Parental Concerns; A Religious Sentiment

January 9th, 2012 by admin

 

So. It’s 5 am and I can’t sleep. I’ve been without my two adorable puppies and the fucking cat this weekend, and I miss their pesterings so much I can’t sleep. Who knew that the absence of pain could cause insomnia? I miss getting crowded out of my own bed and I actually miss the cat’s needle sharp caresses.

I have a 10:30 psycho therapy session wherein I’ll get Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s evaluations of one, my animals’ states of mental health, and two, her clinical opines as to my mental health as reflected in my parenting said animals. Based on these evaluations, I’ll bring the animals home with me, or not. I’m not really worried about the results except that the Squirt is fully capable of fucking with me on this dealie to gain an advantage somewhere. It wouldn’t surprise me to hear that I need to be more responsive to their needs, or some silly shit like that.

If I was writing a book, that last sentence would be foreshadowing. Here, it’s but a simple prediction.

There is some foreshadowing in my just-released book—Full Rising Mooner—available by either clicking over there ===}}}} to the linksters, or by clicking on the STORE tabbie up top^^^. I would consider it a personal favor if you will at least investigate a purchase. Check out the book trailer—a 30-second video ad for the book. I put it over there on the Bloggie Roller as well. Over there ===}}} where it says “Book Trailer”[.]

Which reminds me. If you have been here before, you know with certainty that I am a staunch supporter in a woman’s right to choose. I support a woman’s right to choose any and every fucking thing as it relates to her body, person and mind. While that might have been a tad redundant there, it does properly describe my levels of support for a woman’s rights.

In my last posting, I mentioned my support of a woman’s reproductive rights and I showed a picture of my latest anti-anti-abortion protest picket sign. That’s the sign I’ll use when the anti-abortion protesters show back up over to Planned Parenthood. Squatlo made a comment that, “… conception begins at puberty…,” a comment aimed at the silliness of recent right-wing Christian statements that the instant a sperm sniffs out an egg you have yourself a baby.

That silly sentiment was debated by the Catholic anti-abortion lady and me on one of my last visits with her. I think a baby is what gets born outside a woman’s body, a plain and simple belief. Catholic A-AL now believes the sperm-meets-eggie bullshit. Since we’ve been protesting against each other, her “belief” as to precisely when a human exists in the procreation process has regressed from during the third trimester, to the second trimester, to when a sonogram can determine sex, to when you can detect a heartbeat, to now—egg meets sperm.

Following that illogical pathway, Squat decided the next place to look at conception would be puberty. The idea would be that as soon as you CAN conceive, you HAVE conceived. Not a silly idea in the previous context.

But here is my thought. When Catholic A-AL and I argued this issue, I asked her why she kept changing her tune, why she has so much trouble making her mind up about all of this. Her answer was somewhat confounding. “God is a living God and the Bible is a living book.”

Translated, she meant that whatever her priest/preacher told her to think is what she believes. So my first question to her was, “But I thought you previously told me that God knows all, sees all, and is the Maker of all things. Right?”

“You got that right, heathen. Everything that ever happens is God’s will. Ev-er-y thing ev-er!” she replied.

Oh, re-a-ly? Everything that happens is God’s will? This was the last time I was slapped. I said back to the lady, I said, “Well, then, if everything that happens is God’s will, then a woman getting an abortion is simply doing God’s will. She doesn’t have a choice. So, since you don’t want a woman to have a choice you are getting what you want when the woman gets the abortion.”

She looked at me dumbfoundedly and said, “But God gives us free will.”

Two… three… and four. “Now wait, little darlin’,” I advised her. “You don’t get it both ways. Either your God decides everything that will happen and then makes it happen, or He lets us make our own choices. But you can’t have it both ways just to get your way. But whichever you choose, your God is OK with a woman making her own choices about her own body.”

Again I got the dumbfounded look, which turned into a squinty-eyed stare, which lead to a, “Slap!”

To me, this underscores the absurdity of any attempt to force any religion or religious belief system on persons not followers of that religion. Faith-based religion is illogical by definition, so once you push your religious dogma past the pulpit it is illogical to the rest of us. You can attempt to convert us to your way or you can try to convince us that your way makes sense.

But what makes you think you can tell us what to do? Why should the rest of us be forced to follow your illogical beliefs? What gave you the right to force your shit on us?

I really don’t care what you believe. Think whatever you wish. If you choose to think that Earth was created in the course of a week 4,000 years ago—knock yourself the fuck out. If you want to believe in an exclusionary deity, go right on ahead, asshole.

Just leave me alone.

On the ADHD front, not having the additional stimuli of the dogs and fucking cat around has been a mixed bag. I don’t have the stress of being a good parent ever present in my skull, but I do have a parent’s concern about whether they will embarrass me when out of site. I usually don’t worry about getting embarrassed. I do way plenty stupid shit all the time so I suffer no embarrassment at my own hands. But I do suffer from that silly parental concern.

OK, I need to get ready for therapy. Please buy my book and I’ll see you, manana.

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ADHD Brain Fritz; A Mind Is A Terrible Thing

January 6th, 2012 by admin

 

So. I’m sitting here at my computer wondering what to say. It isn’t that I have nothing to say, it’s that I have too much to say and I lack priorities. OK, I have priorities but my priorities have no propriety. My ADHD-addled brain organizes shakily at best, sloppily as per usual and occasionally—as Squatlo likes to call it—bat shit crazy.

When I’ve got the brain fritz, even I can’t sort through the smelly swill that boils in the cauldron I call my brain. Every one of the twenty independent thought strings starts to mingle and mate with the others, and the end result could be imaged in the opening of my book trailer. Go to this linkster and watch it really quick and then come back.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WTQpyvkh8Fs&feature=youtu.be

That swirling, ratcheting and jerking of images in the first scene is how my fritzy brain thinks. And isn’t that a lovely promotional ad for my book? And the MRI sequences next to the end are mine. That MRI was made the time I was pitched into the Shoal Creek Loony Bin after my second arrest for murder. The main murder in the book.

That MRI imaging is from after they had me stoned gourdless on Haldol. I fucking hate Haldol but my brain isn’t on full fritz when they put me on it. Haldol has wicked side effects. All of those psychotropics do. One of the side effects of Haldol for me is that my pecker dissociates itself from me. It’s like they cut my real pecker off and sew a remote controlled pecker in its place.

It isn’t like I have no feeling in my pecker, it’s that there is an interruption in the flow of electrons through my central nervous system. Things happen with my pecker that I know should happen, but my brain doesn’t register accurately or in a timely fashion. A perfect example is that I’ll think to myself, I’ll think, “I need to pee,” and then realize that I just finished peeing.

But my thoughts don’t race and I lose all passion for the natural instincts of flight-or-fight, self preservation, and procreation. That’s why they give us crazy people Haldol. To control us.

I know this one man who likes Haldol as a recreational drug. That is one seriously fucked up individual. He can have all of mine.

Which reminds me. Justine just told me that there is a typo somewhere in the book trailer. Be the first to make a comment on precisely where it is, and I’ll send you an autographed book. Maybe there is more than one error and I’ll give away extra books.

Which reminds me that I wanted to tell you that Rachel and Nathan came out to the ranch yesterday afternoon to film a reading from the book. The film will be edited into a video you can download or link to view, and you’ll get an entire chapter for free. There are 44 total chapters, so you’ll get almost 3% for free!

I’ll let you know when it’s ready.

Haven knows what I mean about Haldol, I bet. She has bipolar disorder. Most bipolar persons hate Haldol as do I. Haven has a great site on which she discusses her life with bipolar disorder. Her linkster is:

http://downwardspiralintothevortex.blogspot.com/

Anyway, I’m bat shit crazy and ready to pull all of my hair out. I dropped the dogs and the fucking cat off with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson when I went to my morning psycho therapy session. She wants to spend the weekend with the animals to monitor their mental well being. My therapist is worried that I’m on the verge of pulling a stupid stunt and getting into trouble.

Well fucking duh. I haven’t been arrested for several months and the last time I was slapped was right before Thanksgiving.

Which reminds me. The anti-abortion protesters haven’t been hanging out at the Planned Parenthood offices lately. That’s when I was last slapped. Catholic anti-abortion lady slaps me routinely when I show up with my anti-antiabortion protest sign. This is the latest of my signs

 

The other side says, “I’m an abortion and I’m OK.” That photo was taken in BJ’s house at the big BlogCon2011 convention. That’s me that you almost see holding the sign. I cause quite a ruckus when I show up to anti-protest. Isn’t ruckus a neat word? And why do I have tears in my eyes? I think I miss BJ and the guys.

I also think Dr. Sam I. Am is worried that I need chaos, that I seek situations wherein I get in trouble. I know she’s wrong, but appearances say otherwise.

Ugh, and fuck it. I’m having a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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Twitterly Dee, Twitterly Dumb; Sex Confounds

January 5th, 2012 by admin

 

So. I think I finally have the Twitter Follower mystery solved. Finally. This dealie has been buggerating the ever loving shit out of me for months.

What’s been driving me nuts is how people sign up to follow me and then quickly disappear. Some silly shitball finds something they like about my stuff and takes the time, and puts the effort in as required to click the Follow button. Then in less than a week, they click the Unfollow button.

I’ll have dozens of Follower adds per week and the same numbers of Unfollowers. Defollowers, maybe. It can go up and down by hundreds per week.

OK, stop. For those of you who couldn’t give a shit about my Twitter problems, I have inserted this, *******Reenter Here*******, down there a few hundred words in the future. Escape all this Twitter talk. I would if I was (were?) you.

In the eighteen months I’ve had a twitter account, I have had more than 4,000 individual clickers to Follow @MoonerJohnson on Twitter, yet my effective average number of Followers remains pegged at plus-or-minus thirty. It has been driving me bonkers what with all the adds and subtracts.

I have examined this problem from a hundred different angles in an attempt to get a fix on what is happening. Today I thought I would contact some of the people who added, then retracted, from following me and did so quickly. You’re going to be interested in their responses.

OK, let’s back up a frame or two. “Why, Mooner,” you might ask, “do you even use Twitter? You hardly ever tweet.”

“Good question,” my stock answer begins, and finishes with, “I use Twitter to verify that I have properly added a posting to the bloggie.”

I have my webber set up to when I post a story to the bloggie, it automatically goes out as a Twitter tweet. Since I’m such a moron computerly, I can then go to Twitter and see if the posting posted and click the tweet and go to the actual posting as it appears on my webber. It’s like a backup edit program. Any other benefits I derive from Twitter are those of an accidental tourist. Which means that all of the followers I have and ever have had have been accidents.

Like blind boars, my Twitter followers trip over me somehow. My webber and bloggie expert, Dustin, asked me if I wanted him to add the tagger dealies for Twitter and Facebook and all that crap when he was working on stuff last week. I agreed but only if I could figure this shit out. So I told him to add the taggers and I started researching shit.

Here’s what I found. Indeed, most people stumble upon me on Twitter in the same ways as on the regular webber. They Google “camel toes” or “Fuck Rick Perry” or “is the Pope the Queen’s twin” or other stuff that might be on my site. With Twitter, it’s the hash tags or whatever you call that shit, or they follow because someone else on Twitter refers them to me.

Those are the reasons I was given by those Follow-Unfollowers. When asked why they left so quickly, the usual answer was, “I had no idea how________ you/your site is.”

You can fill in the blanks. Most heard answers were how: nasty, sacrilegious, inappropriate, evil, much you curse, liberal, homosexual, stupid your site is.

Most of the rest told me that they only followed me to get me to follow them—like a popularity contest. Seems many folks get their rocks off by having huge numbers of Followers. Even if they have nothing in common with me—we share no interests or ideas—they still want me listed as a Follower. They have no plans to read any fucking thing I post, and I wouldn’t read about how they just got home from work if there was a fucking gun stuck in my ear.

These Followers will Unfollow me when I don’t follow them quickly. I follow a few Tweetsters, but not many, and I read much of what they tweet.

******* Reenter Here*******

Anyway. That mystery is now solved. Which reminds me of something.

I was in my morning psycho therapy session this am, and the subject of sex came up. Surprise. While I have ten ex-wives, I have only had sex with one of them after we divorced. That would be Roshandra Washington-Johnson, my ex number five and an ebony beauty. If you’ve ever seen Roshandra down to the Austin City Council Chambers, you have a crystal clear understanding of why that is.

When Roshandra makes a booty call, brother, you answer the door!

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson is not only my therapist but also the first of my exes. She asked this morning why it is that I have never tried to have sex with her in all of these years since our divorce. Since I’m a man, I thought of this question as a request for action. But alas, it was a quest for information.

“I’m doing a study on unusual sexual patterning in men with multiple marriage histories,” she told me. “You would be a prime prospect to put in my Petri dish.”

Have you ever tasted agar? You know, that gelatinous goo scientists use in their Petri dishes. It’s a seaweed extract and tastes like that time I got really drunk down to Nuevo Laredo and woke up with a spider monkey’s foot in my mouth. The monkey was wearing a little vest in the colors of the Mexican flag and its toenails were painted bright red.

Streaker Jones and I went down there to meet some Mexican mushroom growers and they had this monkey that played a miniature accordion. He was dressed in the aforementioned vest, pantaloons and had an organ grinder monkey’s hat perched on top of his head. I remember waking up, spitting the monkey’s foot out of my mouth and wondering what happened to the rest of his clothes.

I don’t care much for monkeys and I really don’t care for the taste of monkey feet. I do like the taste of SAC Ellen’s toes though. She has these perfect little piggies, and my ADHD just grabbed controls of the train.

The answer to Sammie’s question eludes me. I have no idea why I stopped sexing eight of my nine ex-wives. Anna the Amazon is my third ex-wife and now is married to my sister, and I know why she’s off limits. Sister would kick my ass if I didn’t manage to maintain that border.

The remaining eight present a sex mystery for me. I would have sex with the lot of them if I was unattached and they were available and willing, I think. But I have been around each of them at one time or another wherein we were both unentangled romantically, and nothing happened sexually.

I hate when Dr. Sam I. Am does this shit to me. I think she intentionally poses this sort of question at me to fuck with my head. Psycho analysts tend to do that shit, and it pisses me off.

I’d love to attend one of Sammie’s sessions with her head shrinker. I should call him. I’ve got a few questions he can ask her that would really stir shit up.

Which reminds me. Remember when I told you that Yoda and I have been marking our territory by peeing along the border of our property? That’s the mainstay of my program to get the little Chihuahua and Whippet mixed puppy to stop crapping inside the house. He and the Squirt saw a program on the Animal Channel about canines and their pack mentality.

Marking territory is an important aspect of a dog’s sense of security and self worth. So we’ve been peeing all around the 3,000 acres here to the ranch for the last month. We finished yesterday afternoon as we arrived back at the fishing dock. We started there and moved clockwise, ending with the last hundred yards to the dock’s left.

We finished and sat on the dock drinking a Carta Blanca beer and thinking about our good job done, when a stray dog came out of the brush brakes on the dock’s right side. She was a beagle, named Zoe, and she was way lost from down to San Marcos. Yoda and I debated about whether or not we should sex the bitch, a usual requirement of the pack when a female dog invades the pack’s territory. Yoda felt she was a little old for his tastes and I’m in a committed relationship, so we called her owner and he came to get her last evening with her virtues intact.

This morning, Yoda and I are headed out to touch-up our territorial markings, starting at the fishing dock and moving clockwise. I wonder what it is about peeing outside that so wonderful. Me, I love to take a leak anywhere that doesn’t require me to waste water in my urine’s disposal.

But peeing in the Great Outdoors is the cat’s Pjs. Maybe one of you guys has an idea. So consider a purchase of my silly book, and I’ll see you manana, y’all.

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Video Trailer For Full Rising Mooner; Check It Out!!!

January 4th, 2012 by admin

 

So. I have been waiting for a full week to get the video trailer for my book back from the video guys. Turns out I have had the YouTube and Vimeo links all the time. It took Justine over to WriteByNight to figure it out for me.

We were working on the big party next Thursday the 12th and she figured it out. Anyway, here they are. Please check this out and then tell me what you think. Please give me your feedback. Even you fucking content thieves—give me some feedback. Just write your comments in a Romance language.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WTQpyvkh8Fs&feature=youtu.be

 

http://vimeo.com/34336323

 

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Iowanianians Speak; Rick Perry Fucked!

January 4th, 2012 by admin

 

So. In this morning of aftermath, as the Iowainians have nothing left to revel in, or about—save the afterglow of their every-four-years national media migration—I have something to say.

God has spoken in Iowa, and bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha! Pooooor Ri-ckyyyy, poooor Ri-kyyyyy!

In response to the prayers of the many Republican presidential hopefuls, whose visits almost doubled the Iowa population, God has finally made his decision as to which of those silly fuckballs He has chosen to support. God, in His infinite wisdom, has decided that the Mittster shall be blessed with a narrow first, the other Ricky gets second, blah, blah and blah, then Rick “The Prick” Perry gets fifth and Michele “Oh Marcus, That’s Not My Vagina” Bachmann came in dead last of the long list of candidates who actually visited Iowa.

I find myself in a state of elation, a state which is balanced with queasiness. God, with the assistance of the conservative right-wing Christians of Iowa, has decided that Ricky Perry shall not be President. As it turns out, God has listened not to the prayers of the Texas Governor—a pious man with deeply conservative Christian values—and rather listened to me, Mooner Johnson, an unpious and excessively liberal reformed Baptist ADHD-addled dingbat. Maybe I’m piousless. Or piousfree.

Please, allow me one more time to say, “Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha. Poooor Ri-ckyyyyyy!”

Rick Perry said he was praying for a win, or at least third place, and for God’s guidance. I prayed that God would make the people of Iowa way smarter than those of us in Texas, and hand the Prickster his first political defeat.

Scoreboard, mother fucker!

If Rick Perry had finished in third place or better, you know he would have thanked God for the success. If he’d been a winner, the win would be all about God. But will Ricky now say that God has told him to go back to Texas and stay put, or will the pompous little asshole say that God let him down? Doubtful.

All of this leaves my stomach somewhat unsettled as well. Do you realize that 25% of the super arch-conservative Christians in Iowa voted for a Mormon, a man who wears magic underwear to protect him from all evil? OK, they call them vestments, I think, but you get the picture.

Which reminds me. Go over to Squatlo Rant and find the Penn Jillette video, crack an adult beverage, like a Carta Blanca beer, and watch. It will take you the better part of twenty minutes to watch the entire thing, but you will be better off for it. The linkster is over there ===}}}

I’m also queasy in the knowing that the people of Iowa are now, as a result of my prayer, way smarter than those of us in Texas. They managed to see Rick Perry for the dolt that he is, and we keep electing Ricky as our governor. He and his cronies in big business and energy have raped and pillaged our state, and we keep electing him to our highest office. My best hopes for all of this is that we Texans learn by observations.

But overall, I’m happy with the results. I prayed and said, “Fuck Rick Perry,” and, dear friends, Rick Perry is fucked. I’m thinking that since my prayers are more powerful than Rick Perry’s prayers, I can start a new business.

Mooner Johnson’s Prayer Emporium will be a fee-based prayer service. I don’t have all the detail worked out yet, but I think this one will be a winner. With God on my side, how can I lose? I’ll charge rates based upon your need and I’ll even make some prayers free.

Which reminds me. The Squirt woke me early this morning and asked me to have a private conversation with her. We grabbed a cup of coffee and went out to sit in the courtyard. It was near-freezing out this morn and the little puppy shivered with every breath.

Squirt took a deep cleansing breath and released it slowly. Then she looked up at the stars, took another breath and shivered hard. “What is it, little lady? You seem to have something powerful on your mind. You want me to talk to God for you?”

She squared her solid little body to face me and said, “No, Bwana Mooner, es ist nicht ein Gebet Ich brauche. Quiero invertir mi histerectomía.”

Huh?

“You want me to reverse your hysterectomy—you want me to undo your spay?” This was dumbfounding to say the least. Squirt has been quite vocal as to her happiness with a sexless life.

“Si, oui, and yes, Mooner. And the sooner the better. Mr. Dave won’t live forever.”

Turns out that Squirt was heading to Aunt Hilda’s room to deliver a package from UPS, and she walked in on Mr. Dave standing, nekid, at the foot of the bed. I’m starting to think size might actually matter.

“Well, my furry little sweetheart, that request will require a prayer.” A first client for Mooner Johnson’s Prayer Emporium, and a charitable one at that.

Anyway, all of these mentioned matters require more thought before I get too carried away with myself. Gram makes a magic mushroom potion blended to give a person clarity of thought. She calls it “Shut yer yapper and think fer a second”[.]

But I’m up to the task. Mooner Johnson- deep fucking thinker! Manana, y’all.

 

 

 

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A Mooner Mention: Check Out Good To Be Gay

January 3rd, 2012 by admin

 

So. I have but a minute this morning but I wanted to give you an interesting link. Sister, she would be my actual sister and a lesbian who is now married to my third ex-wife, told me about this newsletter/newspaper that she has been reading. It’s called Good To Be Gay and I have been tuning in for several weeks. I wanted to read a few issues before sending you guys their way to insure the integrity of my recommendation.

I’m ready to recommend that you go over there to the site by clicking onto the linkster at:

http://bit.ly/oERLm8

I have been unsuccessful so far in determining just who (whom?) is the author/publisher of GTBG, but I salute him. I get a sense of rock-solid feet-on-the-ground observations and reportings from this paper, and I have made it a routine read. Some of the stuff makes me uneasy when I read it, and I think that is a good sign. It has often been the things that I hear or read that make me uneasy which have dealt with important issues of social change.

OK, let’s stop a second for a grammar check. That last sentence is problematic with the “that” versus “which” issue. I love the word “which” which should be evident to all of you which read this shitty bloggie with routine. But I know I use it improperly and I know that, somehow, a comma can make all the difference between that and which.

But like Gram says when she’ll say, “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner. That witch is a bitch.”

Indeed.

I can remember just how uncomfortable it made me when the owner of the hardware store refused to allow my friend Javier inside the store. I was just six or seven, but I knew something was wrong when my skin crawled as the owner pointed his finger at Javier, and said, “No wetbacks!”

And I have vivid memories of Baptist preachers standing at their pulpits to tell my sister she would rot in hell simply because she prefers a woman’s love to that of a man. I watched my sister squirm in her seat time and time again, as preachers told their congregations that the God of Love condemns homosexuality. Fucking asshole right-wing exclusionary Baptists.

Anyway, before my ADHD takes us on a trip to Mars, click on to Good To Be Gay and check it out. There’s this neat article about how those silly fuckballs at American Family have decided that gay marriage will lead to a take-over of America using communism and satanic cults.

And think about a purchase of my book. You can check it out by clicking over there ===}}} to the Full Rising Mooner linksters. Manana, y’all.

 

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You’re Invited To A Party; Rick Perry Still A Prick

January 2nd, 2012 by admin

 

So. The Iowa straw vote or caucus or whateverthefuck it is the silly Ioweaners call their Presidential Primary is manana. Why they can’t call it a primary is beyond me, other than the fact that they think themselves special. Since they hold theirs first, they get an undo amount of national news coverage, and the candidates spend an undo amount of time campaigning in a state with seven electoral votes.

That’s right folks, Iowa has but 7 of the 538 total electoral votes yet we have spent the last six months with daily intense news coverage there. I for one am quite glad to see this shit come to an end. Me, I’m ready to move on to New Hampshire with its four electoral votes. Woo-hoo!

I’m also ready to get sales for my book moving along. Sales for Full Rising Mooner are moving but too slowly for my tastes. After receiving a stellar four-of-five stars book review from Clarion, I would have thought that sales would spike. Not so.

I also would have thought that all of you content thieves (not contented thieves but thieves of words) lurking worldwide would have bought my book as a way to say “Thanks” for the 1,646,311-plus words you have stolen from me. Mother fuckers. You slimy bastards sit continents away eating greasy potato pancakes or whatever it is you snack on, while your computer bots steal the fruit of my loins. Buy the book and make things right, mother fuckers.

Hey, 217.172.172.126 and 76.46.73.230 from Germany. You two spend so much time sucking the content from this site, my server has blisters on its pecker. And you, Mr. 103.231.196.41, you Romanian shitball, write your own camel toe stories for shitsakes. Go down to your Whole Foods Market and collect your own fucking data. And 213.186.122.27 from the Ukraine and 161.246.254.167 from Bangkok and you, Mr. 82.229.145.99—you truffle-infused oil sniffing, baguette sandwich eating French stinky arm pitted bastard. Buy my book.

All of you content stealing assholes need to buy the book. It’s the least you can do. What if my book fails and I decide to pull the plug here to Moonerland? Then what? Where will you steal your content if I quit?

Faithful readers should buy the book as well. As of this morning, over the last thirty days I had 6,346 different individual computers logon here to look at this silly shit. That’s down by more than 600 since before Xmas, but that drop is expected during the holidays. And each of those 6,346 computers logged-on an average of eleven times in that thirty days.

That’s not all that many, but if each of you buys my book and we add to that the number of books I have purchased, I’m halfway to becoming a best-selling author!

Anyway, click over there ===}}} to the Bloggie Roller and look at the Clarion Review or the Amazon sales linksters. Check shit out and please at least consider a book purchase.

Which reminds me. For those of you who habitate areas in close proximity to Austin, Texas, I want to invite you to the book launch party for the book. It will be held on Thursday the 12th—that’s ten days from today and next Thursday—at 7-9:00 pm. You can email me and I’ll send you all the specifics. We have but so much room and I need to RSVP for you, so contact me on the emailer and I can get you in. It will be a good time—I give you my personal guarantee.

And why, for the love of God, is habitate not a word. Are you fucking kidding me? If you have habitation, there has to be habitate first. Asswipe Troglodyte Baptist right-wing goat fucking grammar police. I think the one-percenters must be running Webster’s Dictionary. Who decides that shit anyway?

OK, stop. My ADHD has set the train on fire and we smoldering on the tracks. What I wanted to say herein is that a story appeared in today’s Austin American-Statesman newspaper about how the Rick Perry headquarters is (are?) making plans on how to spin a third-place finish in Iowa. That would be assuming that he beats the predictions to finish fourth and places third, and that depends upon Rick’s prayers and church attendance record swaying God to give him more votes than God gives His other preferred candidates. Rick Perry believes that God is in control of the election and that it will be prayer that wins it.

I wonder how little Ricky words that prayer.

“Dear God,

I don’t want to be unseemly, but I need You to make Iowaianian voters vote for me when they vote. I promise I’ll do anything to win the primary straws and I really need those straws so I’ll have some mojo going into North Hampshire. With the seven Iowa electrical votes and then the four if I win that one in New Shropshire, I’ll have, uh let’s see… seven-carry-the-four…

Oh, You can count them, God, and You know I need those votes. And remind me again, what does the Department of Energy do? And by the way, would you please make Juarez safer. It’s embarrassing to have America’s most dangerous city in Texas.

And that Michele Bachmann. Please. How can she call herself a Christian? I’m the only real Christian in the race, God. I hate the fagots and the teachers and the abortionaterists and I hate the whatchamacallits too. You know, the uh, the… Oppsie. But You’re God and You already know I hate everything I’m supposed to hate.”

Which brings up a very important point for me. Something that has bothered me ever since the third grade. See, I stole a quarter from Mother’s purse when I was in the third grade. I was about a quarter short to buy a balsa wood airplane that I could strap a giant firecracker on board. Streaker Jones and I unrolled 1,000 Black Cats and took the gunpowder from them to make this bigger explosive using newspaper and electrician’s tape. We tied a few dozen of the Black Cat fuses together for a timed fuse. We had intentions to build a flying bomb and were dead set to do so.

This would be the same quarter I promised to return the other day when I challenged the Pope to Pay It Backward. I promised to give back everything a Johnson ever stole or got under-priced with threatening behavior, if he would do likewise for the Holy Roman Catholic Church. I have already quietly slipped $23.97 into Mother’s purse, an amount I calculate to be the quarter plus interest, and I mailed a Navajo rug to a woman in Manhattan, Kansas. I didn’t steal the rug, but my grandfather bought it for a pittance from the woman’s daddy, a man down on his luck.

The World awaits the fucking Pope to do the right thing on any subject.

Anyway, I stole the quarter one Sunday morning on our way to the Baptist church. Mother stopped to check on our neighbor, a widow woman, and left her purse in the car with Sister and me. I took the quarter and Sister told me I was going to burn in hell sitting at her left hand. My darling younger sibling already knew she was a lesbian and had been told, repeatedly, that homosexuals would burn in hell.

At church that morning Pastor Browningwell gave the sermon about the talents, and he summed it up by saying that wasting talents was like stealing talents and that stealing would send you to hell. He said that God knew everything and would punish you if you didn’t repent and pray for His forgivenesses.

After church I faced a dilemma—one of the many church-induced dilemmas of my childhood. I wanted to not go to hell but I wanted the balsa wood airplane enough to spend Eternity in hell. I didn’t have a firm grip on how long Eternity was, and I hadn’t yet burned myself badly enough to fear hell summarily. I also thought that God knew everything since that is the very basis of God’s existence as preached by the Baptists. So, I got to thinking.

Why do we need to pray if God already knows everything? If He knows everything, He knew that I stole the quarter, He knew that I had evil intent with the giant winged firecracker and He already knew that I am powerless to repent and stop my bad actions. He is, after all, the know-all/see-all of the Universe.

So why pray? Really, what good can it do? He already knows every fucking thing that has happened, is happening or ever will happen. So why pray?

Which brings up another confusion related to God and religion. If, as the Baptists say, God gives us free will to determine our fates, yet God is in charge of everything and makes everything happen…

Maybe Kris Kristofferson got it right. Maybe freedom really is when you’ve got nothing else to lose. Sometimes I wish the Baptist lobotomy had worked on me. Sometimes I wish that I was one of those brain numbed believers. Life would be so much simpler if I didn’t need to think and understand all of this stuff.

Of course then I’d be a right-wing religious asshole, the same kind of person I actually think will spend Eternity in whatever hell there is.

Fuck it, I’m taking the animals fishing. Manana, y’all.

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Please Buy My Book and Other New Year’s Wishes

January 1st, 2012 by admin

 

So. Here we all are in 2012! Happy New Year everyone. We Johnsons somehow managed to survive last night with nothing broken—no broken stemware, teeth and no broken hearts.

The broken hearts part was the break I most feared as we approached this new year. It was a toss-up at to whether it would be my heart broken by either a screw up on my part or if SAC Ellen would be called out to emergency Special Agent duty. Homeland Security is a touchy federal agency at New Years, and Special Agents their most sensitive digits.

OK, that was about as screwy a metaphor as ever I’ve seen. I wanted to start this bloggie of mine off to the right foot to begin 2012. And there would be another grammatical blunder because to the right is nowhere I choose to start any fucking thing. I’m so sick of right wing political bullshit I could scream.

Fuck it, I’m gonna scream. “Arrrrrrggggggh!!!”

But I somehow managed to make it through the entire day yesterday without a major screw up, and SAC Ellen’s Red Alert ring tone never sounded on her cell. So we sexed a little in the late afternoon, and then got down to serious business at something approximating 12:02 am. It had been awhile since we employed the stunner gun as a part of foreplay, and I’m still a little weak-kneed. Scrape-kneed as well.

Carpet-burned knees are one of life’s dichotomies, don’t you agree? Same as those little sore spots you can get on your pecker sometimes after extended sexing. I’ve got this great lotion made from hemp oil that we make over to the hemp factory that is great for carpet-burned knees.

Bottom line, my heart remained intact and that left the worry to those hearts beating coquettishly in the breasts of the ladies of Johnson Manor. Mr. Dave’s dance card was way overbooked after dinner Friday night as preparations were made for yesterday’s festivities. Gram had been hogging his giant-sized manhood because, as she so eloquently put it, “I fuckin’ found ‘im an’ I ain’t tired of ‘im yet.”

But I knew that was a ruse as soon as she asked me to detail her hot red Ferrari. I was wiping the last of the Turtlewax Finishing Lotion off the hood when she came outside to inspect my work. “Yer a good boy, Mooner. I ain’t gonna ask ya fer nothin’ elst exceptin’ don’t tell that gaggle a chickens I’m a heading ta Houston.”

It took me a minute to connect the dots on that one. “Oh, yea,” I said. “Texas A&M has their bowl game down there this morning. You’ll have some prime pickings after the ball game.”

“At’s right. If’n they lose I’ll git a couple a down to their lucksters what I can git all healed up. If’n they win that game, I’ll need me a trailer ta haul my trophies home.” My randy old grandmother thought for a minute. “Tha Aggies are favored, ain’t they. Ya think I outta take the flatbed?”

“No, Gram, I don’t. If you leave Mr. Dave to the other girls, two college boys in the house will be plenty. Now you drive careful and remember to watch your speed when you get near Columbus, they’ve got a traffic sting down there this weekend.”

Gram left and returned just before dinner with two very happy Aggie cadets—both band members. One plays the tuba and the other the trombone, and somehow my grandmother managed to bring boys and musical instruments both home in the Ferrari. When I asked her how, all she said was, “Call Chris tha welder an’ tell ‘im ta pop by Monday mornin’.”

The only people out of bed yet are the Squirt, Yoda, Honor the fucking cat and myself. Not that the house is quiet, if you know what I mean, but it’s just us up and working on breakfast. We’re having cinnamon rolls, apple smoked bacon and the black-eyed peas I cooked yesterday. I cook them with a little of the smoked bacon, onion and jalapeño. I start them with pepper only—no salt—and after softening the veggies a touch with the bacon, I cover them with hot water. Leaving out the salt and starting with hot water keeps the skins soft and the beans intact.

I hate when beans turn into a pot of mush with chewy skins.

I’m cracking an icy-cold Carta Blanca now, and I’m drinking a salute to all of you. Cheers, my friends. May 2012 be a really good one for you. Manana, y’all.

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Mooner’s 2012 Wish List; Fuck Rick Perry

December 31st, 2011 by admin

 

So. Today’s last posting of the year shall be what I’ll call Mooner’s Wish List For 2012. I’m down to fifteen hours of freely giving of myself and I’m feeling pretty good about stuff here at the end of 2011. I started thinking about my wishes for the New Year, so I thought I’d give you my list. Here it is:

 

  1. I wish that my silly sentimentality will grab a rein on itself. It really is OK with me that I cry at the drop of sincerity, but Tuesday I started leaking tears when Gram put an Air Supply cassette on the stereo and I’m All Out’a Love came on. I’m fine if The Beatles or Don Henley or Classical music, or Simon and Garfunkel bring me to my knees in a weeping mess of tears and snot bubbles. But Air Supply?
  2. I wish that Jesus Christ would return for a few months—not the big End-of-Days return, but rather a short visit—and remind the fucking Christians that He was/is all about love and inclusion. Modern American Christians have become so exclusive about every aspect of thought and life that their practices don’t even resemble Christ’s preachings. Now that I think about it, maybe that’s why the Air Supply song brought tears to my eyes. I was raised in the Baptist church and maybe I’m sad at what it has become, at their love lost.
  3. I wish that everyone could sing and dance and run and throw and make money equally. I wish that the only tangible differences among us were in how we think and act, and that our icons and idols were people who were special to us for what they do rather than what they CAN do.

    I wish that I could have been Mr. Dave when he was twenty years old until he was like maybe thirty-five.

  4. I wish I had a wish that wasn’t so wishy. I’m sounding like Oprah Winfrey for shitsakes.

 

OK, stop the presses. When I started this I thought I had some original thoughts about how to make the New Year a better new year. I don’t. I have nothing new to add to the same tired and trite wishes I’ve had for the last twelve years or so. I want to be happy with the state of politics in America—I really want us to return to be an inclusive society. I want America to mind its own business and mind our stores. Our mice on Wall Street are clearing out the cupboards while the cat is busy playing with other countries’ lives.

I want you to practice any fucking religious beliefs you want to practice just as long as you let me to practice mine. I want you to practice your silly fucking religious beliefs on yourself, and not on me. If you believe life starts when you first think about having sex—lock your kids in the basement until you marry them off to another member of your church. Don’t practice safe sex and don’t terminate any of your fucking pregnancies because that is your choice. But don’t tell others what to do, because a woman’s right to choose her own destiny is what is sacred. A woman’s right to choose is sacred!

If you think that homosexuality is evil and wrong, don’t suck another man’s dick. Don’t play ‘hide the two-headed vibrator’ with another woman. But if my sweet sister wants to marry Anna the Amazon—my ever-so-sexy and likewise sweet ex-wife—then leave them the fuck alone.

Which reminds me. It dawned on me just the other day exactly why Dr. Marcus Bachmann is soooooo very concerned and dedicated to turning gay men into husbands of women. I feel a little dumb for not getting it sooner.

And don’t you hate when a writer hits “Bold, Italicize and Underline” to provide emphasis to his words. I wish I could better communicate than to do that. But I can’t.

If you think that Earth was uninhabited until something less than 10,000 years ago, knock yourself the fuck out.

I wish I knew another word to use for the word fuck. Wouldn’t it be nice if there existed another English word to express all of those same thoughts and emotions and meanings as when you say, “Fuck?” Fuck is my favorite word, and you can go fuck your fucking self and all your fucking neighbors if you don’t fucking like it. Fuck you. But I would get more people to read this shit I write if I had another word.

Anyway, if you are one of those Christians who think the Bible says that the Earth was created sometime between four and ten thousand years ago… OK, let me first say, “Are you fucking kidding me? Are you truly that ignorant or stupid?” And second, please allow me to say, “Fine. If you want to ignore the facts, fine. Home school your own children or take them to your church school.” But leave the rest of us to teach reality in our public schools.

Said another way, I really don’t care what you want or choose to do with your life. I don’t care how you think you make it to heaven, or hell, and I don’t care if you think I’m a hedonistic, sacrilegious heretical and evil bastard. I don’t care about any of that. Think anything you want.

But leave… me… the… fuck… alone! Do not even try to force your shit on the rest of us.

Ugh. Ugh, ugh and ugh once more.

Isn’t it the final eleventh hour somewhere in the World? I need a Carta Blanca beer and an attitude adjustment. SAC Ellen is back in town and there is no way she’s sexing me when I act like this. Maybe I should take all the animals fishing. It’s unusually warm this morning and Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh could use the fresh air. Speaking of two-headed vibrators, my gay pig and ostrich haven’t seen the light of day since they opened their Xmas presents from each other.

So let me say “Happy New Year Everybody”[,] and I hope that all of your wishes come true. OK, look, I hope all of your wishes come true so long as they don’t infringe upon anyone else. If you have wishes that impinge on my rights then I say, “Fuck you, asshole! Eat shit and die.”

Manana, y’all.

 

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To Freely Give; My Xmas Gifts

December 30th, 2011 by admin

 

So. Thankfully there are but two days left in 2011. I have a personal tradition that has been with me for the last fifteen years wherein (in which?) I will basically do anything I am asked that makes sense to me. If you ask me to watch your cat over the Xmas holidays, I’m cat watching. If you ask me to try the special sushi roll over to the Japanese place, I’m trying the special. Need someone to fetch giant-sized condoms by the case—I’m your man if you only make the effort to ask me.

I started this fifteen years ago as my personal response to the crass commercialization of Xmas. I decided to do favors instead of buy presents, and I limited my giving of purchased presents to a very few. I decided to do this without telling anyone—another shake of my figurative finger in the face of Xmas excessivenesses. I wanted to do nice things for people simply because they asked me to do so.

I start on December 115th each year and continue throughout the month to the 31st. As I said, I’ve done this for fifteen years and nobody caught on to what I’ve been up to. Or so I thought.

My mother stopped asking me to go to church decades ago, and no, this isn’t my ADHD slipping gears on us. Mother is a dedicated Baptist and enters her church’s doors every time they get unlocked. She dragged my ass with her the first thirteen years of my life until I put my foot down and refused to go. She spent a decade attempting to get me back inside routinely, and then a couple years asking/demanding sporadically, and then she just gave up. Mother tried and tried and finally tired of the effort.

I start my personal pilgrimage to good tidings by going to the bank on the 15th where I get a big wad of twenty-dollar bills. I put a dozen or so into my shirt pocket and stuff the rest into my jeans. Or shorts when the weather is nice. I wear shorts anytime I can. Then, whenever I see a person on a street corner with his hand out and every time I see a person collecting for a charity, I give a twenty-dollar bill.

This would include at McDonalds at the box sitting by the register for Ronald McDonald House, and it would include the tip jar at Starbucks. Eight people at the intersection—that’s $160.00. Salvation Army bell ringer—Twenty buckeroos. I’ll tip 50% if I dine out, and when I go to the grocery I’ll find a kid to carry whatever bag/bags I have and give him/her a double sawbuck.

I’m a non-denominational free-giver both of money to the needy and gifts of my efforts to the rest of the world. This hasn’t presented too many problems to me over the years, but there was this one time back in December 2000 when I pulled over for a hitch hiker who was on his way to Costa Rica.

Then the other day I was over to the Whole Foods, the one there to the Arboretum, and I was wearing my hot pink “Fuck Rick Perry” tee shirt as I stood in line at the butcher counter. When I stand in lines at Xmas time, I always let others go ahead of me. Unless, of course, they ask me to go ahead of them. Again, this giving dealie of mine is doing what is asked of me.

Sister likes Whole Foods spicy chicken Italian sausage links and like I said, I was standing in line in my hot pink “Fuck Rick Perry” tee shirt. You can buy your own hot pink “Fuck Rick Perry” tee shirt by either clicking over there ===}}} to the merchandise linkster or by clicking up there ^^^^^ to my Store Bar. Dustin the webber guru fixed my store button.

A lady walked over to stand beside me to browse the meat case. When I told her to, “Please go ahead,” she answered by saying, “Why thank you, sir. That’s a very pink shirt. Most men wouldn’t be caught dead in a hot pink shirt.”

“Well,” I answered, “I’m not most men.” That’s right, folks, Mooner Johnson is a quick wit.

She placed her order—three pounds of free range natural ground beef, twelve slices of apple smoked bacon and two ribeye steaks. The steaks were just natural beef and not free range which confused the shit out of me, so I asked her. “Why not free range and natural steaks like the ground beef?”

She turned to face me and said, “Well, sir, I have discovered that the free range steaks are a bit…” She paused as she studied the large print on the front of my shirt. “Does that say what I think it says?”

I looked down to be certain my memories of having dressed myself stood the test of time. I had debated which tee shirt to wear at what times today. “Well, darling, if you think it says “Metallica Forever” I decided to wear that one at dinner tonight. But if you think it says “Fuck Rick Perry” then we have us a winner.”

I could tell she wanted to slap me. I guess she didn’t because I let her cut in line. She did say, “You can kiss my ass, mister. Governor Rick Perry is a fine Christian man.”

Ooo, a request for personal services. “Well, Ma’am, if you’ll whistle so I know which end to kiss, I’ll be happy to fulfill your request.”

“Oh, you are disgusting. Go to hell,” and with that she huffed off without her ribeye steaks.

“Happy to oblige that request also. My own mother has already reserved my spot at the Devil’s right hand.”

Which brings me back to the original message I had to tell you. We’re sitting at lunch Wednesday and I’m giving Gram all kinds of happy grief about how she’s hogging Mr. Dave’s giant pecker and not sharing it like a good Baptist woman should, and especially at Xmas time. It was a good-hearted banter and Gram took it for about the first thirty minutes. After I gave the subject a final barb, my wonderful old grandmother turned to me with an impish smile, then turned to Mother and said, “Mother, why don’t you ask Mooner to go to church with you this evening?”

Like I said, only two more days of my freely giving what is asked of me. I just finished waxing Gram’s Ferrari so she can troll for college kids for New Years, I reorganized all the cabinets in her bathroom and I’ll be fixing her favorite dishes for dinner.

Next year, I’m limiting my free giving to acts not asked as blackmail. Manana, y’all.

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Mooner Johnson Productions Presents- Melanie

December 27th, 2011 by admin

 

So. I’m finally catching up with my stuff and am almost finished doing all the stuff I agreed to do for others. And I’ve already started this bloggie posting with a lie because I haven’t caught up with shit—mine nor that of others either one. Something about this particular holiday season makes me a co-dependent people pleaser who has no problems of his own, because it’s your problems that are mine. Said another way, I become the crazy neighbor lady who tries to make everyone else happy and solve everyone else’s problems because her world is problem free. Then she’s found in an alcoholic coma with her panty hose bunched at her ankles over to the ally behind the Stephen F. Austin Hotel.

I offer to do errands that I hate to do, I offer to do the fucking dishes after spending three days slaving at the hot stove cooking the Xmas meal, and I offer to assist anyone down on their luck with whatever it might be that I can do to help.

OK, I lied again. I love to cook, and big holiday meals are my specialties.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my first-of-ten ex-wives and long time psycho therapist, tells me that it is my guilty conscience that drives me to co-dependency. I don’t know why I do it the other fifty weeks of the year, but I do know why I do it at Xmas. And by-the- bye, I’m only saying “Xmas” because I know it offends some persons who are too fucking stupid to learn why Xmas is not a sacrilegious word. I have found in my personal observations that those offended by the word Xmas are assholes.

And nothing pleases me more than offending assholes. Xmas, Xmas, Xmas!!!

As a child, Xmas was a magical time for me. While we weren’t yet wealthy we had way plenty, so my Xmas days were filled with toys and food and glad tidings. They were also filled with visits to the Baptist church for spacial Xmas lectures by Pastor Browningwell. But I’m speaking of my pre-rape childhood here, so I almost enjoyed church. Almost.

Anyway, as a kid I led a bountiful existence—I was loved, well fed and had plenty of toys and shit. This one Xmas eve, Granddad and Daddy took Sister and me to the hardware store to get something Gram and Mother needed. I think it was a bundt cake pan and all they had was a metal ring pan dealie, and the same one I used to make the buttermilk cake that Melanie found for me.

On our way to the store, there was an old pick-up truck stalled on the side of the Farm-to-Market road, and there were a dozen or so Hispanics standing around it. The hood was open and steaming, and the Hispanic men were all standing with their heads under the hood.

“Looks like those Mezkins need help,” Sister said. Sister had a slight speech problem with long words as a child so she shortened her big words. She meant no disrespect.

“Yep,” Granddad said. “Looks like we’ve got a Mexakin truck to tow this morning.” My grandfather grew up with the word Mexakin because he was a redneck. He meant no disrespect either, and these people took none.

We chained their truck to ours—an old flatbed that I still use—and we towed them to town to the repair shop. Three of the things about my father and grandfather that are ingrained in my soul happened that morning. The first was when Granddad told Mike, the mechanic, that, “Yes, you will fix the Mexakin’s truck this morning.”

Mike blanched at Granddad’s words but did the work. The second thing that became a deep impression on me was when Daddy pulled the wad of bills he had secreted inside his coveralls and gave several to Mike. Daddy always kept a personal stash hidden from Mother’s eyes. When I asked my father why he kept a wad of money hidden from his wife, he said to me, he said, “You’ll be learning soon enough, Mooner.”

The third of the three things I can still remember vividly from that Xmas eve was that nothing else was said about it. I mean other than saying, “I hope that old truck makes it to California,” the paternal units of my family didn’t mention a thing to a soul about their good deed.

Sister and I, of course, carried on and on about the sweet pecan candy we were given by the little girl on her way to California. She had a little patch of cloth wrapped around several cookie-sized discs of the homemade candy that is a traditional Mexican sweet. I could tell that her little stash was as prized as my father’s, and she gave of it to us as freely as Daddy gave of his.

OK, look. I’m way off the reservation. This was supposed to be where I announce to you the next award to my Bloggie Roller. I’m installing Melanie over there ====}}}}}} to the Bloggie Roller today. I was going to do this several weeks ago but I decided I needed to try the buttermilk cake recipe she gave me before doing so. See, Melanie posts a recipe with every installment over there, and what if her recipes turned out to be shitty?

Wait. That would be an unfair assessment if a recipe turned to shit under my care. Following a recipe is one of the things I do worst. But the Squirt helped me with the recipe and Gram gave me one of her, “Will you fucking pay attention, Mooner” mushroom potions. The cake was incredible.

Melanie is a working mom who home-schools her kids. She pulls a night shift in a hospital up in Michigan, schools and raises children, blogs like mad, and cooks like a maniac. She has the sharp wit, big heart and the twisted sense of humor that attract me to a woman. And the recipes she posts will make your mouth water.

Please go give her a look. You’ll be glad you did. Mel’s got kidney stones in addition to her regularly-scheduled life, so she can use your distractions.

Kisses and hugs, Mel.

Me, I’m headed to deliver that last slice of Mel’s cake to a sick buddy, drop Mr. Dave’s laundry at the cleaners for dry cleaning, and then I’ve got a shopping list of shit to purchase from Victoria’s Secret. I’m just glad Victoria’s Secret is having a half-off sale for all the naughties the half-off old women placed on the list.

I’m in serious need of a Carta Blanca beer, so let me go get my shopping done and get back here to drink. Manana, y’all.

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“Pay It Backward”; Mooner Challenges The Pope

December 26th, 2011 by admin

 

So. Xmas is over and how grateful can we be for that? For all of you shitball right-wing Christians who think that my saying, “Xmas,” is sacrilegious, you dear morons know less about your own obsessions than do I. If you bothered to be certain that “Merry Xmas” is a blasphemous remark before shooting off your silly mouth and making threats upon my person, you’d have been saved the embarrassment of learning the truth post-incident. You’d have likewise escaped the case of puncture wounds to your upper thigh, said wounds perfectly matching the denture patterns of a certain half Chihuahua-half Whippet puppy.

Of course, if said shitballs bothered to check their facts before taking stupid positions on things, they wouldn’t even be right-wing Christian shitballs. They’d likely still be shitballs, but of some other variety.

See, Xmas is the shortened version of Christmas—a code name invented by the Greek Christians to evade additional torments at the hands of the anti-Christian tormentors of their time. The “X” in Xmas is the Greek letter for our C, so Xmas means Christmas, shitballs. It is the same fucking word.

Which reminds me. Did you guys see the Pope’s Xmas routine this year. As usual on Xmas day, his royal highness, La Popie, stood as nearly erect as possible at the golden alter in one of his chapels—as erect as one can stand when wearing fifty pounds of gold thread robes, gold trimmed hat and I’m sure a cutesy red thong—to deliver his annual Xmas mass message. There’s gold everywhere and thousands-of-dollars of fresh flowers ringing the alter area.

We can’t have the Pope seen without fresh flowers, you know, and maybe he should do squats to build his strength. I tried to stand straight holding a fifty-pound dumbbell and I’ll tell you that it requires a solid core strength.

The gold used to weave the finery and plate the alter, the scepters and other artifacts that set the scene of the Pope’s lecture are all items stolen from third world countries over the two thousand years we’ve had Catholics to plunder unfortunate civilizations. In the photo I saw from this Xmas, I bet there was $10 million worth of gold pictured in the cropped picture published in our paper.

I’m talking $10 million of the gold at the market price per ounce and not the value as art and artifact.

There he stood—twin sister of Queen Elizabeth—in the immaculate, perfect framing that only the Pope of the Holy Roman Catholic Church gets to use. And guess what the theme of his message just happened to be. Come on, guess.

His theme was “The over-commercialization of Xmas”[.]

That’s right, that pompous and silly shitball lectured the population of the entire world about our crass commercialization of the holiest of all Christian holy days while standing in and among 2,000-years worth of evidence that the Catholic Church is the crassest Christian organization in history. In response to the old Popster’s message, please allow me to post my response.

Dear Pope,

Hey buddy, how’s it hanging? I hope the holidays have been good to you and yours. Things here have been quite nice recently, thank you, and if God sent Mr. Dave my way to service this hen house, please tell him of my gratitudes.

The reason I’m writing you is that I saw some of your Xmas speech and was moved by your words. OK, I watched your lips move while a very manly robed man translated for you. The translator seemed to be working quite hard to keep his voice low and emotionless. He sounded like Anna the Amazon when she tries to sound like a man, and I’m concerned that she might be manly more than your translator. Look, we really don’t care if you guys are gay, or not. But when you work so hard at looking straight, you cause us to think that all of you are gay and hiding in the massive closets there to Popeville.

“Come out, come out, whoever you are!” Really, we do not give a shit. Maybe if you guys come out of the closet you’ll stop molesting children and take full responsibility for those already molested.

But I digress.

Look, dude. You crazy fucking Catholics invented the commercialization of Xmas. Your entire dealie has been to take everything valuable away from everyone you meet. Since your first years as a club, you started stealing some food, and then a few gold coins—you know, the ones with Caesar’s face stamped on one side—and then things escalated from there. You moved on to stealing people’s land, their gold and other valuables, their livestock and other worldly possessions, and then you started stealing the people themselves, making them your slaves.

You did all of this stealing of commercial goods and services in the name of Christ, or “X” as the Christian Greeks-in-hiding called Him. You, dear man, are the head high muck-a-muck of the organization that is the original instigator of all things crass and commercial about Xmas.

The way I see it you started it, so you stop it. I’ll even make you a deal. I’ll give back every single thing that my family has ever taken from any other person without paying that person full market compensation, if your church will do the same. I mean I’ll give back every single item from forever in the history of Johnsons. I’ll give back that Navajo rug my grandfather bought from that old lady up to Amarillo that one time. He paid $10 for a rug with a current market estimate of $20,000, and I’ll give it back to that old lady. If she’s not with us, I’ll seek out her heirs and give it to them. I’ll give back the the quarter I stole from Mother’s purse when I was seven.

Hell, Mr. Pope, I’ll take Mr. Dave back over to the old folks home and tell him to stay there.

I’ll do that if you return all of the shit you guys have stolen. And if you do it and I do it, I bet we can get a whole bunch of other people to do it. We’ll call the movement “Paying it backwards” and then Steven Spielberg will make a movie out of it and let me write the screen play. We’ll get Jeff Bridges to play me and Chelsea Handler to play SAC Ellen.

OK, wait. SAC Ellen might prefer Sandra Bullock to play her part. Sandra already has experience playing a federal agent. Of course that was the FBI and it was a comedy role. If it was ten years ago, I’d say let’s cast Sharon Stone in the role. SAC Ellen is as steamy hot as I used to imagine Sharon Stone to be.

You claim to be close to God, talk to him for me. You share the same God with the Jews, right? Steven Spielberg is a religious guy from what I hear. I’ll bet he’ll give all of his stolen stuff back too.

Anyway, I just want you to know that you come across as an insincere and ludicrous sack of shit when you do things like that. You know, when you get pissy with the rest of us when we use Christ as an excuse to collect material things. You invented it, and perfected it long before the rest of us gained enough civilization to have any fucking disposable income to waste on fruit cake, Air Jordon sneakers and Xmas lights.

I mean really, has this shit not ever crossed you mind? Dude. Give this a little thought. We could make a lot of money from this idea and not need to steal anything.

And hey, I’m in such a great mood I’ll let you steal this idea from me without any payment of thanks or credit. One last theft to make it all worthwhile.

So until next time…

Hugs and three of those silly European air kisses,

Mooner Johnson

I need to print this letter and go mail it to the Pope. I’ve got his address somewhere around here from when I wrote the last Pope guy about Catholics’ Nazi support back in the WWII. Grab yourself an icy Carta Blanca beer and I’ll see you manana, y’all.

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Melanie’s Buttermilk Cake A Success; Mooner Weeps Tears Of Joy (Hopefully)

December 24th, 2011 by admin

 

So. I want to take just a minute to do all the yakking I’m doing for today and Christmas day. I’ve got a houseful of happy and merry women, enough animals to fill a small zoo—like in that Matt Damon movie—and I’ve got myself a boarder that must be a sex robot.

I’ve made a doctor’s appointment for Mr. Dave for early next week. I can’t let anything happen to that gift from heaven. Squirt tells me I need to put him on a payroll for one of the companies so that I can get tax benefits for my covering his expenses. Me, I think I need to start a new business and put this boy on the street.

I want you to know that things here to the Johnson family ranch are happy, merry and quite peaceful. Notice I didn’t say silent. This place is like a hen house where all the hens are happy. I’ll swear some of these old bags are actually clucking.

But I most want to tell you about the Buttermilk Cake I baked with help from Melanie. She found the recipe for me. The cake is from my childhood, the recipe taken to the grave by its baker. But Mel dug it up and sent it to me. I somehow managed to get everyone but the animals out of the house yesterday afternoon, and we baked the cake.

First, please allow me to say that I now know why people buy boxed cake mix. I’m a good cook and cook often, but I’ve never been a baker. Baking requires precision of measurements, accuracy in the blendings, and following instructions. I am good with none of that. My ADHD won’t let me read an entire sentence straight through, and I can’t complete a four-step recipe without forgetting to separate the fucking egg.

But the Squirt was my able assistant and whip cracker, and we barged in. We got everything out and measured and organized. We almost emptied the cabinets of measuring devices doing so. We followed each step to a tee, and after an hour we had the finished cake batter. Which concerned me.

Oh, did I tell you that I intended to take pictures of each step? Since I forgot to tell the Squirt of that plan, I forgot to take photos as we went along. But I was happy with stuff until the cake batter was complete and ready to place in its bundt pan, or in my case a metallic two-piece ring mold dealie.

The batter was like very thick children’s’ paste—the kind we used to make with flour and water. I actually stuck the spatula in the batter and it stood at attention like a soldier. “Is that right, Mooner?” Squirt asked. “We could use that stuff to patch cracks in stucco.”

“I agree, little lady, but the instructions say, ‘spoon it into the pan,’ and not “pour,” so maybe this is as it should be.”

We put it in the oven to bake, and started fretting. “What if this fails, Mooner? I can’t have my first supervisory job be anything but a success.” The Squirt is, and has been trained to be, success oriented.

We watched and worried, and after thirty minutes we stuck the first toothpick into the cake. When it came out wet, I said, “Not yet, sweetie, let’s set the timer for five more minutes.”

It was still wet, and it took another five minutes to be all the way cooked. I removed it from the oven and placed it on a rack to cool, and my tear ducts opened like flood gates. In seconds my face was dripping onto the counter, the cake and Squirt’s little head as she got a close look at the cake.

“Oh for shit sakes, Mooner. You cry like a little girl over the silliest stuff.” Then, “Crikers, Mooner, you’re blowing snot bubbles. Get your ass away from my cake!”

Squirt is right. It’s entirely possible that I’m completely bonkers. But the cake is beautiful, and from the chunk I stole from the bottom and rubbed through the glaze bowl—perfect. It’s dense and buttery and chewy.

Thanks, Mel. When I get the chance to do so properly, I am placing you on my Bloggie Roller over there ====}}}}} in your place of honor. Here is a photo of the cake:

 

Happy and merry, and wishes for peace.

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Clarifying Clarion’s Review: Full Rising Mooner Is Double Page-One Success

December 23rd, 2011 by admin

 

So. Let me first get my book stuff out of the way. The Squirt has agreed to not shit on any of my things if I spend fewer than three paragraphs on the book, not counting this paragraph wherein I describe the deal for her not so shitting. This first paragraph is introductory in nature and I’m not to be held accountable for any book bragging yet, if, I would suppose, that I don’t get carried away.

Now this paragraph will be the official start of sanctioned book bragging, and I’ll start bragging by saying that the link I gave you yesterday was to the page of my book’s review within Clarion’s website. When I gave you that link, I didn’t grasp the full purviews of things. I didn’t realize that the notice of my book’s review was on the actual first page of Clarion’s website! It appears that the first page of their website, Reviews Tab, posts six of their highest star rated books with recent reviews. Go and Google “Clarion Book Reviews” and then clicker to “Clarion” and hit the “Reviews” Tab. That’s a lot of clickers and apostrophes, but you can manage. If you can follow my thought streams you can forge that one.

There, in a prime spot on the first page of Clarion’s website, is my book Full Rising Mooner. Then, you can go down that page to see all the different categories Clarion reviews, where mine is under “Fiction- Humor” and again you can clicker that and find my book on page one once more!

I’m a doubled-up page one, four-of-five starred authorating sumbitch!

Having finished the authorized bragging, please allow me to say that the previously-discussed peace and harmonies continue, unabated, at Chez Johnson ranch. One of my errands for today is to revisit the Walgreens Drugstore to get a case of backup condoms for Mr. Dave because, as Gram put it, “Yer Aunt Hilda don’t wanna be runnin’ out on Christmas day.”

I’m guessing that Mr. Dave is spreading his Xmas cheer far and wide. And with exceedingly high frequencies. I didn’t count how many individual rubbers were in the case I bought earlier this week, but it had to be at least a gross, you know, 144 individual gold foil-wrapped goodies.

I can tell you that if I used 144 in a month I’d be needing back surgery and a semen transfusion, so me, I’m applauding the old geezer’s work ethic. A man has got to be in love with sex to do that much sexing.

When I return from errand running, the animals and I will start making goodies for Sunday’s meal. I’ll rub the big pork roast with my special Xmas rub and put it away to cure (I’m doing this sour cherry glaze for that), I’ll get the super-buttery scalloped potatoes together, and most importantly I’ll be baking the buttermilk cake that Melanie found the instructions how to bake for me.

Awkward sentence structure aside, I’m very fucking excited about the cake, and will be reporting on it herein, but at a later date. OK, wait a minute. Can I say “herein” as it will be herein, when it isn’t herein now, or even after I finish this bloggie posting and post it? I’m not coming back later and inserting the cake results herein, so that adds additional layers of confusion to my musings.

Try this. At a later time, I will tell you what happened with Melanie’s buttermilk cake instructions and I’ll post that posting here, in these pages. But not these specific pages, future pages.

Clarity is my middle name and communication is my game.

Anyway. My ADHD is in full DEFCON mode. I don’t know if that’s DEFCON ONE or FIVE whichever, but I can tell you that my brain is spinning with shit. That would be why I’m stopping now at fewer than 600 words before I confuse anyone.

Please check out my book in all the many places aforementioned, herein and hereout. Manana, y’all.

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Clarion 4-Star Review Of Mooner’s Book; A Linkster

December 22nd, 2011 by admin

 

http://www.forewordreviews.com/reviews/full-rising-mooner/

So. That little dealie up there ^^^^^ is the linkster to the Clarion book review for my book, Full Rising Mooner. Please click there and see that I did not lie to you and that I fully disclosed the verbiage herein last week.

To those naysayers among my readers, please allow me to say this, “Nanny-nanny boo-boo!”

Soon I will post herein my 30-second book trailer. I just approved the final and it is nifty. It’ll take a couple days for me to get it in a form I can share with you, but you guys will be the first I share it with.

I’m cracking an icy-cold Carta Blanca and celebrating. Manana, y’all.

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Johnsons Form A Pack; Pact Comes Next

December 21st, 2011 by admin

 

So. There’s a sense of quiet here to the Johnson family ranch, a quiet that I’m starting to find unsettling. Until this week, my life was filled with the calming charms of bitchy women—the whining and complainings typical of a house full of women who know each other only too well.

When I made it to the kitchen to start breakfast at 6 am this morning, I walked into a scene from Betty Crocker’s test kitchens. It was like a TV crew’s arrival was expected to film the perfect breakfast as cooked by a half-dozen mature women. Save for Gram, each was in nice slacks and blouses and was well accessorized, each was in full makeup and each was working merrily. Harmoniously even, and maybe the right word back there would be “accessorated”[.] Maybe they had rings, bracelets, earrings, belts, scarves and other adornments and they were well accessorated.

Mother was at the sink washing pots and pans from whatever it was the others were cooking. She was humming the Baptist hymnal ditty “Love Lifted Me” and was singing the words each time she got to the “love lifted me” parts. I smelled cinnamon and Penelope Paxton-Parades was peeking in the oven, so I figured P-cubed was baking her special rolls, and hers are the best I ever had. Aunt Hilda was at the cook top putting a sweat on some veggies for an omelet, Gnat was beside her frying bacon and sausage. Gram and SAC Ellen were sitting at the big table—the SACster reading the slug of emails she’d already gotten on her laptop—and Gram was watching over the entire operation with a stern appraisal.

Gram and Ellen both had mugs of coffee and I took a sip of Ellen’s. “Ick, that’s pussy coffee. That tastes like old dishwater.”

My comment got me nothing but the sideways glance law enforcement officials learn to give offending perpetrators. “No problem,” I responded to the glance, “I know how to fix my own.”

I put the three heaping tablespoons of ground coffee bean powder into the single-cup filter system I use to make my own coffee, and pored hot water over that. As the liquid dripped through the filter into my cup I became mesmerized with the sound. It was the sound of a thing stream of liquid spilling into a small pond of liquid. You guys all know that sound, right.

It was also the sound made when Yoda pees after waiting six hours and isn’t peeing outside on the grass. “Hey everyone. Good morning to each of you, and thanks for fixing me this terrific breakfast. I feel like the king of my realm.”

“Ain’t fer you, ya little shitball,” Gram informed me. “This herd a ninnies thinks they can cook their way inta Davy’s pants. Harumph.”

Why was I so slow to catch on, and why was SAC Ellen in here with the others?

“We’re just glad to have a man around the house again, Gram, a man with manners and grace.” These words from my mother were said without a pause to the hymn humming. The only change in the humming was that it got louder after she spoke.

A man not me would take offense at Mother’s obvious slam on me with the “man-in-the-house-with-manners-and-grace” comment, but not me. I’m used to my mother’s distaste for all things me, and her tacky attempts to put me down.

“Maybe, said man can write me a check for the extra groceries and feminine hygiene products I’ve had to purchase this week. You crazy old broads are going to bankrupt me trying to get laid by a man I’m supporting. Why don’t we do a fucking lottery for Mr. Dave’s servicings and get my household back to normal.”

“I’ll take seconds on that one, Mooner. They’s all acting like school monkeys.”

I love how my grandmother fractures every tenet of grammar and prose. I could tell that Gram was getting cranky from all the harmony in the house. “Look,” I said, “you ladies need to not make this a competition or else this place is going to become a cat fight pit. I will not allow you to ruin Christmas with your fighting over a pecker.”

“Butcher Einstein Johnson!” Mother was raising her voice at me. “You go stick the Ivory soap in your mouth, and right… damned… now!”

“Oh pull tha stick out yer ass, Mother. Mooner’s right out about this. You girls are gonna fuck this dealie up fer all a us iffn ya don’t quit this shit.” Gram usually sees things my way.

Whoa, Nellie, and hold the horses. Let me pull the plug on this right here. I have been trying for three days to tell you about the new training methods we are employing to house train Yoda. He and the Squirt watched a program on the Animal Channel Monday and were impressed with much they saw. It was all about canines and their territorial pack mentality—how they organize their entire lives based on marked territories.

We three discussed it Monday at bedtime and it was decided that Yoda and I, as Alpha Males One and Two of our pack, would mark the ranch as our pack’s territory. This is a multi-step process that involves: 1. Pissing all over the place to mark our territory; 2. Forcing any interlopers away with extreme aggressiveness; and, 3. Sexing all the bitches we can find—me first and Yoda sloppy seconds.

I get to go first with the bitches as I would be Alpha Male Numero Uno. I would also happen to be the only un-neutered Alpha male in our pack. Not-neutered? But, we decided we wouldn’t worry about the bitches in Part 3. since Mr. Dave seems to have our bitches under control.

The Squirt’s takes on all of this are interesting. As a spayed and neutered female, and the Alpha Bitch of our pack, she has explained to Yoda and I both that our sexual advances are unwelcome. Not a problem for me but Yoda’s feelings are quite hurt. Her ideas about Mr. Dave caught me by surprise when she said, “Maybe I’ll see what all the fuss is about.”

Then there’s her observations as to Yoda’s total lack of sexing skills and knowledge. When I told her to not worry, she told me, “OK, big boy, show him how it’s done.”

Part 3. aside, parts 1. and 2. are going well but with mixed anticipations. Yoda and I have pissed on maybe the first hundred yards of the north property line, the shortest side of our 3,000 acres. I estimate that it will take five weeks for us to mark the entire thing, and I’ve scheduled that. As for the interloper dealie, we’ve managed to harass a couple armadillos, a raccoon, some snakes and lizards, and we chased a turtle off the dock. Yoda is cute as a button when he arfs and growls with his damaged voice box voice.

Our only failure was with the skunk that was sniffing around the tool shed out to the big garden. We discussed it and decided no harm/no foul, and let the skunk live. When Yoda and I returned to clean up after encountering the skunk, Squirt said, “ Tenemos que el nombre de nuestro paquete de, Bwana Mooner. I suggest ‘The Texas Stink Pack.’”

“Very funny, little lady, and we do need to name our pack.” She does have quite a sharp wit, our Miss Squirt.

We’re test driving a few names for our pack. “Terrier Terrors of Texas” and “Two Ten Pound Terrors and One Old Fart” are most favored. I made the mistake of telling the dogs that they could choose the name.

Honor, the fucking cat, does nothing to participate in these festivities save eying (eyeing?) us with a cat’s amusements. She feels no compulsions to join our dog pack nor does she want us to form a cat pack. Would it be a cat pack? Herd of cats, or a clutch? I don’t really give a shit if Honor doesn’t want one, whatever it’s name.

Anyway, before my ADHD takes us off-planet, let me say that I’m headed out for errands and the most important is to stock up on Carta Blanca beer for the weekend. Manana, y’all.

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Burning The Extra Large Rubber; Mooner Buys Dave’s Condom Supply

December 20th, 2011 by admin

 

So. Things around here are moving quite smoothly if you ask me. Mr. Dave, the well-enhanced randy old geezer Gram kidnapped from the Whole Foods market is fitting seamlessly into the fabrics that are the Johnson family women. I’m not keeping score, but my mother would, if appearances bear true, be the only woman over forty to not yet bed Mr. Dave. Mother looks like a kid in a candy store every time she is in his proximity, but she still has that, “I didn’t get any candy yet” look.

My participation in the calming of my household to date has been to pay the living expenses of those sleeping under my roof, cook the dinners, and make a run to the big Walgreen’s pharmacy over to US 183. The one there to Braker Lane.

“Go ta tha one there to Braker Lane, Mooner. Git them Trojan Claudius Maximum jobbies. They’s holdin’ a case fer me at the back desk. Tell ‘um Ramoner sent ya,” were my Gram’s precise words. “An make sure they don’t try ta give ya any a them cut-rate jobbies. Dave needs the real thingies.”

“Who the hell is Ramona?”

I had to ask.

“Oh hell, Mooner, Ramoner’s that gal what was a guy what had that giant pecker an’ cut it off. Terrible waste a manhood. Me an tha P-cubed use ta do tha tag-teamer on ‘im.” My grandmother got a forlorn look in her eyes. “An then he decided he wanted ta be a girl. Said me an’ Penelope hepped him make his mind up.”

Like I said, I had to ask. And let me add, “Of course you and Penelope Paxton-Parades helped him decide.” I can only imagine the damage my Gram and the P-cubed could inflict upon a young man during a three-way.

After my shower with the dogs this morning, they wanted to watch the Animal Channel. We’ve been discussing how to help Yoda learn proper Johnson family potty habits. There was a special running on the Animal Channel about canines, so I turned the family room TV to that station and left them with it while I went to get SAC Ellen. The SACster has just returned from New York City where she helped review the City’s security plans for New Year’s Eve.

We sexed, and thoroughly at that, and made the stop at the Walgreens store. She said she needed a few things and would go in with me. I went to the back of the store to give my password code, “Ramona”[,] to whomever I found back there, while my lover worked her way around the store. I found a nice lady in the way-back at the pharmacist’s counter, “Louise” it said on her tag, so I said to her, I said, “Good afternoon, Louise, Ramona sent me for a package you’re holding.”

“Does this Ramona have a last name, sir? We sort everything here at Walgreens by last name.”

“Nope, just Ramona. You know, she called you to set aside a package for me to fetch for my grandmother?”

“I don’t know anything about a package, mister.” Things weren’t as seamless here as at home.

“Well,” I said, “would anyone here know about a package for Ramona?”

“Hey, Gertie, you got a package for a Ramona somebody or this guy’s grandmother?” This was yelled, basically, at a plump woman doing stock work maybe six aisles away.

“Only Ramona I know,” Gertie blasts back at Louise, “is that real nice young man who had us special order those real big rubbers. Oh, wait, there’s also that Ramona on that Housewives TV show.”

Gertie looked somewhat perplexed for a second, then added, “Except I’ve seen that TV Ramona’s husband, and he don’t need no giant sized rubbers. I got a nose for that kind a deal.”

Now Gertie is walking my way, staring at my crotch with a lazer-eyed stare with every step. “Move your hands, mister. It don’t look like you need the big’uns but I can’t tell for sure until you move your hands. I can help you choose the right size for maximum pleasure.”

“OK, look, ladies, like I said, they aren’t for me… I mean it isn’t that I wouldn’t buy that kind if I was buying for myself, but, well, these are for Dave, the guy from over to Wortham’s Sanctuary. He’s staying at my place and is in need of a supply.”

“Oh,” said Louise and Gertie simultaneously.

Then Louise said, “I was wondering why he wasn’t there to sign for his order Friday afternoon. It was my turn to deliver his order to Wortham’s.”

“Well, I’m here to pick up his order.”

The ladies giggled at some private joke between them. Louise rang up the sale while Gertie fetched the condoms. Gertie returned with a large double-shoe box sized carton that had “Trojan Magnum XL- Extra Large Condoms” emblazoned all over it in bold black lettering. I guess a man who needs extra-large rubbers likes to advertise the fact.

I had Louise put the $400+ charge on my AmEx card. This was when I caught a glimpse of SAC Ellen, as I was signing the credit slip. She stood off to my blind side with her basket clutched in both hands and a smile creasing her face ear-to-ear.

“I’m a Special Agent in Charge for US Homeland Security, ladies,” Ellen said as she walked over and flashed her badge. Have you completed your transaction with this man?”

“Yes,” from Gertie, and, “All I need to do is wrap this box for him, sir,” from Louise.

“Don’t worry about the box, ma’am. I’m going to quietly walk this man to the front of the store, pay for my purchases, and take him away. Please don’t alarm anyone. He’s harmless as long as he doesn’t open that box inside your store. Once that box is open…”

The ladies gasped. Gertie said, “Be careful Special Agent. He does look dangerous.”

SAC Ellen grabbed me by my shoulder and said, “Pick up the box, Mr. Johnson, and please follow me. And bear in mind that I have a stun gun issued me by the federal government and I know how to use it.”

She perp-walked me to the front, hand held on her tazer harness all the way. When we got to the front she said, “Will you stand there quietly sir, or do I need to cuff you to that rail?”

“I’ll be good,” I answered.

This was fun. Everybody sort of stood away from us but not too far. A crowd of people was gathering, looking between the fancy federal agent—purchasing mouthwash, toothpaste, deodorant, cotton Coet Pads, and a large bottle of KY Warming Lubricant—and me, as I held a case of super-duty rubbers.

She paid her bill, turned to me and pointed, and said, “You- in the car,” and she perp-walked me to the car.

When we got to my GTO, parked twenty spaces from the door to protect it from getting dinged, SAC Ellen said, “Get in the passenger side, sweetie. We don’t want to break the spell now.”

I don’t know if there is a federal agent anywhere in America who drives a 1967 GTO to work, but it didn’t seem to matter to the crowd at Walgreens as they followed us all the way out. The SACster started the car with her set of keys and burned rubber as she took off. After a block she started laughing and then me too.

“Oh my goodness but I needed that.” SAC Ellen has been going almost constantly for months and she really needs a break. “Did you see that one lady eyeballing you?

“I think that was the lady I told about last summer when I got tazered at the Barnes and Noble Bookstore.” I’d gotten tazered while doing research in the kiddies book section.

We rehashed the prank from one end to the other and laughed it up at length. The condom box was sitting between us and my curiosity got the best of me. “I’ve never seen one of these things, let’s take a look.”

I opened the box with my pocket knife, and cut one condom from its sleeve. It was in a gold foil-wrapped disk about the diameter of a bread plate. I cut the foil and pulled the condom free.

“Holy shit,”I exclaimed, “I can fit my foot in this fucking thing!” I wear a size thirteen wide shoe.

I stuck my hand inside the rubber and rolled it up my arm where it stopped just short of my elbow. “Holy shit,” was about all I could say. My mind started wandering to just exactly what was going on in my household with an old man in residence who needed, and could still use, the condom on my arm. I began to worry that the Johnson women would fall behind on their chores.

Ellen kept glancing sideways at the big condom as she drove us home. “How old is this guy Dave anyway?” she asked me.

“I need a Carta Blanca,” I answered.

Please think about purchasing my book from over there ===}}} Manana, y’all.

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Mooner Finds Solution At Whole Foods; Trolls With Dried Figs

December 19th, 2011 by admin

 

So. When I signed off yesterday, Mother and Gram had left for church leaving me in charge of things. Being left in charge of things is normally routine, but our routine is usually sans a randy old fucker with a Japanese eggplant pecker, Grade-A Extra Large, and the excessively high progesterone levels the ladies of the abode have been exhibiting this holiday season.

In honor of old Dave, the giant-peckered old fucker above-mentioned, I’m making this eggplant and turkey cutlet lasagna I invented for tonight’s dinner. I use thin layers of crusty-fried turkey and eggplant rather than pasta and if I must say so myself, it is a downright yummy use of ingredients.

I went to Whole Foods yesterday to shop for last night’s and tonight’s meals, and decided to take Gram’s little red Ferrari. It had stopped raining and I felt like winding through the gears of my grandmother’s little 550-horsepower hot rod.

The Baptist girls were home from church and they gathered with the rest of us in the kitchen before I left. I always take requests before shopping because I hate to hear, “Don’t we have any_____,” and then fill in the blank.

The list was complete and as I had my hand on the door knob to leave, Gram sidled up to me and pulled my head down to whisper to me. “Here,” she said, as she placed a paper in my shirt pocket. “You go stand in tha dried fruit an jerky section there to tha Whole Foodies and show that to any nice men ya see just a hangin’ out.”

I started to reply but she whisked me out with a, “Now git,” and a swat to my bottom. When I managed to get myself seated in the little sports car and start the engine, I pulled my shopping list and whatever it was that Gram gave me from my pocket. I always like to let the car warm up before taking off so that I can take off fast.

The papers in my hand were the list, and a glossy photo of my Gram standing beside this self-same Ferrari in a leather outfit of black with red piping. She was doing that “come here” dealie you do with your forefinger, a wolfish smile on her face. It seems the randy old gasbag who mothered my father was asking me to shop for men who hang out with dehydrated food stuffs at the Whole Foods market over to the Arboretum.

I guess randy old men shop for women at the grocery store same as younger randy men. Me, I’ll hang around the melon section or over with the avocados. I like my ladies not too skinny and round on top. After an encounter with a plump-crotched lady in the avocado section at the Sprouts store this one time, I also find the hunting good in the guacamole pit. We men look for reflections of the women we seek in our chosen sections of the store.

I’ve seen my grandmother nekid, regrettably, and the dried foods section is where I’d shop if I was looking for Gram. I saw her unclothed last summer when she and her best buddy P-cubed picked up some Texas A&M engineering students. The animals and I were all fishing on the dock when the girls brought their captives outside for some sunlight and fresh air. I was treated to the sight of both Gram and P-cubed’s nekidnesses when they decided to take the boys skinny dipping.

I know I should have diverted my eyes, but could you look away if you saw an airplane crashing from the sky?

Anyway, it’s raining again this Monday morning and I still feel pretty good about things. SAC Ellen flies in at noon, so she’ll be having dinner—after a little afternoon sexting delights—and then we’ll be headed to a Christmas party at eight. The stuff being done for the four-of-five stars Clarion reviewed book are still going well, and so is Yoda’s trainings.

He and I were in the shower with the Squirt today after breakfast discussing how I can assist him to learn to not pee anywhere but in the sink or outside, and how to only shit outside. I let the dogs shower with me whenever they want and also whenever I want them too. But no new theories came up in the discussion.

After the shower, I turned the Animal Channel on the TV in the living room and went to get SAC Ellen from her place. She’d left her car at the airport since her schedule is so flighty, and wanted to freshen up before I got there.

OK, wait a big fucking minute because I am fixing to go waaayyy off the reservation. The point of this entire writing today is to tell you that a vote was taken at dinner last night, and Mr. Dave has been invited, and here I’ll specifically quote the language of the proposed vote, “That Mr. Dave be invited to stay awhile to keep the ladies of the house company.”

The vote was fourteen “yeas” and one “abstained” and the abstained was Mother. But her abstention was done with a coquettish smile and flutter of eyelashes in Mr. Dave’s direction. “A proper Baptist lady would never ‘vote” for such a thing,” was my mom’s explanation for witholding her approvals.

“Oh, fer shitsakes, woman, git tha fuck over yerself. I’ll share ‘im.” My grandmother actually won’t share. She’ll get tired of old Dave and move on. She’ll likely come back to him during a dry spell, but she’ll pass him along for sure.

And me, I’m glad to have another man around to soak up the hormones. When things get bitchy at the Chez Johnson ranch, I’ll have a man to share the burdens, tote the bales.

So please, everyone, hoist your Carta Blancas on high with me, and toast to Mr. Dave. Manana, y’all.

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Mooner’s Xmas Arrives Early; Things Go Swimmingly

December 18th, 2011 by admin

 

So. As I’ve said on these pages many times before, Sunday morning breakfast is the grandest of the week’s breakfasts here to Chez Johnson. Every occupant of the house—whether live-in or visiting—is required to be at least partially clothed and sitting at the table at 8 am for breakfast. We convene at eight so that we can get our breakfasting completed in time for Mother and Gram to make it to church for the start of Sunday School.

Baptists, practicing Baptists, are big on Sunday School. Indoctrinate early and often is the backbone of Baptist dogma.

In attendance at today’s Sunday breakfast were only live-ins, plus one. The plus-one is Gram’s date, a spindly old fucker she corralled at Whole Foods Friday afternoon when she went there to shop for me. I gave her a list of an even-dozen items I needed to make the buttermilk cake that Melanie is teaching me how to bake. I’m getting ready to put Melanie over there to the Bloggie Roller, but I figure I’d better see how this cake turns out before doing so. Just in case.

Anyway Dave, Dave is his name, had gone over to the Whole Foods to find a natural or herbal remedy to cure the limp pecker that has recently turned him from being known as Big Dick Dave, the rest home Lothario, to Limp Dick Dave, the old fucker with bad breath up to room 314. Seems the broads at Wortham’s Sanctuary for the Aged get pretty cranky when they don’t get their sexing as regularly scheduled.

Dave’s standing there in the “medical” section of Whole Foods looking like, as Gram tells it, “He looked like he’d just lost his dog and didn’t know what ta do. Had lumps an bumps an scratches all over his noggin.” It also seems that the old broads whacked Dave with their canes when he couldn’t deliver.

Gram said, “I’m there lookin fer yer contrafectcha-ornary sugar, Mooner, and there he was. At first I though he had a wine bottle in his drawers. I said to him, I say, ‘Looks ta me like yer packing some serious meat in them drawers, mister. You like buttermilk cake?’”

“Then ole Dave says ta me, ‘Well, miss, I was looking for an older gentleman to assist me with something to cure my impotency, but these workers are all young women. I’m not about to discuss my flaccid penis with a young woman.’”

That’s when I got a call from Gram asking me to plan for one more plate at Friday’s supper. “Ya need ta fix a extra pork chop, Mooner. Ole Dave here’s got him a man-sized pecker that done broke down on him, an’ I got some nursin’ ta do.”

Breakfast this morning was, at Gram’s request, a carb-filled setting. I’m guessing that between her medicine cabinet filled with chemical enhancements, a closet full of toys, and what I can only describe as my grandmothers endless capacity to get sexually satiated, Gram got Dave back in the wood. Otherwise, Dave would have been taxied home long before eight this morning.

I’ve been in a somewhat festive mood recently. I’ve met some interesting people, had some good meetings and worked on book stuff. When I say “book stuff” I’m speaking, of course, about stuff I’m required to do as the author of a four-of-five stars Clarion reviewed book. Said book, Full Rising Mooner, is available by clicking to the linksters over there ====}}}} on my Bloggie Roller.

Said book stuff is going nicely. The book launch party Evite invitation went out and folks are already RSVP responding to come. The fine folks at Badgerdog Literary Publishing haven’t pulled out on me as recipients of all the profits from book sales at the launch party, and all of the other plans are going swimmingly.

Which reminds me. Why, in the fuck, do we say “things are going swimmingly” when things are moving along nicely? There’s something intrinsically wrong with that.

Anyway. I’m sitting with family and friend at breakfast this am feeling pretty good about stuff. “Well, everybody,” I started, “since I’ve got everything I want for Xmas, how about you each say what you want. Let’s start with Aunt Hilda and Dubbie-J.”

For those of you new to the giant cauldron of content swill that is Moonerville, Dubbie-J is a shrunken head in a mahogany box, and Aunt Hilda’s constant companion. The full background story is contained in the pages of the afore-mentioned four-of-five stars Clarion reviewed book, Full Rising Mooner.

“Well,” Aunt Hilda said. “Dubbie-J wants a soft wool turtleneck sweater to keep the chill off his neck. And me, I want a man. Why does Gram get all the men?”

Why, indeed.

“Oh don’t worry, Hilda, I’ll go back to tha store this afternoon an’ find you a fella. Gotta git Dave some vitamins anyhows, might as well git you a fella while I’m there. What kind ya want?”

I could tell this conversations was wearing on my mother, so I broke in. “How about you, Mother?” This, asked by me with an internal shudder.

“Well you know I’ve always prayed for world peace, Mooner, and you…”

Oh crap, I know what’s coming next. “How about you, Gnat?” I broke my mother off before she could go on. “What heads your list this year?” I asked my able assistant.

“Butcher Einstein Johnson!” Mother almost yelled. “How dare you interrupt your mother when she is speaking. I raised you far better than to do that. Why God burdened me with you I’ll never know. I pray every night for God to tell me what it is I did to deserve you for a son. Why I, I…”

“Oh fer shitsakes, Mother, will you shut yer whiny-ass yapper? God gave ya Mooner to see if’fn he could git that stick out yer ass. Now pass me them buckwheat wafflies. Dave here needs ‘em ta reconsterbate tha cellulite in his pecker.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus, save me from all of these Johnsons.” This prayer I call “Mother’s martyred Lament”[.]

“Well, Mrs. Johnson,” Dave began, “with your mother-in-law’s assistance I’ve managed to get my penis fully operational again. I’d be happy to visit your room later and make you feel better.” With this, old Dave pulled the leg of his sweat pants tight to give my mother a look at the outline of his pecker.

Now me, if ever I saw a sign from God, this might have been it. My father died many years ago and to my best knowledge, Mother has been chaste ever since. Hell, to hear Daddy talk, Mother has been chaste for the last thirty years. When my mother glanced down at the outline in Dave’s crotch, she placed her hand over her heart and said, “Oh my.” And then she just sat there with her mouth open.

“Ain’t gonna be no sharin’ Dave around here til I’m finished with him. You can have ‘im manana iffn he can still walk.”

Sometimes presents come your way from the strangest places. My mother said not one more word at breakfast and she even stuck around to help clean up. I noticed her sneaking peeks at old Dave, and coyly so. When she and Gram were leaving for church, Mother came into my office. She was in a frilly dress and heels, and was wearing eye shadow. I haven’t seen my mother in eye shadow since daddy died.

“Now Mooner, you take good care of Mr. Dave while we’re gone. Don’t make him do anything too strenuous—he’s been ill, you know.” Saying that, she turned to walk out of the room. But she whipped around quickly and added, “And keep your Aunt Hilda away from him. He’s not all the way healed quite yet.”

Take good care of him? I’m buying the man a back brace and heading to the seafood distributor for a sack of oysters.

I’m going to need some extra psycho therapy this week. Been sitting here hoping that my grandmother shares her man with my mother. Like that swimmingly dealie, I think there is something intrinsically wrong with that.

Manana, y’all.

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Dog Training Blues: Yoda Screws The Pooch

December 15th, 2011 by Patrickedit

 

So. What a day. It’s been raining, sprinkling actually, for the entire week, and the furry little shitbird we call Yoda is a hot mess. The little half Chihuahua/half whippet can’t stand to get his little tootsies wet, so our visits to the great outdoors for him to make doggy piles are problematic.

For me, problematic, but not for Yoda as he says to me, “No problemo por mi, I’ll just take a giant smelly dog shit on one of your nice rugs.” That would be the Squirt’s translation of Yoda’s whispers and grunts. The owners of the puppy mill he was born into choked him and damaged his voice box, so every noise he makes is muted.

He mostly pees in the sink with Squirt, Honor and me, and, “No, Gene, I didn’t need to pee when I was at your place, so you needn’t worry about your pretty, spotless bathrooms.” I would have peed in your sink and for all of the right reasons had I needed.

I say Yoda mostly pees properly because he has taken to strike back at me when I make him go out into the rain. I take him out any time he gets up after we go to bed, and last night he woke me just as my own pee alarm started ringing. So I picked him up and put on my slippers and the two of us, nekid saving the aforementioned slippers, slid outside into the drizzle.

I love getting rained on and especially nekid when the weather is warm like now. I walked the little rat out into the grass and set him down. He said something that sounded a lot like “asshole” and he took a few steps away. Like I said, I needed to ease the pressures on my own bladder so I shut my eyes to pee. I always shut my eyes at night so that I can ease the muscles that control bed wetting in adult male humans.

I’m standing there for a few seconds before starting, start, and release a nice stream. I realize quickly that my leg is getting warm and I immediately suspect that my anxious flow has diverted from the grass to my leg. I stopped peeing, wiggled my pecker to get things back on track, and then realized that the warmth was continuing to spread.

My first reaction to this was panic—panic that my prostate had finally exploded and I’d lost bladder control. My eyes shot open and I looked down to see Yoda, giant shit-eating grin plastered to his rain-soaked face, peeing on my leg.

Would somebody please remind me why it was that I saved this white-furred mess from the gallows. If I’d been saved by some nice man in Texas and removed from an existence living in a cage two sizes too small in Oklahoma, where they beat and choked me routinely, I’d… well, I at least wouldn’t piss on the nice man’s leg. In his shoes or on any clothes he might drop on the floor, but never right on him. Unless, of course, the nice man liked it.

As punishment, I made Yoda stand outside with me until he shit and the rain washed my leg clean, both. I almost fell asleep on my feet several times before he did his duty and we returned to bed.

“Ce qui pue?” Squirt asked as I snuggled back under the covers.

“Yoda pissed on my leg and I guess it’s still in my slipper.” I got up and put the slipper outside to further wash and returned to bed again.

“Serves you right, asshole.”

I love my little puppies, the both of them. But sometimes I want to send them back to their puppy mills. Squirt, an already fully-trained dog, has been shitting on my stuff every time she thinks my ego gets out of whack over the four-of-five stars book review I got from Clarion. I’ll admit to a swelled (swollen?) ego and maybe an over-swelled ego. But you tell me. If you had written a book of 400+ pages and your book had been given a four-of-five stars review by Clarion, would you be proud?

OK, unless you’d written dozens of books—all five-of-five stars—then you’d be mighty proud of your four stars. Hell, four stars are all even the finest hotels can get, and chefs shit their pants when they even get one Michelin star. I’m a great cook and I’d be proud to get a Michelin star, but I’m way more proud of my four stars for writing.

Hell, for that matter, I actually think I’m pretty hot stuff. How many other authors do you know who have four-of-five Clarion stars reviews? None I bet. Special is as special does.

I need to go. Squirt just left me a load over by the door, and she had a sweet bean tamale for lunch. But do me a favor. Go over there ===}}} and click on the linksters for Full Rising Mooner. See what all the fuss is about. Manana, y’all.

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