the wake of this most recent deadly attack on women’s medical providers, it was suggested that mayhaps, just possibly, Republican/conservative rhetoric might have motivated this monstrous act. In their defense, those who spread the lies created by the false, doctored video of a PP doctor’s words both continue to lie about the video and claim Free Speech as justification.

I guess they can sleep at night knowing that they likely stimulated these murders and maimings, as verified by their continued actions. And my critical thinking on the subject leads me to a modest conclusion that they are either one, pleased with the result as a by-product of their actions, or two, pleased because the murderous attack on a women’s clinic was what they desired.

Then again, with Carly Fiorina it might be both and/or the simple fact that she appears to be a heartless autocrat and possible sociopath. The level of negative concern for humanity she displays is one of the key traits of antisocial behavior.

Which reminds me. I’m soon to be posting, herein, either a story about uncommon customer service performed by a major auto manufacturer, or instead, a tale of egregious customer abuse by said and same car maker. In either case I will be performing upon a promise made by me to said automaker to become either the best salesman this company could ever have, or, in the alternative, possibly the most gigantic pain in their collective ass they have never imagined.

And that reminds me that I need to admit that I now feel fully comfortable in saying that I am officially a cranky old fart. I’m a wears the tee shirt, card carrying, don’t give a shit what anyone says about me cranky old fart. As an aside, I just spent ten minutes adding, subtracting, adding back and re-subtracting hyphens from that last sentence. My memory from Mrs. Boulaware’s English class is that Grammar’s dictates require ten such hyphens in that descriptive sentence, and all those dashes made me queasy when I read it. So fuck it and add your own shitty little dashes.

Then again, a second count indicated twelve hyphens would have been required to accurately depict meanings. Let me show you:

“I’m a wears-the-tee-shirt, card-carrying, don’t-give-a-shit-what-anyone-says-about-me cranky old fart.” Unless you were to remove the commas and add hyphens thereat. Then there’s fourteen.

Fuck me running.  How annoying is that? And how annoying have I become? All I do is bitch, all I seem to think about is what makes me bitch, and I’ve somehow managed to lose the last tiny bit of filter I possessed when in social situations. I’d be embarrassed for myself, and often, but I don’t give a shit. I’ve started speaking my thoughts out loud as a general condition, whether to others or just myself, I’ve not been diplomatic at times when diplomacy would be the call to duty, and just the other day I was standing in line over to the coffee shop Saturday morning when a giant gas ball attacked my already-bloated gastro-intestinal system.

When I say giant gas ball, I mean “ate a quart of pinto beans two hours ago”, and when I say already-bloated, I mean I’ve been bloated like a beached whale since January of this year. One of the two worst byproducts left over from my visits to The Great Radiator, my “intestinal distress”, as the TV ads call it, has been my constant companion. When gas makes sudden attacks with its full power—much akin to a Navy Seal seek-and-destroy action—making itself known with a sharp jab at my gut followed by cramps, it can be debilitating. The closer the cramps strike after the initial jab determines whether I can simply fart the distress away, or in the alternative, run like Jesse what’s-his-name to the bathroom before I shit my pants.

Knowing the difference is an important distinction, and why can’t I remember Jesse’s last name?

Anyway, since the cramps quickly followed the jab, I knew that a fart would provide a temporary respite from the pain. Normally I’d have paused life, moved myself away from other human persons, farted, and only then continued with my life. My other life not consumed with gastro-intestinal distress. As this type of gas comes from my inability to properly digest raw, and some cooked, vegetables, the coffee shop fart was full of the robust aroma of a breakfast burrito with extra garlicy salsa, refried pinto beans and tomato. As the Squirt tells me my farts smell worse than dead fish, I make extra effort to put space between my ass and the asses of others.

That is to say that I spaced asses until last Saturday. Saturday I’m standing in an already too long line with half a dozen folks in front of me and a like number behind. The sharp jab punched my liver and the cramps followed within fifteen seconds. This “it’s OK to fart, you won’t shit your pants” signal led to the following, abbreviated internal conversation between my conscious and subconscious selves:

Me: “Uh-oh, here it comes!”

Me: “Fuck-a-duck, not now. I’ve already stood in line for five minutes and I can’t be late for another appointment.”

Me: “Ask the nice lady behind you if she’ll hold your place in line while you go outside to fart. She has a kind face…go on.”

Me: “I would but the guy behind her is the same asshole that bitched at me on Thursday for taking too much time deciding did I want a mocha or just a regular coffee. Man didn’t much like getting thumped on the nose. I really should think before acting sometimes.”

Me: “Then just stand here and let the gas leak out and act like you’re offended by the smell. Ask the asshole back there if he did it.”

Me: “OK.”

I haven’t farted a silent fart in twelve months so why did I think I could do it on demand. Just as I heard the nice lady behind me say, “Please, sir, would you step outside, I’ll hold your place,” I made a noise that sounded like an elephant sitting on a Whoopie Cushion, and released a cloud of toxic gas.

I’m looking for a new coffee shop and I’m lucky Santa Fe is over-stocked with options. Oh yea, it’s Owens, Jesse Owens was the black American who ruined Hitler’s Olympics. And Fuck Walmart!