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Theo Unmasked On Live Internet; Mooner Feels A Fool

Thursday, January 26th, 2012

 

So. Here I sit, feeling pretty dumb. I’ve had a commenter on this site for awhile who is smart, informed almost as an insider, and snarky as all hell. This person knows every button to push with me and he’s crafty as shit when he pushes them.

This guy, this fucking guy, has been all in my shit for months. He uses different historical pseudonyms when he shows up, and each new name has significance to the subject he has chosen to use as a hammer to beat me with. He’s played President Obama’s mother and Civil War Generals and even long-dead Vice Presidents. I’ve managed to see through all of the pseudonyms but one. I’ve either already known or been able to research all but one.

Theo.

Fucking Theo. I looked and looked and the only Theo that seemed even close to right was Theo Of ancient Smyrna. That Theo was like Plato’s mathematician, but I could find no evidence that he was tied to this Theo. It had the Smyrna attachment, but nothing else I could find.

In all of his different skins Theo has managed to pluck and pull at me, using my own ideologies and emotions as pick and strings. He has played me like I was a Gibson 12-string guitar, and he’s managed to make me play every-fucking tune he wishes. He comes in softly with but a slight edginess in the tone of his subjects and wordings. Then he starts to gradually escalate matters to the point where I want to set my hair on fire I’m so pissed.

And now. OK, stop the fucking presses. I just got an email that has cleared all of this shit up. See, I was getting ready to tell you guys that I’ve had strange feelings about the pseudonymous bastard over the last several days. I’ve had the sense that Theo actually knows me—that he’s someone from my past or present. In fact, I actually had it narrowed to two choices—a family member who carries himself as my polar opposite, and BJ. BJ from Dumb Perignon.

I had decided that it must be BJ because he made a misspelling my family member would not have made. The email just confirmed that BJ has been messing with me and laughing his ass off for months. MONTHS!

I have spent hours trying to be nice to his various characters. I have spent entire nights trying to match wits with him and never felt like I was even close. I even told Squatlo, a mutual buddy, that this Theo asshole is just that, a giant flaming asshole, but he’s mighty smart.

BJ just confirmed that he has been fucking with me and having himself a gay old time. Rotten mother fucker. My naive ass fell hook, line and sucker ball for all of his nonsense. Every word of it.

This might be the funniest prank anyone has ever pulled on me. Smart in structure, timing and deployment, and a safe prank. He’s made me so aggravated that I could set my own hair afire but I’ve never wanted to do him harm. He even managed to get me to feel sorry for him and wish I could help him. He has fucked with me for months.

He has messed with me as good as anyone has ever messed with me. So I’m raising my first Carta Blanca beer to my mind-fucking good friend, Bill—BJ from Dumb Perignon.

Cheers, dude. Love you like a brother.

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Posted in A Life Lesson, ADHD | 13 Comments »

Mooner Farts B Flat; Forgiveness Is A 4-Letter Word

Wednesday, November 2nd, 2011

 

So. I’ve had something on my mind for quite a while that has been a bother and a concern. I haven’t said anything about it because I thought it was one of those dealies that would work itself out with time, patience and practice. Like sex.

But it’s been way over a year, I’m out of patience, and practice has perfected absolutely nothing. A little background, if you would.

We Johnsons are farters. My family considers farts and burps to be naturally-occurring human conditions no different from laughter, crying or anger. Farts are considered emotional and expressive reflections of a person’s well-being. Farts can be a sign of stress, distress or happiness. You can fart in anger, in support of another, or as a tease.

I have been a near world class farter since the Third Grade. OK, Grammar Police, why is the word “farter” getting the red squiggle line bullshit from Word? There is something wrong in a world where farter isn’t an actual approved word.

I think I was nine years old when my Gram first taught me to fart a song. It was Chop Stix, and she first taught me the left hand part, and then the right. We would practice together for hours as I helped around the place with the chores.

I just noticed that my grandmother’s name is way too close to the word grammar for my comfort. In fact, if old Teddy Kennedy was still alive he’d likely call her “Grammer”[.]

My mother was a school teacher before she retired and she lived her life as a school marm. Still does for that matter. Every night at the supper table we’d get the question: “Well, children, what did you learn today?” Every… fucking… night we’d get that same question.

Have you ever noticed how some people never learn?

I always let Sister go first, and not just because she was a girl. My little sis is smart and has maybe the driest sense of humor west of the Mississippi. She could answer the question and drop a load of shit at Mother’s feet that wouldn’t start stinking until after dinner. We’d be washing and drying the dishes at the sink and Mother would be sitting at the table with her little paperback book of daily prayers.

I always washed and Sister would dry, and the adults would sit there to the table doing adult stuff. We didn’t have the giant table that sits there now, it was a boxy rectangle of cedar planks that Daddy and Granddad made from trees cleared to make a garden. I gave that table to Dr. Sam I.-Am-Johnson when she moved out because she loved it so much.

OK, my ADHD is firing on all cylinders. If I don’t get my brain puppies back in their box we’ll have ourselves a major distraction.

We’d be at the sink, Sister and I, and Mother would be reading her silly daily prayer book. I hated that book, as Mother would read that crap to me and act like it was God’s words written for me, and to make me miserable. Sister would be nudging me in the side with her elbow, and giggling, dishwater dripping off her hands. After a few minutes we’d hear a, “Huh?” then a gasp followed by a deep sigh, and then, “Sister, you go stand in your bathroom with the Ivory soap in your mouth until I tell you to take it out.”

Sister and I both have a thing for Ivory soap. I think that’s why I like menudo so much.

This one night Mother asks what I had learned that day, and so Gram and I farted a Chop Stix duet. It was only slightly out of tune and we kept a pretty good rhythm together. I eventually learned to be a pretty good fart singer. Not nearly as good as those guys on the Howard Stern Show—I can’t do Led Zepplin or The Star Spangled Banner—but I could do a mean Poppa’s Got A Brand New Bag, You Ain’t Nothin’ But A Hound Dog and one of J.P. Sousa’s marches. I don’t remember the name now, but one of the popular ones.

Holy shit am I scattered. What I’m trying to bitch about is that I have lost all of my farting skills. The loss is a side effect of the lower peritoneal infection I had, and the treatments and operations required to rid me of it. Ever since I had my ass operation just over a year ago, my farts all fall flat on their faces. It’s very sad.

When I complained last night, Gram said to me, she said, “Oh quit cher bitchin’, Mooner. At least ya ain’t shittin’ in one a them Costco bags like old Mr. Hancock over to tha church. Tha air never does clear around that man.”

She was, of course, right, I don’t need colostomy bags. But I can’t even fart Mary Had A Little Lamb anymore. I can only fart a single, B-Flat note that’s as interesting as it sounds. And I have to be very careful when I crank one loose because I can usually keep my gas in, but I can’t control the stopping once started. Whatever gas I have will escape when the valve is opened. I’m actually quite distressed over this.

I went to see Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson this afternoon to talk to her about my trip. I started the conversation talking about my farting issues and the next thing I know, she’s got me considering forgiving the man who raped me as a child. My ex-wife and therapist can be such a bitch. She said to me, she said, “How can you forgive the man who murdered your grandmother for what he did and not forgive the man who molested you?”

“Easy,” I said, “the poor guy who killed Mother’s mother was crazy. He couldn’t help himself.”

“So…?” Dr. Strange Cure drawled the question like she was saying the longest word in the English language. What the hell is that word?

“Wait a fucking minute. Are you telling me it’s the same dealie? Are you saying that the Boy Scout leader who raped me couldn’t help it?”

I fucking hate psycho therapy. I’m starting to think that today’s addled brain farts are due to me considering Sammie’s question. Could that asshole have prevented himself from doing what he did to me? Could it be that he was raped himself and therefore had the predisposition to do it to me?

Son.. of… a… BITCH! I don’t WANT TO FOR-FUCKING-GIVE him.

Fuck, fuck and fuckeldy-fuck! I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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Posted in A Life Lesson, ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, FullRisingMooner, Psychotherapy | 5 Comments »

More Mooner Disclosure; Who’s The Dissociative In Your Identity Disorder?

Tuesday, September 13th, 2011

 

So. I’ve been hiding a basic flaw in my mental chemistries from you and it seems that the time is right for me to disclose a little more to you. The circus of brain cells that is my mental state is quite the hodge-podge. Not necessarily advanced brain cells nor brain cells with any intellectual enhancements, just multiple and varied problematic disorders.

You all know about the significant ADHD—the only case of Contagious ADHD ever diagnosed and approved by the American Psychiatric Council. I have also told you of my mild case of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder and how I use that one to help control the ADHD. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson thinks I might have caught that one on purpose as a young teenager when my attentions were so deficited that I couldn’t tie my shoes for awhile. I needed something to help me focus, and since this was before the invention of ADHD and it’s little sister ADD, I was simply a disruptive little shit, and who knew that speed would slow down an ADHD sufferer’s thoughts?

Now is the time to enlighten you a bit further (farther?) in both the lengths and breadths of my mental illnesses. I wasn’t planning to ever share this little tidbit with you, but my own stupidity has forced my hand. Here’s what happened.

Remember when I got the Proof Copy of my book for me to review before final printing? Remember how it was all fucked up? Well, I fixed all of that, made some adjustments inside and out, and now I have the Final—the actual original copy number one of my new book, Full Rising Mooner.

As I did with the proof copy, I unveiled this final version at the breakfast table this morning. I wonder why so many of my life’s highest and lowest moments occur at that table and during those hours?

I passed the book around and got many oohs and ahhs. Everyone was mightily impressed until it got to Gram. My grandmother clenched the evidence of three years of my life in her vice-like claws and silently examined the cover. She’d read then stop at a part, stare for a minute and then direct and refocus the stare at me. Then she went back to staring at the book and then at me—a repeated action, and several times.

She held the book, front cover out, and pointed a bony finger to a spot at the top. “Who tha fuck is Dam Leggerly?” Then she gave me the evil eye.

“It says “Don Legacy”[,] Gram,” my mother replied. “You remember, Mooner’s imaginary friend from when he was just a little tyke?”

Now the evil-eyed stare lasers to Mother. The air hissed and crackled. “Ya mean tha little shit I over-dosed with a potion an’ we gunny-sacked him back to tha creek?”

I had been blaming Don Legacy for every bad decision I made as a kid and the family got tired of it when I was ten. Actually, it was just before my tenth birthday. We had a ceremonial drugging with one of Gram’s hallucinogenic potions and the unconscious body was bagged in a gunny sack, weighted with limestone rocks from the creek bank, and then the heavy bag containing Don Legacy was pitched out into the deepest part of the creek.

“That’s the one, Gram,” Mother told her. “I haven’t heard that name in decades.”

Now the book and evil eye make a ninety-degree turn to my end of the table. The heat of my Gram’s evil eye is palpable even at the ten feet distance. “Why inna fuck is his name onna cover a yer bookie, Mooner?”

Oops, and ugh. Fucking oops and a really big fucking ugh.

“Well, er, ah, I.”

Think quick and think smart, Mooner. I stumbled and mumbled a minute and then I thought, fuck it. I might as well fully disclose my childhood actions. “After you guys walked away from the drowning, I jumped in and pulled him to safety and gave Don Legacy mouth-to-mouth. He coughed-up a bunch of water and came to. All he could say for quite a while was, ‘Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow.’”

“Son-of-a bitcher!” Gram almost shouted. “I knew I shoulda blasted that little shitball with my 12-gager.”

Now Mother took a turn at me. “Mooner, I don’t think I have ever been so disappointed in you. This is the most underhanded thing you have ever done to me.”

“Wait,” I said, “you mean this is worse than when I flushed the cherry bombs in the church commodes to get out of Vacation Bible School?” Mother, and actual school teacher, was my class’ Bible School teacher that summer.

“Don’t get smart with me, mister,” Mother chastised. “This is a serious breech of my trust in you.”

Anyway, once I had been scolded as only a houseful of Johnson women can do it, I took the animals on a fishing trip to the self-same dock on the self-same creek where we attempted to drown Don Legacy.

Squirt was the first to bring the subject back into focus. “Jesus Christi, Senor Mooner. What the fuck is a Don Legacy?”

“That’s a tough one, Squirtie,” I started. “Dr. Sam I. Am says its called Dissociative Identity Disorder, or DID. But she’s wrong because that would mean that I am psychotic and delusional, like what a schizophrenic is. Don Legacy isn’t an illusion or some silly voice in my head, I guess the best way to put it is that he is a resident inside my head. A brain squatter, if you will.”

“Well,” Squirt advised, “you better find a way to tell your blog readers about this. If they get a-hold of your book before you disclose this shit to them, they’ll be confused. And pissed at you.”

“You’re right, little lady. And thanks for using English for all of that. I’m too brain fritzed to even attempt a translation.”

“De nada, and mucho gusto,” she replied.

Much pleasure, indeed. Ugh, you guys. Why did I decide to use Don Legacy as the ghost writer for my book? I thought it would be clever to write the book like I, Mooner Johnson, was an inhabitant inside Don Legacy’s skull. You know, juxtaposition as a literary device.

But look, I’m really not all that crazy, I simply have another man living with me. All the time. In my head.

I’m just glad we get along.

And I need to get along as well. Drink Carta Blanca beer and come back manana, y’all.

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Posted in A Life Lesson, ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Squirt | 4 Comments »

@Thank_Q Is Inductee Number 3; Is Mooner Racist?

Friday, July 22nd, 2011

 

So. It’s time for the third installment to my new Blog Roller, and what was an easy choice to make has become a difficult announcement. Maybe that should be that this is a difficult pronouncement. I decided yesterday who would be my third inductee to be displayed over there to the right on my roller dealie, and I was going to post the story yesterday. But, of course, I got distracted and forgot.

At an early family breakfast this morning, I made the mistake of mentioning that I had forgotten and opened myself to their inspection. Huge fucking mistake.

“Now, son,” my martyred mother counseled with speech dripping the atonements reserved for retired teachers who were raised in the Baptist church. “You mustn’t bring race into the discussion. I can’t have any of my friends from the church read your Internet newspaper and then lecture me on your inappropriateness.”

Mother, that would be my actual mother, fanned herself with her Baptist Daily Prayer leaflet with her right hand, lacing her left index finger inside the collar of her robe to allow the fanned air to slide beneath. She stopped, quite theatrically, and continued with, “Mooner, honey, I simply can’t abide another meeting with the ethics committee over one of your… your…”

At this juncture Mother’s fan hand was switched to high speed setting, and her left index finger was joined by the remaining digits to tug her collar out of shape. “Oh, sweet Jesus, I have no idea what to call that pornography and blasphemous drivel you call your blog.”

“What… in tha fuck… are you a yammerin’ about, Mother?” my Gram piped up. “Mooner’s making a public service with his bloggie. Now shut tha fuck up an eat yer oatie meal.”

Sister, who would be my actual sister, was at the house this morning to work in the big garden. Her first-and-only wife and my third ex-wife, Anna the Amazon, was out of town to visit her family and Sister came across town to visit hers. Sister giggled at the interchange between the two Johnson family matriarchs and said, “Who are you naming this time, Mooner– what’s got your mother so upset?”

I hate when Sister says, “Your mother,” like she and I didn’t share the same womb. I know that many of Mother’s consternations are directly connected to my childhood adventures, but she had two kids.

I answered her with, “Well Sis, here’s what seems to be the rub with YOUR mother. I decided to name my buddy over to Thank-Q For Common Sense because of the high quality stuff he does over there.”

“Isn’t he that nice African American man from Mississippi?” said Sister.

“Oh dear,” Mother huffed, “are you going to support your brother’s plan to ruin my reputation?”

Sister looked at me, her bewildered face creased with the beginnings of a grin. Then Gram pushed up from her stool and started to pounce, so I said, “OK, everyone, let’s discuss this issue.”

Here’s the crux of this mornings discussion. Thank-Q, T-Q to me, is a man from Mississippi who has black skin– skin he was born with– and he has lived the life of a black-skinned man raised in the South. He is smart and he has a keen insight into morality. Not the fake morality you find in today’s Churches, actual morality, morality based upon the values held by honest humans.

He’s funny too, or I might not like him quite so much, and he does some really neat shit over there. He did a soap opera dealie earlier this year wherein he had different bloggers do a day in the life story. He also did this live radio-on-the-I-net show that was some of the funniest stuff I ever heard.

T-Q’s site is one of my daily checker sites. I go to see what’s up over there and sometimes I go to grab a dose of his moral reality.

But here’s the problem my mother has. She thinks it is racist of me to even say that T-Q is an African American man. “It shouldn’t matter, Mooner, and your pointing it out is a racist act.”

OK, I think I get the gist of that. But I’m not using his blackness to segregate or demean him in any way, I’m describing him in a way that gives insight into who he is. Two of my ex-wives were black skinned. Ebony beauties both– one African American from Austin, Texas, and the second from actual Africa by way of Paris, France.

I don’t know how to even think about them as colorless just as I can’t think of Anna the Amazon as anything but a very large woman. Who happened to discover that she is a lesbian when she fell in love with my sister.

How can I separate what those women are from how I describe them? One of my ex-wives has skin so white and unmarked that she looks cast from alabaster. She could play a Kabuki actress without any white face paint. Another comes from a family whose history is steeped in Mayan culture from deep in Mexico. Should I not say that she is Hispanic– do I never mention the sexy, brown skin that wraps her luscious curves?

Ugh. Double-fucking ugh!

Look, I usually have clear thoughts about race issues. But this one has me flummoxed. OK, wait a minute. Do you get flummoxed by something, like hit in the head with a bat, or do you become flummoxed– like you become nauseated with a bad oyster?

Ugh, again. I need Carta Blanca beer.

Alright, here’s what I’m doing. I’ll make my announcement how I wish to make it and then T-Q can spank my silly white ass if I fuck it up.

So now, I present to you my next entry into my new Blog Roller… Thank-Q For Common Sense, an African American man from Mississippi of high moral character, keen insights and good humor.

Mnanana, y’all.

Ps– Don’t forget that a Twitter link will not show the Blog Roller. You need to click on my Blog tag to refresh the full page.

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Posted in A Life Lesson, Carta Blanca Beer, gayrights | 3 Comments »

Twitter Screws Mooner; Squatlo Rant Suffers

Tuesday, July 19th, 2011

 

So. I just now posted my Squatlo Rant added to Blog Roller story. I always direct-feed each posting on Twitter. Then I go to Twitter and log on to the Tweet to insure everything posted right. When I just went over there, I clicked to get to the Squatlo Rant entry, and the way they transfer from Twitter doesn’t show the tool bar, or whateverinthefuck you call the tool bar dealie on the right that shows the Blog Roll.

Ugh!  And FUCK RICK PERRY!

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Posted in A Life Lesson, Squatlo | 2 Comments »

Dr. Marcus Bachmann A Closet Gay? Mooner Votes Yes

Wednesday, July 13th, 2011

 

So. I see where Mitt Romney refused to sign the Family League 14-Point Presidential Pledge. That’s the extremely prejudiced document, already executed by Michele Bachmann and Ricky Santorum, that right-wing Christian fuckballs are forcing on Republican presidential candidates.

First I want to say, “Thank you, Mr. Romney, for having the balls to say “No” to bigotry. Thank you for not taking part in the dehumanization of America.”

Second, I want to ask a question. Who appointed the right wing conservative extremist Christians as the spokesmen for God? From where did they get their authority to speak for Jesus? When did the Jesus Christ who taught and practiced peace, love, understanding and acceptance become a gun-toting right-wing hater?

If you believe that Christ died on the cross all of those 2,000+ years ago and that His word is law, then only His words are the law, right? And he hasn’t had a single fucking thing to say since his last words spoken as he departed earth three days after his death. Maybe I abridged that a touch, but I got the gist of it.

By the way, Ms. Bachmann, how do you account for the fact that Jesus made his last appearance in the presence of a prostitute? Do you think it must have been a typographical error that has the Bible reporting that your Saviour’s last instructions to his flock were to be interpreted and delivered by a filthy, dirty whore?

Doesn’t it bother you that it was a whore, and not the revered Disciples, who had the balls to stand at the foot of the cross and publicly mourn your Man’s slaughter at the hands of the Romans?

Which brings up another point. How in the fuck do those guys decide when to take their Bible literally and when to take it otherwise? How in the holy fuck can they figure that out? Is there some guide that I’m unaware of? I know that Jesus Hisownself hasn’t come back yet so we don’t have any additional instructions from Him.

Hell, if I didn’t know any better I’d say that what happens is that any time a right-wing Christian fuckball doesn’t like what the Bible appears to say– they just make some shit up. Like this 14-point dealie.

I haven’t read the entire thing, I simply do not have the stomach for it. But what I did see turned my stomach. It is obviously an “anti” document. Anti-gay, anti-tolerance and anti-social services, but especially anti-gay.

Which sparks-off another observation, a view for which I feel compelled to issue a disclaimer. I have a gay sister, that would be Sister, and a gay ex-wife. The man I most admire for his manliness is a gay man I have known for many years. I support the gay population in their struggles to gain acceptance and equality. I support them fully.

There is one gay faction, however, that I do not support and one which I feel should be castigated. That is the gay person who pretends to be straight and covers his/her homosexuality by acting anti-gay. Like Dr. Marcus Bachmann. That’s right, I said it. Michele Bachmann’s husband is a deep-in-the-closet gay man who has created the most elaborate cover in modern history.

Watch that silly fucker speak for one minute and you can tell. And I’m not talking about his stereotypical effeminate mannerisms. It’s what he says and what he does. He supports the de-gaying of homosexuals through religious practices. Maybe that should be the “un-gayifying” of homosexuals.

He is the classic, “Me thinketh he doth protesteth too strongly.” I think Mr. Michele Bachmann the poster boy for all gay people who are too frightened to live honestly.

To summarize this for you, answer me this. Dr. Bachmann’s clinics specialize in helping a gay man to “train” the homosexuality out of his soul. I say that this is a method born and raised close to the Doctor’s home. What sayeth thou?

Anyway, my hat is off to you, Mitt Romney. I won’t vote for you but I will stand up for you. So, I hoist my icy-cold bottle of Carta Blanca beer in your honor. Manana, y’all.

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Posted in A Life Lesson, Carta Blanca Beer, gayrights, Politics, Religion | 2 Comments »

Tell Your First Time To Masturbate Stories– Or Else

Monday, July 11th, 2011

 

So. When I started yesterday’s bloggie posting I had something very important to tell you. By the time I finished, I had forgotten what was so fucking important and ended up talking about the first time I ever masturbated. OK, the first ever time I masturbated. I’ve been recently re-scolded as to my grammatical shortcomings and I vowed to redouble my efforts at clarity.

By the time my mind had wandered from the subject of telling lies to that of masturbation, I had a bright idea. I like how some bloggers ask a question with each of their postings at the end as a way to stimulate comment and conversation. I thought I would do the same to see what you might have to say on the subject. My question was asking you guys to tell us about what you used the first time you masturbated.

I used Ivory Soap and told you so. I exposed my soft under belly and laid my delicate sensibilities on the alter for your perusal. All I asked in return was for you to return the favor and tell me about your first experience with one-man sex.

But not a single one of you answered the call to public service– not a single fucking one of you wrote back. Nary a one of you had the balls to place your secrets into print and tell your story. Of the several hundred of you who have already read yesterday’s posting, not a one of you has the balls to put yourself out there.

Chickens. Buk-buk-bukawk!

At breakfast this morning I was bitching about this, and Gram had a thought. “Oh quit yer bitchin’, Mooner. You didn’t say shit, jest that ya used yer fucking Ivory Soap. Tell a fuckin’ story or shut tha fuck up.”

Then, of course, she had to tell the entire table about the first time she masturbated. “How ’bout I tell my story to prime tha pumper fer ya. Maybe when they read my story it’ll agitate em inta telling theirs.”

(Those of you readers with squeamish stomaches need to log off now– the following contains disturbing images.)

“Here’s what happened ta me tha first time. You member when yer Aunt Hilda an me was getting’ chased by them big African fellers over to tha Congo, don-cha Mooner?”

I told her that I did but I wasn’t printing that story here because it’s in the book. She gave me the evil eye and said, “I ain’t telling ’bout tha boat ride, ya little shit, I’mma tellin’ ’bout how I diddled myself tha first time. Ain’t what you was askin’?”

“Yes, Gram,” I said as patiently as I could. “Specifically, I asked what they used at that time as I had just told them that I used Ivory Soap.”

“Well that’s what I’mma tell ya. You rememberate yer great uncle Bobby, you know Hilda and my daddy’s brother? Tha one what lost his leg over ta Cuba inna war an hadda walk with a cane?”

I answered, “Yes, Gram, how could I forget. That crazy old fart had that fancy ivory walking stick with all of those beads and animal heads carved into it.”

“Well, fancy you should’a brung up that cane a his ’cause that there’s what I used ta rub off my first climaxer. Still use it when I ain’t got me a man around.”

Ugh. Ugh, ugh and ugh again. I inherited that walking stick and have lent it to a dozen people to use either for when they play dress-up and need a fancy cane, or for when they are injured and need the help.

“Oh for shit sakes, Gram, I let people use that cane. I can’t let people borrow something that you use as a giant dildo.” My stomach turned over when I imagined things.

“Listen here, ya little shit,” she said. “I ain’t never hurt a thing one on yer precious fucking pecker-shaped stick. Only thing I done is rub all the hair off’un tha lion’s head onna top.” She paused and added, “Oh yea, an I lost tha erring that was in tha little guy’s ear one time, but I was sexin it up with Henry Hammond this one time an he found it.”

Now she’s laughing at the memory. Gram slaps her thigh and said, “It was a fuckin’ hoot. Ole Henry he’s a slurping away and comes up an spits tha little loop inta his hand. ‘I been a lookin’ fer that, sweetie’ I told him.”

All I could do was try to not gag on my undigested breakfast. You would think that after all these years of living with that old randy gasbag I would be immune.

“Anyway,” Gram continued the story of her initial masturbation, “I sunk that puppy all tha way to them elephant heads onna very first try…”

That was when Mother gasped and feinted straight out, her body slumping in her chair. Mother has a weak constitution so I got her a chair that would contain her limp body and keep it from dropping to the floor.

Just so you know, the twin elephant heads on the cane are each the size of half a tennis ball and they sit maybe eight inches from the lion’s head that adorns the top of the ivory stick.

“Gram,” I told her, “no more, I can’t take any more of this story.”

She looked at me in disgust and said to me, she said, “Pussy.”

I got up to take my dish to the sink and Gram said, “While yer up whyn’t ya grab me a Carta Blanca. All a this sex talk made me thirsty.”

And all of Gram’s sex talk has given me an idea. I still want you to tell your first masturbation stories. If you don’t, I’ll get Gram to tell you about the time she almost “accidentally” had sex with the neighbors goat.

So, come on and spit it out. Manana, y’all.

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Posted in A Life Lesson, Carta Blanca Beer | 12 Comments »

99and44one-hundreths-percent Pure; Mooner’s Guilty Conscience

Sunday, July 10th, 2011

 

So. Sometimes I wish that I had the capabilities required to be a liar. Sometimes I wish I could sleep at night after misleading someone with my prevarications. Telling lies makes me feel terrible about myself and brings the guilt out in waves of tsunamic gut wrenching, sleepless nights. Tsunamiatic gut wrenching?

Telling a lie will bring out more guilt in me than if I were to commit murder. This is not a hypothetical imagining but, rather, a experiential observation. I don’t mean experiential from the perspective of like a scientific experiment designed to provide baseline evidence for future evaluations. I’m speaking more from the perspective of a “been-there, done-that” dealie.

OK, I’m starting to confuse myself so why don’t I give you examples of what I’m talking about. When I was five years old, I took some cookies from the platter sitting on the table in our old kitchen out to the ranch. This was years ago and before I had remodeled the entire house after I inherited it at my grandfather’s death. I won’t go into the story as to why I was bequeathed the big ranch rather than Gram or my still-living father, just know that I obtained the title honestly.

Mother and Gram had baked the cookies for some silly Baptist church lady dealie, and the number of cookies produced was the result of careful calculations. Each woman was to receive two cookies each, three for Pastor Browningwell and then an even dozen for the poor folks who were the church’s charges.

So, I grabbed two cookies on my first stealthy attack and then three on a second pass. The cookies were chunky chocolate oatmeal and made from a Johnson family recipe– big chunks of semi-sweet chocolate and not-too sweet oatmeal cake. Messy to eat when eaten hastily by a sneaky five year old child.

But I caught the evidence of cookie theft on my hands and washed them and my face before the theft was discovered. When Gram found the cookies were missing she headed straight to where I sat in front of the old black-and-white TV. I was watching Howdy Doody with the dog and I was shivering in my boots. When Gram asked about the missing cookies, I held up my hands and said, “I didn’t do it.”

Gram cast the evil eye my way and said, “Well, if you didn’t do it, who done it?”

Quick as a rabbit, the lie escaped my lips. “Trixie did it Gram. I saw her.”

Trixie was Dixie’s grandmother and a Golden Retriever that didn’t talk to me, at least that I heard. Trixie was always getting me into trouble so I was lying to get some payback. Gram scolded the dog and took an angry swipe at her with her foot, and chased the poor thing out of the house.

The only sleep I got for the next two weeks was nightmare-filled sweats. When I finally confessed to the crime, I got my ass whipped with a willow switch that I was required to cut from the big tree by the old stock pond. Then I stood for an hour with a bar of lye soap in my mouth and I went to bed without any supper.

My entire life I have had trouble with the spellings of lie and lye. I guess having spent so much time with a bar of lye soap in my mouth any time I told a lie mixed shit up in my head. A lye soap mouthwash was always part of my punishments if my indiscretions involved the use of my mouth. Tell a lie, curse out of anger or otherwise, talk back, or use the Lord’s name in vain were the most common stimuli to provoke a lye sucking.

I can still taste that shit. That’s why Ivory Soap is all I’ll ever use. Besides, Ivory soap is , as they used to say, “Ivory Soap is ninety-nine-and-forty-four-one-hundredths-percent pure.” I buy Ivory Soap by the multiple-case order and I have stockpiles everywhere. I even have it in the safety box out to our fishing dock. I keep it every fucking where. After getting stuck without it several times as a teenager, I never leave home without it.

I love it smell and feel and the way it looks. I love that, except for the size and shape of the bars, it hasn’t changed a bit since I was a kid. They did fuck with the scent of it a few years back, but consumer backlash righted that ship.

First time I ever masturbated was in the shower with a fresh bar of Ivory Soap. Somehow the symbolism of doing the dirty with a bar of soap helped cleanse my conscience of its Baptist-infused guilt. Beating off with Ivory Soap was my first rebellion against the Baptist church and a satisfying act at that.

Holy shit, I forgot what I was going to tell you. I can’t remember what it was that spurred this shit out of the far reaches of my skull. But now I’m wondering what you guys used the first time you masturbated. If you’re not too chicken to say, tell me.

If you are too chicken, drink a couple Carta Blanca beers to screw-up your courage and then tell us about it. Maybe I’ll remember why I called this meeting manana, y’all.

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The Birds And The Bees; Rick Perry And Rush Limbaugh Shed Light

Wednesday, June 1st, 2011

 

So. I hope everyone had a nice weekend and properly honored the memories of Memorial Day. We visited Grand Dad and Daddy’s graves in the family cemetery here and then went to see Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s mother’s remains over to Rememberence Gardens. My family patriarchs were both vets, and Sam’s mom, Marie, was a WASP during WWII. The Woman’s Airforce Service Pilots served the vital role to shuttle aircraft during the war and saved the male pilots for battle duties. The WASP’s were granted Medals of Honor year before last, an honor long over due.

Marie was one of my favorite people and I miss her mightily. I miss my father and grandfather too, but Marie was like a mother to me and a great friend too. My tear ducts are so drained, I might not cry for a week.

After our trip to honor our family’s vets, we drove down to the big cemetery in town to pay respects at the function there. When I was a kid, there would be thousands of people at that event. Yesterday’s event had hundreds. Another sad sign for modern times.

Then it was back home to cook and eat our traditional roasted goat BBQ. This year, in order to attempt family harmony, I did all of the outdoor cooking with the help of the animals, and Gram supervised the rest of the meal preparations inside in our big kitchen. My crew included Honor the cat, Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry, Dixie and the Squirt.

Each of my helpers had culinary assignments except for Dixie. When I asked her what she planned to do, she said to me, she said, “I plan to sit on my tired ass and watch this circus.”

Dixie is getting old, I know that. But she has been such a force in my life I am having trouble facing it. My faithful Golden Retriever has been my companion, translator, money maker, art director, and my moral compass for fifteen of her sixteen years. She’s winding down and I’m now dripping tears onto my keyboard. Maybe I have quick-recovery tear ducts.

Anyway, we were all cooking and drinking Carta Blanca beer and sharing the tasty guacamole dip that P-Cubed made. P-cubed is known as “The Guacamole Mama” around town. I can’t figure out what her secret ingredient is, but hers is the best smashed avocado dip in town. When SAC Ellen asked what it was this morning, Gram interrupted and said, “Who gives a shit, federal lady? Long as tha P-cuber brings it… it don’t matter.”

Crazy woman’s logic, but logical none the less.

Anyway, things are at the sit-and-drink-beer-and-tell-stories phase of our part of my part of meal prep, so we’re sitting with our beers and Squirt is interpreting Honor’s stories about living with Crazy Cat Woman. It’s some funny shit, but Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry keep interrupting with their icky petting. Have you ever seen a 500-pound pig and a 350-pound ostrich engage in sexual foreplay?

“What are they doing?” Honor asked through Squirt.

“Well, that, I think, is the pre-sex ritual between between a half-ton of homosexual barnyard animals.” Sometimes it’s difficult to know what to say about my gay pig and ostrich.

“Ist dass Vogel und Bienen, Bwana Mooner?” Squirt asked. “Por favor, Senor, diganos sobre las aves y las bees. Por favor, por favor por favor. Pretty please.”

Oh shit, she wants to know about the birds and bees. What do I do now?

“This might be the highlight of my year,” Dixie said. “Mooner, would you please refresh my beer while you think your way into this?”

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and I have three kids together. Three great human beings, in spite of my fathering, and three human beings I can’t speak of in my writings. That’s a promise made by me to their mother and them, and a promise I feel honor-bound to keep.

It’s also one of the promises that keeps me out of solitary confinement over to Shoal Creek Loony Hospital.

I had the birds-and-bees talk with each of my kids, the human ones, and managed to inflict minimal damages. However, as a full-disclosure kind of guy, some of the discussions were difficult. Like, for example, how do you discuss blow jobs with your daughter? Or how would you address the anus as a sexual organ with your kid? Just asking.

I mean look here, I’m not usually a squeamish guy, but when your twelve-year-old daughter, the apple of your eye, asks you, “Daddy, what are they talking about when they say, ‘Do you swallow?’”

I found my way through that jungle, and again, inflicted minimal damages to the psyches of my children. But this discussion is a horse of a different color. How do you describe/discuss sex with a cat a dog, a pig and an ostrich. When the hog and giant bird are already lovers?

OK, think this one through. Not just sex, gay sex. Not just gay sex, sex between different species. This love affair between Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry is, at least on the surface, wrong. But they seem made for each other.

Ugh. I don’t want to talk about this any more.

Manana, y’all.

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Honor Honor’s Our Vets; Cat Names Self

Thursday, May 26th, 2011

 

So. As this week winds down and races headlong into the holiday weekend, I have a few observations and a little news. For those of you who are sticklers for the details, also the grammar police out there whom I haven’t already chased away, I say this. “Yes, it is too possible for the week to wind down while racing headlong.”

Don’t go all English teacher on my ass when it’s your misunderstanding of my intentions at fault. Like a 100-meter footrace, it’s the last ten meters that’s run the fastest. Same way with cheap wind-up toys– that last second of operation is almost frenzied when compared to the rest.

Now, if we were talking watches, different story, because with watches, a cheap watch frenzies near the end of a wind while an expensive watch slows as a winding matures. At least that would be my personal observations. My first watch was a hand-me-down given to me by my late grandfather on my sixth birthday. It was a cheap pocket watch given to him when he “graduated” from the Hopehouse Home for Abandoned Boys at age seventeen.

“They give each of us a watch when they kicked us out. Kicked my rosy red ass out and into the Marines. Fucking Marines kicked my rosy red ass right over to France. Fucking Germans tried to kick my rosy red ass all to hell.” Grandad never did talk about his ass, always his rosy red ass.

Of course, the rest of the above-mentioned rant would always include, “I’d chose to spent the rest of my life in them fucking trenches if I’d knowed what that woman was gonna do to me.”

“That woman” would be Gram, and “them fucking trenches” would be the French battle lines in WWI. Grandad always called WWI “the big one”. After spending most of my life in the heat of Gram’s furnace, I can almost understand my grandfather’s sentiment.

The face of my first watch was already heavily worn when gifted to me. The hour hand was placed on top of the minute hand, upside down in my opinion, and the minute hand lightly dragged as it wound it’s way through each six-hours’ time. All but the tops or sides of each Roman numeral were worn off, and all but one letter of the watchmaker’s name had disappeared. There was a light etched circle in the cheap tin face where the hand had circled thousands of times. The remaining letter of the maker’s name, an A, gave no real clue to the watch smith’s identity.

I’d wind that watch carefully, just as Grandad instructed me. “Don’t twist it too fast, Mooner, and don’t wind it too tight.” When I had trouble with the “too tight” part, he said to me, he said, “Treat it like a loose tooth that you want wiggle but don’t want to pull.”

Anyway, whenever that old watch would wind down, it would spend but fifteen minutes moving the last hour. It would wind down four times in any twenty-four-hour period. “Ain’t for keeping good time, Mooner, it’s just for show.”

My current watch, an Omega Rail Master I’ve had for many years, is a self-winder that slowly winds down after I remove it from my wrist. It has an extra-large dial to match my thick wrist, and it is a simple timepiece that I love. Fucking watch is a part of me.

Now I’m tearing-up over my fucking watch. My soon-to-be- my dog and soon-to-not-be my cat brought me to tears earlier, and I’ve been tearing-up since. I think if you set a bowl of popcorn in front of me I’d well up like a baby. I love popcorn, but holy fuckballs, enough already.

As you all know, my buddy and hopefully future-future spousal material, The Reckmonster, has had a rough time. Several of the veterans she monitors for a federal agency have committed suicide recently and she’s taken it hard. I share the Reck’s unhappiness over the lack of concern shown by our government, and much of our general populace, over the care of our returning vets.

Reck has written several stories about the recent tragedies over to her place at Rantings of the Reckmonster. That’s http://www.michellelcsw.blogspot.com/ on your bloggie dial. Pay her a visit to see what I mean. When you aren’t crying, you’ll laugh your asses off.

Her stories basically demonstrate that the brave men and women who have so honored our country with their service, are returning home to no honors. We are treating them like the expended shells of war rather than warriors. Pathetic.

I have been reading Reck’s stories to the little cat and dog, Squirt and Eighty-three, and they surprised me this morning with an announcement. I was sitting to the foot of my bed with Rush Limbaugh the pig and the ostrich Rick Perry at my feet, while the cat and dog were conferring in hushed tones at the head of the bed. I was trying to get the gay lovers to come out of my closet for maybe the hundredth time.

As usual, they were crying and snivel-snotting and telling me how sorry they are for inconveniencing me, but we made no real progress, again for the hundredth time. As usual, I had slimy pig snot and acrid ostrich tears staining my clothes. After that crying jag diminished, the diminutive puppy named Squirt brought the little cat to sit by my side.

“Bwana Mooner,” the Squirt started, “hat die Katze etwas a’ vous dire.”

“OK, Squirt. What does Eighty-three want to tell me?”

The little dog and cat spoke to each other in animated whispers. “Elle vent l’honneus Senorita Reckmonster and le veterans by naming herself Honor. Ehre, Honneur, Onior, Heshima, if you will.”

I sat in stunned, still silence and the tears started to slip down my face. I started boo-hooing and the two small animals jumped into my lap to comfort me. “It’s OK, Monsieur Mooner. It’s OK,” Squirt consoled.

“Oh, little lady, these are tears of joy and sadness too. I’m so proud of you guys I could … something. I don’t know what, I’m just so proud.”

So I’ve been a tad weepy since. I am, however, proud of my parenting skills. I might be crazy but I’m a decent father in spite of it.

Now I need to load the cooler with Carta Blanca beers so we can head out. I promised Honor and Squirt that I would take them to anti-anti-abortion protest over to the Planned Parenthood offices. Catholic Anti-Abortion Lady has been over there and I promised Honor a treat.

Manana, y’all.

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Worms Turned; No “My Jesus” Today

Monday, May 23rd, 2011

 

So. I had plans to have an easy day of it today. I was going to print a commentary from my best compost customer out to Mooners Compost Plant. And don’t go getting all pissy with me because I don’t put an apostrophe in the Mooners part of my company name. I tried it both with and without, and without fits best with our logo.

Did you know that the word “logo” is the logo for the word “logotype”? The definition of logotype is, “… a single piece of type bearing two or more letters or symbols …”. This particular definition causes concern for me that the dictionary is seriously fucked up. If a logo must contain two or more letters, then “W” is not a logo for a big luxury hotel chain, and “S” can’t be a proper logoization for Superman. Logofication, maybe.

Who wrote the first dictionary? Where did they get the authority to tell the rest of us how to speak? My guess it was a woman, a queen or maybe a king’s concubine who first felt the need to write definitions for words. They would have enough confidence to talk back to the king when he said confusing things, and correct the King’s English. Except it likely wasn’t an English king. Maybe Egyptian or Assyrian or Persian. You know, somewhere there to the Cradle of Civilization.

Anyway, my friend and compost customer had asked me to print a commentary he wrote titled “My Jesus” and I agreed to print it here. He has grown concerned with the hard stands his church has taken in recent years and he wanted to speak out. He’s a Deacon in his Baptist church, and maybe the only Baptist Deacon I can tolerate long enough to sit and have a meal together. He is open and honest, thoughtful, and caring.

In my opinion, he’s not a real Baptist. Real Baptists are opinionated, close-minded thoughtless fascists. I was raised in the Baptist church and I have the hard-earned right to think that.

Have you noticed that my ADHD has been mostly under control lately? I don’t ramble and prattle on about silly shit very much, and my digressions are few and far between. I wonder why. Maybe I’m maturing, learning life’s lessons at last.

Maybe I’m delusional.

Whatever, I was going to have an easy day of it here to bloggieland and print his “My Jesus” thingie before taking the Squirt and Eighty-three the cat fishing. I have the cooler loaded with Carta Blanca beer, and the three of us were out early to dig some worms. Those two are a trip when we dig for earthworms to use as fish bait.

I seeded my gardens with many varieties of earthworms– red wrigglers, night crawlers and more. Having as many varieties of worms as will flourish makes for better, more productive soil. Having a broad spectrum of choices likewise produces enhanced silliness when harvesting them with adolescent cats and dogs.

I grab a pitchfork and a bait bucket and whenever we head out to the veggie garden to dig worms. I use the fork because it doesn’t chop the worms into worm parts as I dig. I’ll choose a shaded spot in a furrow between plants so as to do minimum disturbating of plant roots. Minimum disturbations?

When I flop a big forkful of soil over and expose the worms, all hell breaks loose. I’ve got Squirt trained already, so the little dog grabs worms by the tail and flips them into the bait bucket. In a frenzy. The cat is new to the worm harvesting business and she can’t quite decide what she thinks of worms. “Tool, or toy,” was Eighty-three’s question to me, as interpreted by the Squirt.

I had to think about that one before answering. As I’ve matured I have become more thoughtful when parenting. “Well, I guess either, or both would be my answer. It’s OK to play with them before we use them for bait,” I told the cat. “Just try not to hurt them with your sharp teeth or spiky claws. You will have to eat any you kill.”

I have recently learned why so many people de-claw their cats. I’d never do it, just saying I understand the logic. But I’m digressing.

My buddy called me last night and asked me to hold off on printing his thingie. He’s worried that people from his congregation will read it and be upset. I asked him wasn’t that the point, and he said to me, he said, “My point was to make my point, Mooner, not to upset my friends.”

So, no My Jesus today, but you’ll get it sometime. My buddy is a good man with sincere doubts about his church. He’ll give me the OK in time. I guess I can look at the bright side. It just took me 800-plus words to tell you I’m not printing My Jesus, and I’m going fishing with the funniest pair of fishing buddies a man can have.

Manana, y’all.

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Honor America’s Vets

Saturday, May 21st, 2011

 

So. My tomato crop is in full production mode and we’re harvesting bushels every day. Even after providing for all of our family needs, we have fruit left for donations. We can and sun-dry tomatoes in copious quantities, but ten acres of high-yield tomato plants can overwhelm even us when at their most productive.

A new product for this year is my recently perfected tomato-basil soup recipe. It has a secret ingredient that helps it stand out from the crowd. Streaker Jones wants to market it over to Magical Mystery Foods, our clandestine prepared food company.

I say clandestine since each item in our product line is considered illegal in each of the fifty united states. We have been trying to get Gram to let us market her potions for her but she’s too independent. And I’m glad.

Anyway, I’m usually at my happiest at this time of year because tomatoes, and all things tomato, make me very happy. But I am not so happy and rather find myself pissed. I’m so disgusted with our government that I’m angry.

I’ve been feeling sorry for myself because I was having separation anxiety over finishing my book. Since I’ve been ruminating over the way the US Congress has found justification for placing the greed of big oil companies ahead of education and veteran support, my mind was on both my personal anxieties and the vets.

With those two thoughts in the forefront of my congested brain traffic patterns, I posted a whiny blurb and compared my miseries to what a returning veteran experiences when coming home from Iraq or Afghanistan. I wrote that post because I’m a total brain-dead fuckball.

How dare I compare my silly mood swing to the tragedies of war. I know that inappropriateness is my hallmark, but I have too much respect for soldiers and other service personnel to demean their travails stupidly. And the worst part of this is that I didn’t get it until the Reckmonster told me that my story hurt her because she lost one of her vets to suicide the same day I posted my stupid shit.

Ugh. I am an idiot. And maybe the Reckster will tell the story and I can help promote the cause of supporting veterans as penance for my stupidity. Stupidities.

Which brings me to another issue. A buddy of mine, my biggest compost customer and Baptist man extrodinaire, has requested that I print something he wrote. I have known this man for twenty years and I know him to be one of the few Baptist deacons that I can call friend. He is what I think of as a true Christian man, and I admire him.

He has asked me to print his dealie here so that he can see what happens with it. We wants to have it printed in his church’s Sunday bulletin but he fears the retaliation and strife it might cause. I guess he wants to test drive it out here in the desert before parking it under the shade of the apple tree in the Garden of Eden.

Holy shit was that a remote analogy, or what? Allegory?

The title of his piece is “My Jesus”. I’m going to print it, maybe soon.

We must do something to upgrade the levels of support we provide our veterans. We need to finds ways to show our appreciation. I fear that we Americans have lost our honor. I feel that we have become so entitled as a society that we don’t know how to behave. We must restore our honor.

And I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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Cat Adopts Squirt And Mooner; No Kate Middleton Story

Saturday, April 30th, 2011

 

So. When I left you yesterday we were talking about the trip Squirt and I made to the crazy cat lady’s house. My soon-to-be-my puppy and I were looking for a cat to adopt us to complete the transaction to make her my actual puppy. When the woman opened her door to let us in, there was an explosion of cats– a hundred or more. Cats of all sizes and colors and shapes.

Squirt and I escaped to my GTO parked at the curb with our lives, and most of our dignity. Facing a crazy woman inside a stinky home that housed a hundred cats was enough to make us run for cover. We had driven a couple blocks after hasty departure when I pulled to the side of the road to get Squirt fastened into her protective harness.

That’s when we heard cat noises from behind our seats and I asked Squirt to tell it to come out, it’s OK to come out.

“Je ne parle pas no fucking gato!” was Squirt’s immediate response. That and her serious bark, the one reserved for ominous occasions.

Turns out it was a fucking cat, a little Siamese number we found huddled and shivering under my bucket seat. When I asked my soon-to-be-my puppy to speak to the cat and translate for me, she told me Dixie hasn’t taught her to speak any of the feline languages.

“And why, pray tell, haven’t you learned to speak cat? We’ve been trolling for a fucking cat for several months now. How am I supposed to properly vet a cat for Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson if you can’t speak cat? How do we obtain sound information if we can’t communicate?”

Squirt looked at me like I was the crazy person. “No ne parlous pas de chat!”

OK,” I said, “But why won’t you speak cat?”

She answered, “Porque son perro– il serait sacrilege!”

“Oh for shitsake, Squirt. I know you’re a dog, but it isn’t sacrilegious to talk to a cat. Maybe if you tried to marry one, but I can’t see the problem with that either so long as you’re in love.”

Why is the world so stove-up with prejudice? Me, I have never had a cat, have never had any kind of relationship with a cat and I find many cat habits disgusting. But I don’t hate cats, I just remain wary of the ungrateful, snotty little fuckers. Fucking cats have no loyalty, but I live with that shit every day of my life. I don’t have time to harbor prejudice in my life, I’m too busy wading through the quagmire that is my life.

Anyway, I grabbed my cell phone and called my actual, ungrateful (ungrateful like a fucking cat) dog, Dixie. “Dixie, talk to this cat. Ask her what she wants?”

“I’m not talking to a fucking cat for you. I’m retired, I don’t work for you anymore. Put Squirt on the line.”

I did and they had an animated conversation. When I closed the cell for her, Squirt told me, “Dixie says domestic cat is like talking to an African Lion except whiny. Whiny like a fucking cat.”

“Well get back there and say something to her,” I instructed. “And be nice.”

The little dog carefully crept between the GTO’s bucket seats, perched on the console and leaned to look under my seat. In a calming voice, she had a lengthy, hushed talk with the cat. When she finally moved back to her seat she said to me, she said, “Houston, we have a problem.”

“What now?” Like I don’t already have enough problems.

“She says she’ll kill herself if you take her back to that lady’s house. She says it stinks so bad she feels like hanging herself.” Squirt looked away for a half-minute and then said, “I think Gram has a rope that would work. It’s hanging in the tack room in the barn.”

“We are not facilitating a suicide, little lady. Now ask her what her name is.”

The diminutive dog and cat conversed for a minute and Squirt came back into the front seat and sat. She stared straight ahead, silent as a brick. I’m good with silence to a point, but when I’m expecting a reply I can get testy.

“All right, what did she say?”

“She says her name is Eighty-three, she’s nine months old, she’s a seal point Siamese– that’s the most desirable of all the Siamese because all of her brains aren’t squished together by a tiny skull, and she has the recessive gene that makes her tail-less.”

Squirt took a deep breath and looked sideways out her window.

I realized that I just had an entire conversation with the Squirt and all in one language. “What’s wrong sweetie? You just spoke English for something like two full paragraphs. Are you OK?”

“I feel sorry for Eighty-three, Mooner. She’s been forced to share a cat box with thirty other cats and some of them don’t cover their shit.” Then she put her front paws on the console and said, “That old nutbag she lived with didn’t even give her a proper name. What the fuck kind of name is Eighty-three?”

My almost-my dog had a point. “Oh man, Squirt, how do I answer that one. I guess that some people try to do the right thing but they screw things all to hell. I’ll bet that woman thinks she’s doing all of those cats a favor when what she’s really doing is traumatizing the entire batch.”

“Well,” Squirt said. “We’re not taking her back. She’s going home with us.”

“What did you say?” I was flummoxed.

“I said she’s going home with us. Looks like you and me have got ourselves a fucking cat.”

Now there’s more crying from the back seat and suddenly the little cat jumps into the front and into my lap. She’s purring and blubbering and yakking like a school girl. “What the hell is she saying, I can’t understand a word of it.”

Squirt listened to the cat with no tail a bit, and said, “She says we won’t be sorry that she’s smart and loyal and a very good girl. And that last bit was her asking if she smelled sardines. She loves sardines.”

For some reason this all made sense to me. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a fucking cat, little lady. Let’s go home and toast to our new buddy with some icy cold Carta Blanca beers. Maybe we can take her fishing to top things off.”

And that’s when I heard the siren and looked in my rear-view mirror to spot the Sheriff Deputy’s lights asking me to pull over. I did so and patiently waited as the bozo deputy sauntered up to my window. “What’s the problem, officer?” I asked as he reached my window.

“You got a cat in there sir? We got a report that a man matching your description just stole a cat from over on East 51st Street.”

See what I mean when I say how much trouble I get in and it isn’t my fault?

Manana, y’all.

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Am I The Only One Who Hates Insurance Companies?

Monday, April 18th, 2011

 

So. I fucking HATE insurance companies. I have waited a full week for mine to assess the damages on my Tahoe. The visible damages included smashed front end, loosened dash, rear-wheel drive shaft on the ground and a cracked transmission spilling its guts.

Totaled, right? Wrongo.

After a week of farting around, they call to say they want to fix it. “No frame damage,” they say.

“Fuck you, asshole,” was my immediate, unfiltered response. I always manage to maintain my decorum with customer service people. “Who the fuck do you think you are dealing with, buddy?”

I heard a rustling of papers, and, “Uh, uh… you would be policy holder number SF1972HBLAP106627TXZ8,” he replied. “I see that you have never before had an auto claim, Mr. Johnson. We’re quite proud to have you as our customer.”

I felt my brains start to ooze from my ears and nostrils from the pressure inside my head. “Where are you, Bryan?” His name was Bryan.

“Why, I’m sitting in my cubicle over at the main claims office located right here in Austin, Sir.”

“OK, Bryan. Why don’t you call your momma and tell her to make plans to visit you at the emergency room over to Breckenridge Hospital. Tell her you will be there in an hour and a half.”

“Oh, Mr. Johnson. I thought you said you had no significant injuries from your little boo-boo time. Do I need to file a medical claim for you?”

Bryan failed to capture the significance of my biting sarcasm. “No, Bryan, I’m still OK, and thanks for your concern. What I mean is that I’ll be in your office in maybe twenty minutes. It will take three, might take four minutes to thoroughly whip your ass, then another twenty minutes to the ER. It’ll take at least a half hour for the docs to stop your bleeding and get you presentable to see family. So, yea, tell your mother to meet you in 90 minutes.”

I fucking hate insurance companies. After screwing around for a week as I waited by, and waited patiently, I now must get independent estimates and and wait a month for repairs. Then I’ll have a car with a fucked-up Car Fax report that won’t be worth the price to make the repairs.

Then, they’ll raise MY fucking insurance rates.

Am I the only one who hates insurance companies? If you look at my policy holder number, you can decipher several things. I’ve been with them since 1972; I have (H)omeowners, (B)usiness, (L)iability Umbrella, (A)uto, and (P)rofessional insurance coverage policies with them.

Am I unreasonable? Does this shit sound right to you?

I’m getting a cold Carta Blanca. Manana, y’all.

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Not A Happy Post; Where Is My America?

Sunday, April 17th, 2011

 

So. Now I’m really pissed. Some fucking asshole Federal Prosecutor from up to New York has arrested the bigwigs at several of the largest I-net poker sites. In its continuing effort to rob American citizens of their rights, our government has targeted poker.

Poker. Our legislators and their puppet law enforcement agencies are trying to kill our right to play poker. What in the fuck is wrong with my country?

The Christian right is a dangerous commodity and dangerous in many ways. They brag about wanting to protect our rights and then kill our rights and steal them away at every turn.

What they mean when they say that they stand for protecting Americans’ rights is that they want to protect the rights that they want to keep, and fuck what rights anybody else wants protected.

Protect the right to bear arms? You betcha. Right to cheat the American people of their Social Security and Medicare/Medicade benefits? You betcha. Right to force my kids to study the Christian religion in public schools? Well, you atheistic commie bastard, you double-down betcha!

What about the right for you to make decisions about what my wife or daughter does with her reproductive organs? Are you kidding me Mooner? God’s giving me the right to protect the Public from baby murdering women. Who do those fucking women think they are, anyway?

Look, I have a childhood friend, well had a childhood friend, named Billy Marty. Billy was one of those people who didn’t know when to stop. The boy had no brakes. No amount of anything was ever enough for Billy Marty.

The term “Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile” was invented as descriptive narrative in anticipation of that boy’s birth. Maybe it was some Christian prophet who conjured up that saying in his infinite fucking wisdom.

Anyway, Billy was a hog of serious proportions. And like most hogs, he found that many nicer folks would bow down to his piggishness. Some from fear, some from desires to avoid conflict and some because they felt sorry for the guy with no visible means of self control.

Billy Marty barged his way through life and developed into quite a bully. He badgered his way through school and even managed to get a degree from SMU up to Dallas. I didn’t bear witness to his schooling up there, but he got through high school by stealing homework and with parents who bought him out of problems. My guess is that his parents, big Methodists here in town, greased the skids for Billy to escape Southern Methodist with a sheepskin.

Daddy gave Billy a job in his construction company, and started him as a building superintendent building houses. Paid Billy a great wage and gave him heavy authority for a newbie. Neither was good enough for Billy Marty, no siree Bob. Nothing was ever good enough for Billy Marty.

His first efforts to hog from his daddy’s trough (I hope that is the right spelling) came when he started demanding kickbacks from the subcontractors doing the work on daddy’s houses. I guess Billy figured it was really Billy’s company so why the fuck not. Actually that’s not me guessing. Billy told me and Streaker Jones just that when we saw him at Cisco’s for breakfast this one time.

“Yep,” Billy said, “I started taking a little rake off the subs first. Then I figured what the H E Double-L. I’ll start taking a touch of the real estate commissions as well. It’s my F U C K and I N G company.”

Billy loved to spell cuss words when he spoke.

His crimes of piggishness grew, and before long Billy was gobbling up all the profit from his dad’s business. I won’t go into all the gory details, but Billy’s end came when he was turning his stolen dollars into a big land deal down to Mexico. This was back when Americans first started moving to Mexico as a retirement haven, and Billy wanted to do a big development down there.

He teamed up with a Mexican bunch reputed to have funding from some nefarious Mexican types. Now, allow me to herein inform you that you might think you know a nefarious type. But until you have met a nefarious Mexican, you can’t type nefariousness at its maximum.

I hope to H E Double-L that made sense.

Anyway, hog that he was, Billy couldn’t help himself so he made plans to skim a little taste from the Mexican surveyor and pass the cost on to his partners. Naturally, the surveyor was cousins with one of his partners and the last thing anybody saw of Billy was his head as it stood parked atop the hood ornament of his Rolls Royce. The car was sitting in the driveway of the mansion he had built from money stolen from his daddy.

OK, my point. I have an uneasy feeling about what is going on in America right now. The Christian backed right is growing power hungry and greedy. Each time they win a point and steal a right, they come back to the trough to gobble more from the rest of us. They are hogging all of the rights for themselves. They keep pushing the limits like the bullies they have become. They grow fat and stupid from gorging themselves.

I fear that we are as close to having an oppressive government as we have ever seen under our Democracy. Actually, I already feel oppressed.

I’m worried.

I love my country and I fear for it. We are polarizing at the same time we are arming ourselves with stupid gun laws.

Ugh. Where is my America?

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@Reckmonster Makes Mooner Mess

Tuesday, March 29th, 2011

 

So. I just got up from the breakfast table and both my nerves and my ADHD are in a jumble. Gram somehow captured a political science major from Texas A&M, a senior and an officer in the Aggie Corps. The Corps in Aggie Land is the elite ROTC dealie, or whatever it is the military calls what ROTC used to be. I haven’t kept up with any of that shit since I was rejected for military service myself.

We had quite a crew at the big breakfast counter. Gram was bragging to her new temporary boyfriend that I’m a famous blogger; Aunt Hilda was arguing with her permanent boyfriend, a shrunken head in a mahogany box; Dixie was home for a visit to evaluate Squirt’s progress with mixing too many languages into one sentence; and SAC Ellen was sitting at the end of the big granite breakfast counter taking it all in with a smile. Streaker Jones was busy at the stove top preparing his specialty, Indian corn cakes.

The corn cakes are crispy and dense little patties that he grills with clarified butter. Mother has placed a dozen bottles of homemade jellies and preserves on the table and I put out some maple syrup we get from a place right on the US and Canadian border. Plain or slathered with condiments, either way the cakes are a hit.

Our relationship has been mostly settled for a week or so, and SAC Ellen spent last night here with me. She doesn’t like sleeping here all that much because Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry spend the night snoring and farting and fighting in the closet. My gay pig and ostrich are a cute couple in that Abbot and Costello sort of way. Funny but a pain in the ass.

I’m still trying to get them to come out of the closet, but I’m out of logical reasons to use to persuade them. Maybe it’s time to go illogical, use some thought process of my giant bird’s namesake, the Texas governor. Like when Rick Perry, governor, carries a girlie handgun to protect himself when he runs, while under the armed protection of his security detail.

Anyway, the college boy is holding up pretty well. He’s Hispanic and his name is Robert after dropping the “o” for convenience, he says, and he seemed to be a smart thinker. Strong family values and a heavy dose of God and Country seem to be his guidance systems.

And don’t even start with any of that, “Well if those are his values, what the fuck is he doing with your Gram,” bullshit. Show me the first college aged boy who can ignore any woman in a bright red Ferrari and I’ll show you a eunuch.

Gram’s potions provide additional reductions in resistance.

Anyway, Gram pulls up the Mooner Johnson blog on her laptop and shows it to Robert. Robert turns out to be a speed reader and he blows through the last ten postings, and whatever comments show, in just a couple minutes.

When he looked up from the computer, the young man said to me, he said, “Well, Mr. Johnson, it appears that you have finally attracted a mature, straight-thinking reader. But who is this Reckmonster person, and what about her waiting to be your twelfth wife?”

Oops.

“Oh, that’s an Internet admirer with whom I joke a little.” I tried to sound flippant and casual.

“Why did that make you nervous, Mr. Johnson, it was a simple question.”

I adjusted my thinking about this Aggie in my kitchen. “Are you in pre-law, Robert?” I asked him.

“Yes, sir,” he answered. “I’m taking an advanced course in witness interrogation and we have an assignment to practice when we think we detect someone avoiding a subject. You seem to be unsettled when I bring up the subject of the Reckmonster, Mr. Johnson. Would you mind telling those of us gathered here this morning why that is?”

Little shitball. I responded with, “Look, you little shitball, let’s start this inquisition with you explaining how you explain spending the night sexing with my grandmother within the contexts of your religion, family and Corps values. How do you justify your deviant behavior, tell us that.” I know I told you guys to give the kid a break, but he started this.

“Well,” he began to answer but was stopped cold. SAC Ellen had risen from her stool and was giving the side of my head a laser-heated glare.

“No, Mister Johnson, answer the man’s question.” My lover’s words were cold-hot bullets.

Now I’m sitting alone at my computer with the swirling swill that is my thoughts. Maybe that should be swirling swills for thoughts. I’m not especially worried about SAC Ellen, she’ll forgive me my transgressions. What really bugs me is this. I’m wondering how it is that I can love my country for most of the same reasons as Theo and share many of the same sentiments as him, and yet I feel such a distance from him philosophically.

Really, howthefuck can that be?

How can he and I both value education yet seem so far apart on funding for education? I sense that we each think a man needs to take responsibility for protecting the weak among us but I feel at polar opposites with him on what that means.

Ugh.

I’m too fucking busy now to worry about my convictions. I’m trying to get my book to the publisher and my webber and bloggie site is a total mess. I’m trying to find a fixer-upper guy to fix things, but so far nobody wants to tackle it.

Makes me want to responsibly drink Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

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Theo Visits; Will Civility Prevail?

Friday, March 25th, 2011

 

So. Today is a very big day for me. I got up and went through the many required steps of my morning routine, and then logged on to my bloggie site. Much to my surprise, I had a message from Theo! That’s right folks, I, Mooner Johnson, got a comment posted to my bloggie by the one, the only… Theo.

I got a comment from Theeeeoooo, I got a comment from Theeeooooo!!!

That would be Squatlo’s Theo for those of you living under rocks. I am so fucking proud. Theo has placed me on the self-same pedestal as Squatlo, and I guess I’ll now be worshiped with the same passion as my bloggie buddy. Theo posts lengthy angry, homophobic rants in comment form where he, and here I’m supposing Theo is short for Theodore and not Theodora, suggests that Squatlo is the angry gay man.

Until today, the angry and rage-filled ranters on my site have been of the deeply Christian varieties. Their comments have been religious-based diatribes that condemn me to hell and threaten me and mine. When they aren’t carefully-crafted chain letter mass postings, they are just plain dumb and mean. And that is different with Theo. Theo seems both to have original thoughts and also an IQ above that of a goat.

His first comment here contains silly homophobic rhetoric same as with what he does at Squatlo’s. His second… that’s right, I got a second awhile ago, did not. If Theo can refrain from using gay bashing as his go-to put down, I’ll give him a forum.

Also, no threats, Theo. No gay bashing and no threats. As long as you can be civil I’ll let you on. If I feel the need to edit, I’ll kick you off as I have others.

Hell, I’ll even let you be a guest blogger if you can give me something interesting. You seem to be conservative but I’m not sure. You only seem to be against things and not for anything. Tell us what you think from a positive perspective and I’ll print it.

Theo, I don’t know if you’ll bother to return to my silly little ghost town. But if you do, make yourself to home.

I’m cracking a cold Carta Blanca and waiting to see if Theo comes back for a visit.

Manana, y’all.

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Judge Jesus Rules; FRP!

Sunday, March 13th, 2011

So.  Yesterday that dumbass Michelle Bachmann, Republican tea bagger from Meenie-sota, informed the fine folks of New Hampshire that they, “Fired the shot heard around the world.” Here I thought it was only the right-wing Christian legislators in Texas pushing revisionist history. 
 But who can blame Mz. Bachmann? Massachusetts is solidly Democratic and we can’t let Democrats have credit for starting the Tea Bagger Party, now can we? If we can’t give Mother Nature and natural selection any credits in biology class, we for damn sure can’t let Bostonian’s have credit for igniting the Teabaggers.
  I had a dream last night that didn’t involve celebrity camel toes. My dream-scape dance card has been booked with pocket poochies of the rich and famous for months. While pleasant, these dreams were becoming boring. I have always had vivid Technicolor dreams with interesting subjects and subject matters. But how many times can you dream of having your nose buried in celebrity crotches before it gets old?
 Months, for sure, but after a certain time a guy wants to dream about something else.
 Anyway, last night I had this dream with Adolph Hitler, Texas Governor Rick Perry, Glen Beck and Jesus in it. It was a courtroom trial dream, which I often have, and I was the prosecutor and Glen Beck was the defense attorney. Rick Perry and Adolph Hitler were charged with “Crimes against the future of their peoples”, and Jesus was the judge.
 I won’t go into the details because I’m thinking if I write a second book, I’ll put them there. What I will say is this. Glen Beck’s defense of the Texas governor used precisely the same logic as his defense of Hitler. I guess the reasons for banning and burning books never changes.
 The verdict and punishment as judged by Jesus was incredible, and the reason I’m saving the bulk of this dream. But I will give you the personal insight I have gained from participating in that courtroom drama.
 Shallow wells soon dry up.
 So, I hoist a cold Carta Blanca beer to the future. Manana, y’all.

PS– FUCK  RICK PERRY! (FRP!)

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Sorry, But I Must Say, “Fuck Rick Perry!”

Monday, January 24th, 2011

 

So. I want to apologize again for the mess my 19-question test dealie was. Is. Micro Soft Vista mixes with Word Press like a lit match in an over-sprayed beehive hairdo. My computer stupid added to the mess as well, but even my computer fixer-upper guy just shrugs his shoulders at Vista.

Here’s the deal. Texas Republican governor Rick “Little Ricky” Perry has decided to throw a wet blanket over the $27 billion state budget shortfall he has created by playing to his right-wing religious fan base. Instead of dealing with the worst budget shortfall of any state in the country, Little Ricky is pitching an “emergency” abortion bill to congress.

Our head Prick has pushed out the first bill of the session, and it goes like this. Before any woman can have an abortion, she must pay for a sonogram and then watch the pretty pictures and listen to the accompanying sound track.

“Women won’t be so quick to abort their children,” was the basics of the little pissant’s big close when he announced his important legislation.

No wonder his wife, Anita, always looks like she’s been catching it in the ass from a donkey. Have you ever seen photos of that poor woman? John Kelso did a funny piece in our paper to draw attention to her plights.

Me, I’ve been trying to get some sort of grip on the boy’s logic in this dealie. But all I can find is this. OK, you silly little man, if we want to make a woman look at a sound picture of her fetus before an abortion, then:

Why don’t we make you look into the eyes of every child in Texas before you enact legislation or budget cuts that reduce their school funding;

Why don’t we require you to spend a month sleeping in a cardboard box under a bridge before you make another cut to funding for the mentally ill;

How about we put you on a dumpster diet before you take away social programs that fund food stamps;

Let’s make you play nurse to sick children before you limit their ability to obtain health care coverage.

That little bastard wants to protect unborn fetuses in the name of God. In the name of God, man, grow a heart for those of us already here.

Where did the voter base that keeps electing this moron come from? How did the great state of Texas come to lose its moral compass? What in the hell has happened to my country?

It’s a wonder the people in other countries don’t like us.

Fuck Rick Perry.

I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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#wonderella Makes Trouble For Mooner; Mooner Is Clueless

Wednesday, December 29th, 2010

 

So. I have a new problem. This one confuses the ever-loving shit right out of me. I can usually figure out why something is wrong if you give me enough time. But I’ve been working on this dealie for several days and I still can’t find a logical reason why I’m in trouble.

Heres the deal. Go to http://nonadventures.com and log-on to The Non-Adventures of Wonderella website. Go right now– I’ll wait for you. Spend an hour or so, and then come back here to see me.

Are you back yet? OK.

So. I started following on Twitter at #wonderella maybe a few months ago and logged-on myself. After I read everything published on the website, I started catching each new strip as it comes out. Then, one day I bought the book from the website.

I really like this comic and the tweets by #wonderella. I like them a lot. I converse about the entire Wonderella empire and tell most everyone I meet to tune in. I haven’t said anything here until now because I have been dealing with a Wonderella-related problem, and I’m quite honestly stumped by it.

To boil this problem down to its essence, about a month ago, I had a Wonderella costume made for SAC Ellen by the guys out to our hemp clothing factory. The boys at If You Can’t Smoke It, Wear It! did a great job. They used the new imitation Lycra fabric we just had patented, and it’s a near duplicate to the one Wonderella wears.

I gave it to SAC Ellen for Christmas. Wrapped in the same box was a bottle of her favorite body lotion, new batteries for her little non-lethal stun gun, and a brown tincture bottle of Gram’s newest potion she calls, Ya Won’t Wunder Where Yer Fella Is Iffn Ya Dose Him With This Right Here.

Squirt and I collaborated with Gram on this one. I wanted something special to give the SACster, and the Squirt wants to spend some extra time with my Gram to make an attempt to understand her.

When I told Gram of my plans and what Squirt desired, Gram said to me, she said, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Squirt’s a cute little shit and I gotta make the P-cubed a potion fer her rumblanoid moritus anyway. Poor Penelope cain’t lift her arm over her head an it’s hurtin her sexin’.”

P-cubed is Gram’s lifelong best buddy, Penelope Paxton-Parades. My best guess is that the P-cubed is suffering a flare-up of her arthritis, and the lack of flexibility is limiting her conjugal gymnastics.

Anyway, when SAC Ellen opened her present, she asked me, “What the hell is this?”

I told her.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson was present at our Christmas this year and she scheduled me for an extra daily emergency psycho therapy session. We started Christmas day. Just so you know, an “emergency” session is where the good doctor charges me double my regular rate.

I’ve been incurring double-rate sessions often recently, but this one has causes that I’m not quite grasping. It’s not like the SACster and I haven’t role played in the bedroom before.

In today’s emergency therapy session I thought I had a breakthrough. “Oh, I get it,” I said. “SAC Ellen thought I wanted her to take Gram’s potion.”

Perfect logic in my mind. As a Special Agent in Charge for the US Department of Homeland Security, my lover can’t partake of my grandmother’s hallucinogenic concoctions. Makes perfect sense.

“Mooner,” Dr. Sam I. Am responded, “you are clueless. That will be $400.00, your time is up.”

That was an hour ago. Squirt was waiting for me in reception, so I grabbed her and we headed to the lake for a little fishing. Squirt loves to go fishing. She also loves Carta Blanca beer and almost as much as I do. I was just reading her one of the old Spenser novels by Robert Parker while we sat and waited for a bite. It was the book where Spenser meets Paul, the young man Spenser takes to train in how to be a man.

The two of them went to a Mexican place for dinner and Spenser drank a few cold Carta Blanca beers. Just like the Squirt and me.

I can’t get this problem off my mind. If any of you guys can figure it out, let me know. Manana, y’all.

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