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Whole Foods Arboretum’s Scott Is Honest Man; Back In Town And Rubbing Pork

Thursday, March 15th, 2012

 

So. I’m back from Dallas and happy to be so. Wait, I’m happy to so be. Fuck it, it’s good to be home. Dallas is OK, but it isn’t Eugene, Oregon and neither is it Austin.

I had an interesting experience that made me aware of another potential danger of sink peeing. Longtime readers know that I invented peeing in sinks to save water. I was sitting around this one time when I was locked up over to the Shoal Creek Loony Bin—stoned not on one of Gram’s mushroom potions, but rather an unhealthy dose of Haldol—and I had an idea. I calculated that if all men pee in sinks, we can save trillions of gallons of water every year. Actually if we enforced sink peeing worldwide, we could reduce total water consumption enough to save the wales.

That might be a grandiose statement and a likewise impertinent analogy, but flushing a simple pee with just a handful of water is a serious water-saving practice. If you buy my silly fucking book by clicking over there ====}}} and linking to the Full Rising Mooner shit, you can read the entire story and explanation of those sink-peeing programs.

Anyway, I was in my hotel room up to Dilly-Dally-Ass where I had all my stuff spread out on the bathroom vanity, Not all my stuff, but my bathroom stuff. When I checked out the room, I noticed that there was only one big bath towel and walked into the room to call housekeeping to get another. It always takes me two towels to dry after a shower because I have a giant head with a full mop of hair.

After hanging up the phone it dawned on me that I’m now bald and one towel would likely suit me, but I didn’t call back to cancel the order. I needed to pee, so I walked back into the bathroom where I noticed the vanity was way taller than normal, and the sink bowl was molded almost eight inches from the front edge. Aren’t you tired of “cultured marble” vanities with molded sinks? That shit is so 1970′s.

I’m six-four and I literally had to stand way up onto my my tippy-toes to get the right angle on my pecker dangle into the molded sink. I was slightly off balance, so I was bracing myself with my hands against the mirror. I enjoy peeing with no handsees in much the same way I do riding a bike without hands on the handle bars.

I remember this one time back to grade school when Woozie Wozniac—now AKA Sheriff Wozniac—was riding his bike with no handsees and crashed into a parked car. He did the infamous “crotch on the crossbar” dealie and we all laughed.

I’m taking a pee with no handsees in a bathroom at the Embassy Suites up to Dallas, and there is a loud bang on my door followed by the words, “Housekeeping, I’ve got your towel, sir.”

Did I mention that I was in that part of a pee where you get all the muscles relaxed and the flow is at its fullest? I jumped at the knock and peed all over the bathroom, and myself.

“Just leave it outside the door, please.”

“Are you OK, sir?” It was a pleasant voice, an accented woman’s voice—maybe Russian.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

I heard the plop of the towel on the floor and her steps as she left. I won’t bore you with the details, but I managed to spray the mirror and vanity, the wall up to the CFI plug, all of my toiletries including my new toothbrush, my hands, shirtsleeves, underwear and shorts, and my right leg from thigh to sandled foot.

“Mother fucker,” was the net of my assessments. I’m not always verbose.

I got back in town late last night and stopped at SAC Ellen’s place. She wasn’t there and I called her cell to find she was waiting for me at the ranch. I drove there where I was met with a kitchen full of demanding women. “What cha serving fer dinner Friday, Mooner? I’d lik some a them taters with the grass stains, an maybe them grapefruit drinks ya make.”

“You are a winner, you old gas bag. Potatoes Au Gratin are on the menu and I’ve got the grapefruits to make you a cocktail.”

I kissed my sinewy grandmother on the top of her head. “Now look, you need to promise me you won’t try to start anything with any of the gay men at my party, OK?” My grandmother thinks that she can turn a gay man straight given enough time and lube.

“Oh don’t chu worry ’bout that a bit. Lloyd an Mike is like family. Asides, Friday I’m booked with Mr. Dave fer tha night.”

“Ah, Mooner honey, may I have a word with you?” My mother was asking to get me aside. May I have a word with you is Mother speak for, “May I speak with you in private?”

“Let me kiss SAC Ellen properly and we’ll talk.”

We kissed, I gave her amazing butt a little grope, and she whispered in my ear, “I brought my stun gun, big boy. I hope you’re not sleepy.” Then she nipped my ear and swatted me off to talk to Mother.

“Mooner, I’m concerned about something” my mother told me when we had walked into the other room. “I was talking to Leticia at church yesterday, and Mrs. Browningwell told me something quite disturbing.”

Leticia is Pastor Browningwell’s wife and a Grade-A, First Class pain in the ass. “What’s the problem?” I asked.

“Well, her husband just got back from Nashville at the Southern Baptist headquarters there. It’s a lovely campus there, with dogwoods and…”

I cut her off with, “Might you tell me what it is that’s concerning you, Mother? I’ve still got four women to speak to before I can get to my sexing, and I’m already impatient.”

“Well, he was there getting some sensitivity training on today’s modern social issues, and…” she paused for effect. This pause is thematic with Mother and I never like whatever it is that follows.

“And, well, I may as well just come out and say it. Mooner, there are homo-sex-u-al people who actually act as recruiters. They trick and convince straight people to be… Well you know. I’m worried about Friday night.”

Huh?

“What the hell are you talking about?” Really, the the fuck is this woman saying?

“Mooner, there are homo-sex-u-als who will try to make me one. Are any of Mike and Lloyd’s friends, you know, like Sister and Anna?”

I just stared at her as my blood started to boil and my amazement factor swelled. My mother just asked me if any gay women will be attending Friday’s dinner party because she is worried that one of them will try to turn her gay. Jesus fucking Christ.

“OK.,” I gathered my thoughts. “Since I haven’t asked for my guests’ sexual preferences, let me give you a tried and true method to prevent your contacting the homosexuality from any of my guests. Are you ready?” I paused for effect.

“Don’t lick any vaginas and don’t let any women lick yours. If you accidentally find yourself with your tongue in a vagina, as soon as you take your tongue out, remember to say, “Supercalafragilisticexpialadocious” three times. That will break the spell.”

My mother looked at me like I was the one who had lost their mind. “Why won’t anyone take me seriously around here?”

She stormed off leaving me making a mental list of the many answers to her last question.

Anyway, today, Thursday, I went shopping at Whole Foods at the Arboretum to get ciabatta bread for the party. They bake the best in town and I needed two loaves. Whenever I check out most anywhere, I ask my attendant if they read. I’m constantly marketing my stupid book, and the people who check you out in retail stores are somewhat required to listen to you.

Today, Scott was my man. He’s tall and fit and I’d say handsome too, and likely one of the more honest young men I have met lately. Scott is the first of hundreds of retail register operators who said, “Not really,” when I asked them if they like to read.

Further probing by me led to the fact that he does like to read, just not enough to buy my book. I’m fine with that. I’d far rather you say you won’t likely purchase my book that lie to my face to get rid of me. Then again, getting rid of me can be difficult and I can understand a person resorting to lies to do so. Wait. To so do.

Oopsie, 500 words already, and I need to rub my pork. OK, wait again. I want to put a dry rub on my big pork roast so it will marinate for tomorrow.

Manana, y’all.

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Posted in ADHD, FullRisingMooner, gayrights, WholeFoods | 12 Comments »

Fresh Scraped Skull Entertains Pets; Photos To Follow

Sunday, March 11th, 2012

 

So. I’m up early Sunday morning and even having lost an hour to DST, I’m a full five hours ahead of schedule. The reason I’m ahead of schedule is because I no longer possess a full head of hair. I had my head sheared for charity yesterday at the Saint Baldricks Foundation event, an action that left me looking like Rob Reiner.

I’ve always liked Rob starting when he was “Meathead” on All In The Family. He’s made some great movies and written great things too. And he’s a fine human being, so I’m OK that I look like him. I wish that I could say “People Magazine’s Best Looking Man of 1975, Rob Reiner”[.] We’re handsome SOB’s but not that handsome.

I grew a week’s beard in advance so that I could fart around with my looks after the shearing. The after-shearing results were not quite what I had in mind. But as soon as I got home I grabbed a sixer of Carta Blanca and headed to the bathroom to experiment.

OK, stop. I’m getting way fucking ahead of schedule on this train trip. Let me back up and first tell you why I was up five hours ahead of my planned wake-up call. I was asleep last night and dreaming about sex. This sex dream was one where I was on display at some sort of sex club. I was in a line-up of men and we were all standing in nothing but thongs and sneakers with, or without, white cotton socks.

I always wear nothing but white cotton socks due to a foot fungus problem that can only be controlled by wearing white cotton socks and then smearing mentholated petrol jelly on your toes. I tried all the expensive medications and treatments for twenty years and nothing helped heal my smoking hot, nasty and smelly feet.

The menthol grease trick was told to me by a Viet Nam vet I met at a taco truck a few years back. I was standing in line, wearing sandals to air out my blistered feet, and a man was standing at the counter at the end of the trailer eating fish tacos. At least I think I remember they were fish tacos. That particular taco trailer has great fish and smoked pork tacos both.

“Dude,” the man said, with that sound in his voice you hear in emergency rooms, “that’s some ugly fucking feet.”

“No doubt,” I answered, “and burn like a constant hot oil treatment.”

“Vicks Vapo Rub is the answer, dude.” He then went on to tell me about catching the Jungle Rot on his feet from slogging the muddy Terra Firma of Viet Nam when it was the rainy season. “And, Dude, it’s always the fucking rainy season in Nam.”

Anyway, I’m standing in this lineup of thonged and sneakered men at this sex club and the lady choosers are eyeballing us up and down. The men were arranged in order of descending heights except that Dr. Marcus Bachmann was out of order. One of the women remarked that Marcus was out of order and I said, “No shit?”

I was surprised at how tall and also overweight he was. I was second in line between Liam Neeson, the actor, and Milton Berle. Then was James Woods, Ron Jeremy and then Mr. Dave. I realized that except for Marcus and me, all the men on stage either had confirmed, or were reported to have, giant peckers. Me, I’ve seen Ronnie’s on screen a time or two and as for Mr. Dave, I’ve seen that thing in the flesh. For the rest, I’ll take rumor’s word for it.

I was proud to be standing in this line even if I didn’t measure up to their standards. The ladies were standing at the foot of the stage ogling us when the announcer says, “OK, ladies, lets start the bidding.”

Men were auctioned off starting with the short end of the sticks. I didn’t pay much attention to things until it got to be my turn on the block, but I did hear the word “thousand” quite often. “And what do we have to open bids on Mr. Mooner Johnson, ladies? Do I hear five dollars… Five smackeroos, anyone?”

I won’t bore you with the rest of the bidding part of this dream as it is unimportant. What I will tell you is this. The winning bidder was Mrs. Leticia Browningwell, my former school teacher and wife of The Right Reverend Dr. Browningwell who pastors Mother and Gram’s Baptist church. What the fuck she was doing in my dream is unsettling. I’ve had many nightmares wherein that old bag played a key role, but as I said, this was unsettling.

So, in the dream, Leticia says to me, she says, “Mooner, honey, do you know why I bought you?”

“No, Mrs. Browningwell,” I answered. I always call her Mrs. Browningwell to her face.

“Well, son, I want you to get down there and rub your head beard on my stuff.”

When I didn’t move fast enough, she said, “Do it right now, buster, or you’re off to Principle Gibson’s office.”

So, I jumped to the task and I was rubbing my newly-bald head over her thighs and pubic mound and Leticia was starting to lather up. If I had ever thought about it before this dream, I would have thought her to have a dry well, if you know what I mean, and if I had ever thought on the subject.

My head was starting to go from damp to slathered when I was awakened by giggling in my ears. Squirt, Yoda and Honor the fucking cat were licking my head and laughing their furry little asses off as they did.

“Honor says your head feels just like her own tongue, Bwana Mooner, ha- ha- ha.” The Squirt had tears in her eyes from the humor in my thick skull. “And Yoda thinks licking you head is like when he tried to eat sandpaper that one time the other week,” and she “ha-ha-ha’d” some more.

That was at three am and why I’m awake.

I took before, during and after pictures of my scalping and will get them posted here as soon as I can figure how to get them out of the fucking camera and off to Squatlo for processing. It’s been a few weeks and I can’t remember how to do it. Trying to do it is what I did for the first four hours I’ve been awake this morning.

But I’m in a good mood. It appears the rain is lifting for today and I’m ready to party! The pets are all stir crazy and want to go fishing and SAC Ellen will be in town for one full day. Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are in a new lovers’ spat over their sex toys and the fucking cat keeps shredding my dirty underwear out of boredom. I figure a few hours tormenting the fish will brighten all our moods.

After I shave my skull again, we’re going to the dock for some fun and games and then the SACster arrives for lunch to brighten my mood. I didn’t tell her I was shaving my head. She’s gonna be so surprised. Manana, y’all.

 

PS- please buy my fucking book, Full Rising Mooner, available by clicking over there ===}}}

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Steady Rain Deadlogs Johnson Women; Mr. Dave’s Giant Pecker Remains Rock Solid In Downpour

Saturday, March 10th, 2012

 

So. After enduring three years of severe drought and excessive heat, Austin has become Seattle, Washington. Steady drizzle for days, and daily temperatures of 50 degree nights and 52 in what Washingtonians call “daylight” hours. Personally, I love it. I love the brisk, chilled wet air and the feeling of having the sky close on my head. I love the smells and sounds and the incipient eeriness of prolonged wet weather—that sense that something’s in the air tonight that I just can’t put a finger on.

The women in my life, however, don’t do well with weather imported from the Northwest Coastal regions. “Si ce n’est pas arreter de pleuvoir, and I mean right fucking now,” Squirt told me last night after her late trip to the backyard to take a dumper, “ich werde mich aufhangen.”

“Stop with all the dramatics, little lady, I don’t think you’ll really hang yourself if it keeps raining. We’re supposed to get a reprieve for an entire day next week before we get another ten days of this.” I always try to look at the bright side of things when I parent. “Maybe now you’ll wear the rain slicker Aunt Hilda made you. Yoda loves his.”

My adorable and batty old aunt made the dogs and cat rain slickers. Yoda loves his bright yellow rain gear so much I have to make him take it off. He and I love to frolic in the rain together. Of course the fucking cat shredded hers into a big pile of red rubberized cloth spaghetti. Honor loves to shred shit and most especially fabrics with stretchy give to them.

“I look like someone shit after eating a boxcar full of split pea soup in that thing, Bwana Mooner,” Squirt says of the admittedly weird green outfit. “I can’t be seen wearing that thing—I’ll end up on the Fashion Police and not on their Best Dressed list.”

“I think you look cute all dressed for bad weather, Sweetie. Like a steamed edamame bean.” I picked her little body up and kissed her full on the mouth. “I could just peel you and eat you right up.”

“Put me down, pervert, and get over that butt-fucking ugly rain coat.”

“Fine,” I told her, “don’t come belly aching to me if you catch a cold.”

Does getting wet really give you a cold? I’ve always wondered that. I know you can catch a chill, but can you really catch a cold by walking in the rain unprotected?

But the Squirtie isn’t the only Johnson woman out of sorts with this weather. Mr. Dave, of course, is unhappy with all the rain because the Johnson women are out of sorts with it.

“Business is way down since the rain started, Mr. Johnson. Do you know of some way to brighten the ladies’ spirits?” Mr. Dave asked me last night after supper.

“Well, Sir, I told him. “That’s why I’m paying your room and board and banking weekly checks to your account. Maybe if you wear a thong around the house more often you can take their minds off this miserable rain.”

Mr. Dave is the giant-peckered old geezer I hired to service the herd of Johnson women stabled here at the ranch. “Why don’t we get Gram to brew up a rainy day potion for you. See if she’s got any of that mushroom juice from the new strain Streaker Jones brought her last week. Just a sniff of that shit gives me wood. Maybe it’ll work on the girls.”

God’s truth, that new magic mushroom breed my best buddy bred gives me instant wood. Never seen anything like it. OK, I never had anything work on me better except for getting popped with a stun gun.

“Maybe we should do just that, Sir. Your mother is in quite a snit,” Mr. Dave reported.

His saying that made me wonder if I should be something other than happy at having procured, paid and housed a gigolo for my own mother. Should I be embarrassed or feel icky or something? When I tried to counsel with Gram about it she said, she told me, “Oh who gives a shit, fer shitsakes, Mooner. Long as that woman gits her a little tanger we’re all better off.”

Gram’s right. Mother with regular poontang is waaaaay better than Mother without booty calls. Then, I got to thinking that the girls haven’t fought over Mr. Dave since about the third consecutive day of this rain. That thought made me wonder. “Hey, Mr. Dave. This might be an indelicate question, but are you having any troubles getting it up?”

Mr. Dave Looked at me like I’m crazy, a look I’m quite accustomed to viewing. “Nope, between the wonderful diet of fresh fruit and vegetables you provide me and the Viagra prescriptions, I’m rock solid and ready to go. Wanna see?”

I had to grab his arms to prevent another personal exposure to his Japanese eggplant pecker. “I’ll take your word for it.”

OK, I need to stop. It’s time for me to go get my head shaved for St. Baldricks Foundation to cure cancer in kids. Manana, yall.

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Separating The Psycho From His Therapy; Funny Joke Or Disrespect?

Wednesday, March 7th, 2012

 

So. I had an early morning psycho therapy session with the good doctor this am, but rather than sit/lay on the expensive leather couch in her office, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson had me bring the dogs to her house for my fifty-minute appointment. The couch is one of a five-piece set of leather covered sitting things purchased, as certainly as my name is Mooner Einstein Johnson, with my cash. There’s the couch, three mid-rise side chairs and her highness’ big chair.

Sam is a short thing—cute as a fucking button mind you, but short—and her big leather chair is throne-like. She uses it to gain physical stature in therapy. This fucking chair has more hydrolics than one of those “63 Chevy Lowriders. Makes this “shisssshhh” sound as she raises and lowers it for effects during therapy sessions.

I don’t know why she needs a chair like this to gain stature. She looks ten feet tall when she stands atop my bruised and battered ego.

“Come to my house for your morning session, Mooner, and bring the dogs,” she told me. “I need to assess the status of your parenting skills and there’s quite a bit of yard work to be done.”

I wasn’t surprised that she wanted me to come over to work in her yard. We’ve been having our Spring this Winter in Austin, Texas and shit is growing on trees.

OK, stop the presses. Try this. The weather has been so nice that the trees and other shit are growing and, subsequently, require my attentions. Doing Sammie’s yard work is the premium I pay to retain her psychiatric services. Yard work plus $195/hour for a regular session.

I actually like the yard work. Everything out to the ranch is done with tractors or other riding machines and I enjoy pushing a lawn mower. My first job was mowing yards and it has stuck with me. There was this one house over to west Austin—lady’s husband was an airline pilot and she was a retired flight attendant—and the husband was gone quite often. I was something like eleven, maybe twelve, and since I hadn’t yet been raped by my Baptist Deacon Boy Scout Leader, I was still all starry-eyed and happy and shit.

This nice lady always had a cold Fresca and a sandwich waiting for me when I finished mowing her yard. The sandwich might change from ham to roast beef or chicken salad, but the beverage was always Fresca. Fresca was a weird drink to me—not quite grapefruit and just a hint of that icky artificial sweetener taste—and I asked her once, I asked, “Why Fresca?”

In answer, she kissed the top of my sweaty head and said, “Covers the smell of vodka. Want some?”

For shit sakes, Mooner, get your ass back on track. Nobody wants to hear about the first proposition you got from an adult woman.

So, I asked the Squirt to tell Honor the fucking cat to behave herself and loaded Squirt and Yoda into the GTO for the trip to Sam’s place. Squirt was reliving the story about that one time where the landscape crew worker in Sam’s neighborhood started some shit and she clamped her mouthful of very sharp teeth to the man’s crotch. We giggled and laughed about the story until we got over to near the Planned Parenthood offices near Sammie’s house.

“Let’s do a drive-by on Catholic Anti-Abortion Lady, Bwana Mooner.” Squirt was dancing around in the limited space allowed by her driving harness.

“Je vais prendre le volant, Mssr., y el flash de su culo!” my adorable little puppy was now bouncing like a jumping jack.

“I can’t give you the wheel on that busy street, Sweetie, you can barely stay out of the ditches out in the country with no traffic. I can’t take a chance of you wrecking my GTO. How about we park across the street and you can blow the horn to get her attention?”

That satisfied her. We mooned the Catholic lady, stopped at the neighborhood donut place for a dozen glazed, and drove the last mile to Sam’s. She was standing at the open garage door as we got there, hands on hips—curvy, tight hips—and the look that says “Why me?” was already screwed onto her face.

I parked the Goat and we disembarked. “Hi ya, Sammie baby, how’s it hanging?”

“I’m about ready to hang your name on a door of the Close Watch Unit at Shoal Creek Mental Hospital, moron,” she answered. “Why me, dear god, why me?”

I tried to ignore this semi-tirade as I searched my brain for what is was that had already set her off. There’s no way that she could know that I’m teaching the Squirt how to drive and Yoda how to moon, and I haven’t been arrested for months.

“Planned Parenthood just called me.. again… and have asked that I get you under control. They think you make matters worse when you agitate their regular protesters.”

“I’m just trying to help. And how did they know to call you?”

“Can’t say, Sweetie. And while I’m up your dumb ass, stop saying psychotherapy as two words. I know you think it’s funny but the humor left that joke twenty years ago. I’m really tired of explaining it to my cohorts.”

I didn’t say, “Too fucking bad, it’s still hilarious,” out loud, but I thought it.

“You might think it’s fucking hilarious, you crazy redneck fuckball, but my colleagues are starting to question my ability to effect change in severely damaged patients.” Here she gave me the dead-eye. Dr. Sam I. Am learned it from Gram. “And if they stop referring to me I’ll simply have to raise your rates by another 25% to offset the losses.”

And I simply have to stop thinking out loud. I noticed how sexy Sammie was when angry and I started to think about how much fun make-up sex was back when we were together.

“Don’t even think about it, Mooner Einstein Johnson. I wouldn’t have sex with you using Snooki’s vagina.” She laughed at her own lame joke and said, “Come on, let’s take a walk before you do your chores.”

I leashed the puppies into their harness with mild trepidations. While I’ve spent hundreds of hours teaching the dogs important shit, like how to burp and fart the National Anthem and mooning and fishing and driving, I’ve not spent much time on leash training. As I slipped the walking harness on Squirt’s back I said to her, I whispered in her ear, “Look, Squirtie, you tell Yoda to follow your lead and then you follow mine, I’ll let you drive home once we get off of Ranch Road 620.”

“Well… I get to drive and you have to feed me lettuce leaves like I’m a queen while I watch The Bachelor tonight.” Squirt fixed me with an unwavering gaze. “Deal?”

Another of the things I’ve found time to teach Squirt is how to negotiate a personal services contract. “Deal,” I told her, and we shook on it.

OK, now let’s stop here and reflect for a moment. I just typed the 1,200th word of this posting and I can’t even remember my point for starting. A look at the first paragraph tells me it had something to do with this morning’s psycho therapy session over to Sammie’s house, but for the life of me I cannot remember the moral to this stupid fucking story.

Ugh.

How about I tell you this. I hate The Bachelor TV show, and Squirt knows it. That’s why she chose it, to get my goat and have some fun at my expense. What she doesn’t know is that I know she doesn’t like it either. I’m planning to wash three heads of Romaine lettuce—big, fat heads from our winter garden—and I’ll sit at her feet and spend the entire hour feeding it to her, and that reminds me of what I wanted to tell you.

It’s only March 7th and my cool weather garden is browning out! I’ve already planted summer veggies and the lettuces are all petering out and everything else looks tepid at best. I wanted to tell you that the next time I hear some fucking asshole politician tell me that there is no global warming, I’m going to give them a chunk of my ass. I’m sick of this shit.

Oh, and by the way, did you notice that the Republicans are keeping the Transportation Bill from passing by trying to add their tacky fucking amendments onto it, just like they keep doing?

November is coming, you right-wing Republican Christian conservative smog loving fuckballs.

Beware the Ides (minus 9) of November! Manana, y’all.

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Guess Who Is Coming To Dinner; Regular Sex Regulates, Part Dos

Tuesday, March 6th, 2012

So. It’s only Tuesday and my already action-packed week has gotten more actioned. Actionerated? Actionalized? Wait, that one would modify on the packed part, right? So, to print a self retraction, please allow me to say that my already action-packed week has gotten more action-packeded.

Oh, for shitsakes. Action-packederated? Maybe this is one of those “tablespoon fulls versus tablespoons full” sort of dealies. See, that spoons thing is ruled by the Grammar Police to mean that when taking the steps to create multiple spoon fulls, a person would take one spoon—a singular grammatical event—and fill it multiple times. Thusly, the baker or lemonade maker has added tablespoon fulls of sugar to whateverthefuck it is they were baking/mixing.

The Grammatik Polizei, however, do not have the dreaded ADHD or even it’s little brother, ADD. Nope. You cannot make it passed the short-form application for the Grammar Pobos if you suffer from any of the Attention Deficit maladies. If you could, a person would be granted an option to use either tablespoons full or tablespoon fulls.

In way of elucidation please allow me to expound. Say you’re me, an altogether confusing supposition yet the perfect scenario for this exposition, and you’ve taken on the task to make lemonade by the glass. “Why by the glass?” you might ask, and legitimately so. By the glass because each of the Johnson family lemonade drinkers likes their ade at differing levels of sweetness. And we all know that it takes awhile for good, low-refinement sugars to dissolve even in lemon juice.

OK, wait. I actually make quart batches of lemonade when making it for the family. Nobody can drink just one glass of my lemonade. I have a secret—a splash of Limoncella—that makes my le jus de citron sucre’ simply adorable. That’s what Aunt Hilda calls it, adorable.

For Gram, a tart old tart from the word “Go”[,] I place only six tablespoon fulls of sugar into her batch. Aunt Hilda gets ten spoons with an extra jolt of Lemoncella and Mother gets nine. Me, I like three sugars and three liquors.

Imagine now as Mixologist Mooner stands at his big kitchen counter. I’ve got a dozen each quart jars of fresh squoze lemon juice sitting on the counter in front of me along with twenty-eight each tablespoons, eight each booze jiggers and one of those rubberized jar lid grippers. I’m constantly screwing jar lids on more tightly than my dry hands can remove. I have a large bottle of Limoncella and a big bag of raw turbinado sugar standing by. You’ll notice the absence of water at this juncture of lemonading, and that’s because my other secret is to give each drinker a bottle of chilled San Peligrino bubble water. Dilute and bubblize at will, that’s my motto.

I approach Gram’s quart jar—I know it’s Gram’s because it has a label that says “Gram” in emerald green. I fill the six tablespoons (notice please that I said tablespoonS) with sugar and pour Limoncella into two jiggers, again notice jiggerS.

I dump the tablespoons one-by-one into the jar and then in goes the liquid. I fancy myself a dashing bartender, so I take a shot glass in each hand and pour both Limoncellas at the same time, and with a flourish. Then, and once more with a flourish, I wipe the spilled sticky Limoncellas from the counter top with the pre wetted cotton dish towel at the ready, and always to my left hand side.

I’m a tad bit obsessive and a touch compulsive as well, so the towel must always be already wet and always at my left hand. I know it’s a sign of just how fucking nuts I am to admit that not only do I suffer from the ADHD but that I also endure the tortures of the dreaded OCD.

But I take heart in the knowledge that the OCD is a self-imposed solution to some of the worst symptoms of the ADHD. By having compulsives I can limit a few distractions. Like when I’m taking one fucking tablespoon with which I’m to fill with sugar nine times to place into Aunt Hilda’s lemonade jar. The emerald green ink on Aunt Hilda’s jar label is imprinted with “Aunt Hilda and Dubbie-J” so as to acknowledge the shrunken-head-in-a-box that has been Hilda’s constant companion since she and Gram were abducted while girls.

The two sisters were in the old Congo nation as Baptist missionaries and had to be spirited to safety wrapped in blankets and smuggled in the bottom of a big wooden canoe. I’m too busy to tell the entire story, so go over there ===}}}} and buy my fucking book to read all about it. I’ll be glad you did.

Here I am, filling and counting as I fill the tablespoon and dump it nine times into Hilda’s jar. Something catches my eye from outside the big windows over the sink. It looks like Yoda is trying to lick the paint off the small smoker by the fire pit. That damned dog really is half goat. I caught him last night taking a dirty wooden spoon out of the dishwasher. He grabbed the spoon and took off like a shot to the back of the house. He’s a smart little shit, he learns right from wrong, but as I said he’s half goat and can’t help but eat anything.

So, we’re sitting at dinner last night. I fixed a pork loin with sour cherry gravy because my buddy Lloyd and his man Mike are coming to visit next week. I’m so excited to see them that I could shit myself. Almost did. I can’t decide on a menu to fix so I’m going through different things to see what I want to cook for them. We’ll have a small crowd of Lloyd’s other Austin friends out for dinner and Lloyd is a good cook. I wish to prepare something different but not BBQ’d pig innards or smoked grass carp. I’ve learned my lessons there.

I had everything on the table to eat and I started to cut the meat to order. Like with our lemonade, our cuts of meat vary among family members. Gram likes thick slabs and Mother wants hers in wafer-thin sheets. I made prosciutto-wrapped asparagus that I bake quick and high with salt, pepper and olive oil. I serve them with a shaving of Parma Reggie cheese and a drop of 20-year old balsamic vinegar, and that first bite might be the best ten seconds of eating ever.

OK, except for crème brulee’, which is the best however long it takes to eat it of eating ever.

I’m cutting Mother’s pork, concentrating to cut thin slices all the way through the roast when, “Spi-toosh!” and then, “Pfft, pft, pfft!”

Aunt Hilda spit lemonade like a sperm whale out his blow hole. “Oh, for the love of god, Mooner Honey. This is so sour it turned my mouth inside out.”

“I’m sorry, Auntie. I guess I got distracted when I made yours. That silly katoika, Yoda, was eating the back yard.” I looked around the table. “Oh, that’s Greek for goat, and maybe everyone should take a small taste of their lemonade to avoid the sperm whale act.”

Sometimes my ADHD can even overrule my OCD’s. But you get my point about tablespoons. Same thing with full bags and bladder fulls and shit.

Maybe I’ll make Lloyd and Mike lemonade and a big lemon cake. I need to get with Melanie for a recipe. If I was a gay man, would I mate lemonade with lemon cake or would my more sophisticated palate require a beverage somewhat less “complimentary” to the pastry? Like chicory coffee from Nawlins or maybe a bourbon and milk cocktail.

And why is a mixed drink a “cocktail” like you stirred it with your pecker. Maybe that’s why James Bond insists on have his martinis shaken only.

I might be decomposing now, so I’ll see you manana, y’all.

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Chose To Be Gay- No Way; Mermaids Baptize Dead Jewelers

Saturday, March 3rd, 2012

 

So. I was at breakfast this morning with the entire family and we were discussing several articles from today’s newspaper.

OK, stop. I have already laid a foundation of half truths and deceptions. For starters, the breakfast table was set for six actual Johnson—the entire blood family—five place settings for Johnson family pets were organized, and an additional six sets of silver and coffee mugs were laid out for extended family members having no Johnson blood in their veins.

Actually, the Johnson family blood isn’t really Johnson blood. It’s Smith blood turned Johnson. You can buy my book, Full Rising Mooner, by clicking over there ===}}}, if you want the story on that dealio.

Of course, now that I think about it, Sister’s wife Anna the Amazon has no Johnson blood in her veins even though she was married to me before falling in love with my sister. At least I think she actually loved me first and didn’t use me to get to Sister.

I remember how I felt when Anna first told me, she said, “Mooner, Honey—she called me Honey—we need to talk.”

As I recall it, she did all the talking and I did a bunch of gulping and “Huh?’ing” and “Hmm’ing” and, I must admit, boo-fucking-hooing. I didn’t take it well at first as I saw it as a failing on my part, a theory that was reinforced by others.

“If you would have taken that girl to church, Mooner Einstein Johnson, she wouldn’t have turned on you,” was Mother’s initial assessment. “You can blame yourself for turning her into a homo-sex-u-al. You better thank the good lord that he didn’t let you go astray yourself, son. I know I pray every night that you don’t move to California to live in sin with that homo-sex-u-al friend of yours.”

Mother always says it like that, homo-sex-u-al, and usually with a look on her face that says, “I think the cob up my ass just pinched my liver.”

Me, I think every heterosexual spouse or mate of a person who comes out of the closet, subsequent to the relationship, goes through a season of self doubt and reflection. I did blame myself for awhile, but not for long. I’m lucky, I have lived with a gay woman her entire life, my sister, and Sister came out of the womb a card-carrying lesbian.

Sister was born lesbian, a fact. My guess is that most, if not every fucking time, homosexuals are born that way. I do think it’s possible to choose to be gay. I think this is possible because there was a time when I wished to be gay. For awhile I thought it was his gay-ness that makes my buddy Lloyd such a good man. As I’ve told you before, Lloyd is the best man I have ever met, and I was feeling like I wasn’t such a good man this one time, so I thought to myself, I was thinking, “Hey, maybe I’ll be a better man if I’m gay.”

I actually think I could be gay if it wasn’t for the part about having sex with men. I wouldn’t stick my own pecker in my mouth much less yours. Of course, I also have terrible taste in clothes and hair and while I like Judy Garland, Barbara Streisand, Diana Ross, Lizzy Taylor, and Lady Gaga, I don’t adore and worship them.

OK, now that I think this through, I’d make a terrible gay man. I’d dress badly, choose UT football over a Celine Dion concert, and I wouldn’t suck dicks. I’d be ostracized by my peers and called heretical. Sort of like how things are now, except without all the multiple pecker play.

Before I regress from this digression, please allow me to say this. Does anybody really think that a heterosexual man wakes up one day and thinks to himself, “You know what? I think I’d like to suck Bobby’s dick, maybe get him to take me doggy-style, tug my hair, slap my ass and give my balls razor burn and shit.”

Don’t kid yourself, Senator Santorum, you were born with those desires.

Anyway, as I was saying before I interrupted myself and you as well, we had a full table at breakfast, and Gram had the front section of the paper. As Johnson Family matriarch, she is granted first choice with the newspaper and today she chose the front.

“Looka here, Mooner. It sez that them quinny nonna piggy farmers down to Bulova been fightin’ over land with rocks and dynermite.” Gram put the paper down and looked me in the eyes. “Says here they was fightin’ over land a cause tha price a them special piggies done tripled.”

For those of you not skilled at translating my Gram’s fractured English, quinoa farmers in Bolivia have been fighting over some of the limited land suitable for growing the unique grain. Seems it’s one of the trendy “super foods” and prices are straining the fabric of Bolivian quinoa farming society.

My own thoughts were, “Rocks, and dynamite. Rocks… and dynamite.”

I wasn’t fully finished with those thoughts when she said, “Holy fuckin’ shit! Them silly mermaids done been Baptizin’ dead jewelers.”

Gram lowers the paper again, and claimed my eyes with her own. “What tha fuck, Mooner? Tha whole entire world’s done gone off the deep pockets.”

Gram’s right. I think that the Mormons Baptizing dead Jews might just be the sign for that end of days dealie. I’m thinking that I need to tidy up my business before the shit hits the fan. I just don’t know where to start. I need to make a trip to the country’s best burger joints, BBQ houses and purveyors of crème brulee, and that will take a good year of daily efforts.

Visits to all my friends needs to be packaged therein, and visits to places I want to see.

Ugh. The thoughts of it are overwhelming.

But who really gives a shit? Here’s my take on the end of the world. To me, the end of the world is no different than the end of my own life. It’s exactly the same fucking thing, only bigger and slightly more complicated.

I know that I will die at some point in time and I know there’s no way to prevent it. Fine, I can live with that. I’m not going to make myself bonkers and ruin what time I have left living with worries of dying. I’ll do my best to enjoy every fucking minute of conscious breathing I have left and I’m working hard to leave without too many regrets.

Same thing with this earth. We know that every planet is going to suffer some kind of catastrophic calamity of some sort at some time. It might be billions of years from now or, it might be this Christmastime, but good old Mother Earth has numbered days.

You know what? Fuck this. I’m taking SAC Ellen and the pets fishing.

Manana, y’all.

 

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Almost Drilled At Top Notch Drive-In; Hannah Still Has It!

Wednesday, February 29th, 2012

 

So. I was over to visit an ex-brother in law yesterday before lunch. His office is in the general vicinity of the Top Notch Drive-In, so I had lunch at the nifty little burger and fried chicken joint. They cook their burgers on an actual charcoal grill and their chicken is among the best in town. I had a burger and crispy tots, my usual.

Why this is remarkable isn’t the high quality of the food as it is remarkably consistent in its high qualities. I like to sit in my car and eat—Top Notch has it’s original car hop speaker system and tin-covered car port—while I listen to my radio. I have Sirius Satellite in the GTO and I had Left Radio, Channel 127 on your radio dial, and Ed Schultz was on. My food had just been dropped off and I’d unwrapped my burger for the first bite.

Is it even proper to say “on your radio dial” anymore? The only radio I even have with a dial is Granddaddy’s old Philco, and it’s in storage out to the barn. Everything else is digitized.

Before I take a first bite of any Top Notch burger, I always take a sniff first. There’s something intoxicating about that first whiff of charcoaled beef, pickles and onion that makes the burger more enjoyable. I guess it’s the same dealie as with wine.

OK, let’s back up a second. This might be my ADHD talking, but why do we say “ex-in laws” if we only have divorces from the wife or husband? I have only divorced one brother in law yet have been divorced to ten women. That one guy, a Baptist Deacon lawyer who works for the State of Texas to fight death sentence appeals, is a special case. Actually, I didn’t accept him as my in-law when I married his sister, so maybe he’s a bad example. I never did like that asshole.

When I asked him the question “What about the innocent man who is convicted wrongly and sentenced to death? How do you rectify, justify that in your mind putting him to death?”[,] he answered, he said to me, “Who cares? The death penalty is all about punishment of the guilty and we’re all guilty of something.”

I also heard the other day that he and his wife are big Santorum supporters. They don’t think Rick Perry is a big enough prick, they want an asshole like Santoria to be President. Asswipe dickwad Baptist right-wing Republican shitballs is what they are.

Anyway, so I sniffed a deep drag off my burger. My eyes were closed and Ed was talking to a man on the ground up to Michigan about the Repub primary. They were discussing the light voter turn-out and what it might mean. I exhaled my burger hit in a whoosh, and slowly opened my eyes. My focus settled on the door to the Top Notch dining room where an old fart was exiting with two little kids who appeared to be his grandkids.

One of them, the boy, was holding the man’s left hand at the wrist and hanging with his feet off the ground like kids love to do. The boy was laughing and swinging as he tugged the man’s shoulder out the joint. I was reminded of my youngest son who felt that my arm was the neatest carnival ride on the midway until he was three.

The other child, the girl, was a step behind and had her eyes plastered to the man’s right hip. They were walking towards me—I was in the last parking slot at the end of the carport so that my satellite radio would work—and the little girl’s fascination fascinated me. Their truck was parked right beside the GTO outside the cover of the carport. I was thinking how nice it was that the man didn’t park at a car hop speaker spot and then eat inside. I get pissed when the speaker spots are filled with empty cars.

The trio walked to the aisle between our rides, and that was when I saw the object of the girl’s attentions. Riding low on the man’s hip was a six shooter sitting in a leather holster with, I think, a DPS star pinned to it. I figured DPS because they have a big office near and I see their officers here often. Here in Texas we have concealed handgun laws but, thankfully, not yet an open carry rule. Thank god you have to be a lawman to carry a gun on your hip, and I wish to god we had smarter lawmen.

The little girl waited until the man’s attentions were focused on removing the boy from his arm, and struck. She grabbed the pistol with both hands and yanked it free of the leather. I don’t know if it wasn’t properly latched in the holster or if the tyke had great strength, but either way a four-year-old girl now had a loaded revolver.

I ducked—my natural response in these situations—and dumped my tots on the floor and started cussing about that. I heard the discussion about the retaking of the gun, scolding and placing the kids in the truck, but I didn’t register much of it because I was cussing. Then I realized as I was leaning over to pick tots off the floor, I dragged my shirt through catchup I had carefully placed on the console.

“Mo-ther fuck-er,” I said aloud but mostly to myself when I saw the front of my shirt.

“Hey, buddy,” a man’s voice said from outside my window. “You need to watch your mouth. This here’s a family restaurant.”

Huh?

I took a deep breath and exhaled onion and grilled beef before even looking at him. When I did look his way, his eyes widened and he stepped back with his hands in that “Oops, sorry” position. “You’re right… I’ll just be going now,” and he did.

Am I a shitbag magnet? Do I bring this sort of thing on myself? This asshole almost gets someone shot and he’s pissed at my language? I don’t usually cuss around kids but they don’t usually point a fucking revolver at me. Does a revolver even have a safety?

Good thing for him I promised the Squirt I’d not loose my shit with assholes this week.

Anyway, I got home from that bullshit to find the Squirt and Honor the fucking cat waiting for me in the driveway. I could tell we had a problem as soon as I saw them sitting there without Yoda at their side. When I got out of the car I asked them, “Hey, guys, where’s the third shitbird?”

“You need to do something about Yoda, and right fucking now!” Squirt stamped her foot on the “now” and finished with a prissy pout. “He’s locked in Gram’s potion cellar so we don’t kill him.”

Speaking of revolvers, I need to find my Revolver CD and spend some time with it. I need to hear Tomorrow Never Knows. Manana, y’all.

 

Oh, yea, and PS- Hannah from Whole Foods- check out February 17th.

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A Man For All Seasons, Sex Is The Reason; Mooner’s Miracle Cure

Saturday, February 25th, 2012

 

So. I’m sitting here Saturday morning reflecting back on a strange week. I had a great guest host story from Melanie, I had my first review made by a free book recipient, I got a little nookie, and I lost my temper with my mother and almost blew the house down.

I’m sitting here at the computer having sat with nothing to tell you. I first sat to check out what everybody else had written today, but nobody has done anything—all my favorite bloggie spots contain yesterday’s news—so I decided to write to you. I sat and stared at the screen for fifteen minutes, screen and mind sharing the same blankness.

I opened Spider Solitaire to ease a little pressure off my swollen and bruised brain, started playing, and thirty minutes later I had three blank spaces, two runs of new cards left to play at the bottom, the King-to-five of Spades were in the far left space, the King-to-seven of Diamonds were next to them, King-to ten of Hearts next then another set of Spades down to the nine. In the far right, in descending numbers to the bottom of the pile, were my finishing stacks of suited cards. Each of those stacks were in rows wherein the bottom cards were in ascending order right-to-left.

“I love when a plan comes together,” I said, proud and aloud, to myself and the animals, who were just starting to stir from sleep.

“Vos est los?” Squirt had left the bed and jumped into my lap. She stared at the computer screen and said, again, she said, “What in the hell are you doing, Bwana Mooner?”

I pointed at the screen. “See how I have things organized? Now, when I decide to finish the game I can make the books from right-to-left on the left side of the screen using the closing stacks from left-to-right as I move them from the right side of the screen.”

My little puppy stared at the screen for another long moment. “Huh?” she said, “run that shit by me once more.”

I did.

She stared at the screen again, looked at me a long moment, then back to the computer screen. “OK, shitbrain, show me what the fuck you’re doing.”

“OK,” said proudly. “Watch this.”

I played the first run of new cards and set each up correctly according to my formula. “See how I’ve kept the integrity of my stacks?”

“No,” Squirt told me, “but don’t let that stop you. Go on.”

I clicked the final new card stack and began my closing moves. The suited stacks closed with their animated sound effects. When I play correctly, I can click the closings where they clear the board in syncopation.

“Ha, would you look at that!” I exclaimed. “Per-fucking-fecto!!!”

The Squirt seemed not to be sharing my elation—she just kept moving her glassy stare from the screen to my face. After maybe a dozen passes between face and computer, Squirt locked her eyes onto mine. “Mooner, you are seriously fucked up. I think we need an intervention.”

I shooed her off and opened a game of Free Cell. I always go from Spider to Free Cell. It’s an easier game and since I’m usually worn out getting a proper win on Spider, my Free Cell game has fewer self-imposed rules. For this game I check the initial layout to see which of the outer four stacks has the lowest card on its bottom. That stack is my “flipper stack” and the one I use to end the game.

I then arrange all of the Kings-ascending stacks into the middle four slots leaving two slots on either side to be open in the end. When I end the game, it has to be by making that last move from the flipper stack. Shazam, animated sound effects with the lowest possible card the last card played!!!

When I finished the Free Cell game off with another perfect synchronization, I sat back, satisfied. The sun was peeking through my bedroom window and giving my computer screen a mirror finish. I tilted my head to bring the image of my face into view. I first caught the shit-eating grin plastered to my face and then the manic look raging in my eyes.

“Oh, god. I really am fucked up. I can’t even play a stupid computer card game without complications. Ugh.” My mood went from card shark elation to loony man blue.

Ugh, ugh, ugga-fucking-ugh. How crazy am I? How crazy is it possible to be? Is crazy a quantitative measure or is it like pregnant—you either are are are not, and all or nothing? Once it’s a clinical diagnosis reading “He’s crazy” does anything else really matter?

Or can you be crazy by degrees? Like was Hitler more crazy than Salvador Dali, is Lindsey Lohan more nutso than Charlie Sheen? Am I a bigger wacko than Newbt Gangreenich or Pricky Rick Santoria?

Ugh.

I sat, as I said earlier, reflecting on my week and likewise on my lunacies. After careful consideration of all the aspects of my crazinesses, I have reached a conclusion. I think I have a clear picture of what the root cause of my afflictions is. The realization was stunning, the simplicity of my problems amazing.

More sex. I need more sex!

Manana, y’all.

 

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Reflections In A Dark Mirror; Mending Mooner’s Mind

Wednesday, February 22nd, 2012

 

So. I was out early this morning to finish my fishing and reflections to complete the task that was interrupted by SAC Ellen’s booty call yesterday. I’ve got a crick in my neck from having my head jammed against the door of the truck, I’ve got a bloody patch in my chest hairs where a little tuft was twisted out, and I’ve got a bruise on my hip that would be a perfect match for a “Hello Kitty” gear shift knob. Ever since I was adopted by the fucking cat, everybody thinks it’s funny to give me “Hello Kitty” shit. Who even thought that there would be a market for “Hello Kitty” gear shifter knobs?

It does have a nice feel in your hand though. But everything in the entire HK line is pink, for shitsakes. I don’t think I actually hate the color pink, but I can say with absolute certainty that I don’t care for the color pink.

I do like Pink, the singer, and Arrowsmith’s song is a favorite romance tune.

SAC Ellen likes to be on top when we’re in a hurry and I’m A-OK with that. What makes me uncomfortable is when we’re in a hurry and the only safe room for sexing is the truck. “Why couldn’t I drive the GTO?” I asked her when we’d finished the sexing and she was getting redressed to re-board the airplane and I was blotting the blood from my chest. “The seat lays back in the goat and I don’t hurt my neck.”

She had a 90-minute layover—layover an appropriate double entendre in this case—and our sex was fast and furious. She told me, “I’ve banged my head on the roof of that damned GTO so many times my skull looks like a horse apple, Sweetie. Thanks for taking one for the team.”

With that she kissed me, handed me the soiled moist towelettes she’d used to clean up, and said, she said to me, “Keep this one close to your mind, Mooner. I’m not sure when I’ll get back to town.”

“You’re lucky it was good,” I said to her back as she slammed the old truck’s door. I watched her disappear through the big opening in the airport parking garage as she ran to catch her flight, and marveled one more once at how nimble she is on medium-heeled shoes.

I guess I’ll try to keep that memory close to mind—damned if there isn’t room for it. I’ve had so many thought strings banging around in the ADHD swill I call a mind that I can’t keep them all straight. That’s why I wanted to reflect and spend some time by myself yesterday. So, I grabbed the cooler—still packed with icy-cold Carta Blanca beers from yesterday’s attempts at reflections—rolled a fat replacement dubie for the one not left over from yesterday, made some sausage sammies to replace the eaten BLT’s from yesterday, and headed to the dock.

I thought of BJ as I was making the stacked sausage-and-bread pies. I put a fat-yolked eggie one each in Beej’s honor. He made me pork and egg sammies when I left his house last November so I wouldn’t need to stop to eat on my way home. He stacked spicy pork sausage, bacon and ham with fried eggs and I must say, “Yum-fucking-my!”

I forgot fish bait, not really a problem, and parked my ass on the dock with my feet hanging over the water. I snagged a little ball of bread from one of the sams and stuck it to the end of my hook before flipping the hook and bobber lazily into the creek. I didn’t want to catch anything but genius and I figured the fish in our creek are so spoiled with the fat earthworms I normally use that they’d leave me to my thinking.

I set the top-spinner reel and rod on the dock, cracked a beer and lit the fat wonker for a hit. I met an Irish guy who called a joint a wonker and for some reason I thought about that. Then I drifted to the many words used for pot—like chronic and weed and bud—and drifted off to sleep. I was dreaming about the Kardashian sisters and their mother, and the four of them were fighting over me. Quincy wrote a dealie about Kimmy K yesterday and I guess that was somewhere lodged in my brain in the “Sex” section.

I had just told the K-Girls there was no need to fight because there is plenty of Mooner to go around, when I was jerked awake as the fishing pole started running off the deck on its own. I grabbed it by the last inch of its pistol grip handle, tugging as I sat up. The tug I got in response almost pulled me off the dock.

“What the hell is this all about?” I asked the air. “Can’t a man get any peace and fucking quiet around here. I was this close (see Mooner’s thumb and index finger a quarter-inch apart) from banging all four of the K women in a five-way.”

As I fought and reeled the fish, I started thinking if there really is enough Mooner Johnson for those four women. Hell, Kimmy has been through Reggie Bush, Miles Austin and that basketball player in just two years time, and Kloe looks like she could put a hurt on a man. But the mother, she’s the one that most fascinates me. That one looks crazy to me and you know how much fun crazy women can be.

Anyway, I’d hooked a giant fucking Asian carp. The carp were imported to eat the hydrilla that was imported from Asia and is clogging our lakes. These guys are prettier and cleaner than native carp so it was this fellow’s unluckiest of days. I smoke them with pecan wood after a day in the walk-in cooler covered with a dry rub. Use hot smoke to crispy-up the skin.

I could hardly wait to see how Honor the fucking cat would react to a fish this big. She’s seen three-pound bass but never a fifteen-pound anything. I packed my stuff with the fish in the cooler and headed back up to the house.

As I walked, I wondered why a carp is a fish—carp species includes Asian carp, goldfish and even Koi—and a carp is also a bitchy person. Like say………. my mother. How do pretty fish and quibbling complainers rate the same name? Again, I find myself continuously baffled by the Grammar Police.

I felt the tumblers of my muddled brain starting to fit into place and the thread of an answer to this question started forming. Just as I started puling on the thread, wrapping it around my mental spool, the back door burst open and the menagerie of animals I call pets stormed out.

The fucking cat raced to my feet and started circling and rubbing and purring at my socks. They all gathered and stared at the cooler. “Honor says she smells fish, Herr Mooner,” the Squirt informed me. “Was ist in der verdammten Kuhler, dude?”

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, this here cooler contains a big fucking Asian carp, and we’re giving the honors of gutting him to Honor. Now Squirt, you tell the her to keep her claws off the tenderloins, OK?”

Guys, you have never seen suck a mess or such a sight. I started to think that maybe my life isn’t so tough after all, and I guess I’ll need to finish reflecting manana, y’all.

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Southern Baptists Look For New Name; Mooner Suggests: “Ignorant Bigot Asshole Baptists”

Tuesday, February 21st, 2012

 

So. I’m having some work done to the house and it might drive me crazy. Restorations include re varnishing and repainting outside doors and wood house trim, repainting the walls and ceiling in my closet after installing soundproofing and metal rings strong enough to hold 1,200 pounds on the walls, building a fucking cat play-scape in my bedroom, sealing cracks in my concrete flat work an other stuff.

For those of you in wonderment as to the 1,200 pounds part, if you add 650 pounds of gay pig to 350 pounds of African ostrich—likewise gay—you get a calculated need for 1,200 pounds of towing capacity required for the bondage equipment I promised my closeted same-sex lover pets. I can’t get Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry to come out of the closet and they refuse to play their sex games out to the barn where all that equipment is already set up.

And will somebody please tell me whyinthefuck I can’t say “revarnish” but I can say “repaint”[?] What’s up with that shit? If I can re the finish on something with paint then I should be able to re the finish with varnish, right? Sometimes I think I could choke the life out of whomever it is that made up some of these silly-assed grammar rules.

The first person to start with me about the repairs was, of course, Mother, and she started in on me at breakfast. I can always count on my stuffy-assed mother to take the first shit in my mess kit.

“Butcher Einstein Johnson, you will not play a role in the ungodly homo-sex-u-al relationship between Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry. Isn’t it enough that I must endure living under the same roof where Sodom meets Gomorrah? Now you’re turning your closet into a homo-sex-u-al sex den? I’ve seen how the gays are with those chains and rubber penises. It just isn’t right!” Anytime my mother is feeling especially martyred, she’s compelled to use my full, given name. Which brings up another issue. Why don’t we spell it “unGodly” with a big G?

Anytime Gram hears Mother use my given name, she’s compelled to come to my aid. Gram sniped at Mother, she said, “Mother, yer a bigger pain inna ass than them hermatoids I had that one time. Now, you quit yer fucking bitchy-achin’ an’ pass me tha bacon?”

My grandmother swiped a chunk of crusty ciabatta bread through the remnants of runny egg yolk left on her plate and jammed it into her mouth. The yellowed bread was half swallowed when Gram added, “I swear I don’t got a clue the first one as ta what that big-assed bird sees in Mooner’s fuckin’ pig. Bird’s a pretty little thing an’ that piggie’s a mess. But they’s in love, Mother Johnson, a little sumthin you need ta git a taste of. Now finish yer breakfast an’ go schedule a visit with Mr. Dave.”

My mother blushed and started to deny she has spread her wings with Mr. Dave, the giant-peckered old geezer I’ve hired to keep the Johnson women happy. But Mother won’t tell lies, so she started, “Well I never heard of such a thing, Gram. How dare you to insinuate that I… That… Uh, that, ah… Well, it’s against God’s laws to engage in homo-sex-u-al activity, and it’s blasphemous that my own son—who I raised correctly in the Southern Baptist way—would name a filthy hog after Mr. Limbaugh and that smelly bird after our dear governor.”

Here, Mother did her left-hand-fans-face-right-hand-to-the-forehead martyr pose. “They say God doesn’t give you any burdens you can’t carry, so I guess I must be the strongest woman in Texas.”

“I’mma kick yer bourbon up yer ass if’fn ya don’t shut yer yapper. Now pass me tha bacon fer shit sakes!” I’m not the only Johnson who loves his bacon.

And here I’m reminded that the fucking Southern Baptist Convention has decided to broaden their fan base. I guess that since an asshole like Rick Santarum from Pennsylvania can spout the same idiotic exclusionary hate swill as a Southern Baptist, they need a little name adjustment. They’ve decided to add “Great Commission Baptists” to their name. Seems like ignorance, racism and bigotry has finally escaped the South and infected its way up to the North.

Me, I’m starting to think that if we were to draw the Mason-Dixon line today, there’d be a fight to move it up to include the fucking rust belt states.

Anyway, we all ate some more bacon and I grabbed a beer to go back to my wing of the house to plan the animal’s renovations. When I got there, Ricky and Rushie were engaged in a terrible row about paint colors for their closet. Their closet?

“All right you two melon heads,” I told them, “break it up or I’m taking the both of you to the butcher shop. SAC Ellen has asked for a pair of ostrich skin boots and my pork meat freezer has an opening just about your size.”

They kept snipping at each other like little kids so I sent them outside. I went looking for my puppies and found that Squirt was in the bathroom talking to the fucking cat, and Yoda was playing with the new toy I made him. I cut a little triangle hole in an old tennis ball and stuffed dandelion leaves inside. It’s driving him nuts trying to get at the tender shoots.

The Squirt informed me, “Honor says she wants it built with unfinished cedar and strapped with hemp ropes, like in the movie Tarzan The Fearless, and she wants a scratching station in each corner. She says if you’ll do that she’ll promise to stop using SAC Ellen’s diaphragm.”

“What!!!” I almost came out of my sneakers when I flinched.

Squirt and Honor were rolling on the floor with their laughter. “Got you, shithead. You should have seen the look on your face. Now listen, she wants a scratching station in each corner, and she wants you to know that…”

I didn’t hear anything else Squirt said. Until that very moment I haven’t thought about having a baby for years. I need a vasectomy, I thought to myself.

“You need to reverse that lobotomy first, Bwanna Mooner, then worry about a vasectomy. You aren’t getting enough sex to warrant making a nut cut number one.” I guess I must be thinking out loud again. Squirt followed up with, “Prioritize your medical needs, dude, you know how tricky it’s getting to get health insurance to cover shit.”

And with that my dogs and the fucking cat were all rolling in laughter.

I packed a cooler with Carta Blanca beer, made myself a couple BLT’s with the leftover bacon, rolled a fat one and headed to the dock to fish by myself. To fish and reflect, by myself. That’s when my cell phone started playing “You Can’t Get A Man With A Gun”[,] SAC Ellen’s ring tone.

“Mooner Johnson’s the name, heavy petting and sex is my game,” I answered.

“Pick me up at the airport in an hour. Drive the truck and bring something to cover the windows, my layover is only ninety minutes.” SAC Ellen’s voice was deep, raspy.

“I guess that means no stun gun foreplay, huh?” I had to ask.

“No time, baby, and bring my diaphragm and some moist towelettes. I can’t be traveling with my boss when I’m stinking of Mooner Johnson.”

I hung up the phone and decided to reflect at a later date. I did, however, hold her rubber contraceptive devise to the harsh light of the afternoon sun to check for perforations.

“Good to go,” I said to myself as I placed the disk back into it’s little case.

At least I think I said it to myself. Manana, y’all.

 

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Guest Blogger Bully; Yoda’s Still Homely

Monday, February 13th, 2012

 

So. I’m working my brain overtime to discover new ways to stimulate book sales. I’ve come up with another possibility—actually I came up with it two weeks ago—but as is typical with anything involving technology of any variety, I’m more lost than that time when Gram and Aunt Hilda were running from the bad guys over to Africa. That’s when they were Baptist missionaries as young women and had to be smuggled to safety by large African men in a dugout canoe.

That canoe trip is when Aunt Hilda went batty and, I think, when my Gram first exhibited her randinesses. Aunt Hilda came home talking to a shrunken head in a mahogany box, and Gram came home talking lusty thoughts about large mahogany-skinned African men. The complete story is in Full Rising Mooner, the book about which I am bitching about it’s marketing.

You know, the more I authorate the more I have doubts as to the likelihood that there really is a benevolent God. A loving God would make it easy to communicate between His peoples. That last sentence up in the previous paragraph is a perfect example in explanation of my doubts. I edited that fucking string of words five times and that was the best I could do. Since a book is not a person, I can’t say, “… Full Rising Mooner, the book whose marketing is perplexing me…” I’ve spent so much time with that book that it has assumed a life in my life, but it’s still just words.

In the last three years I have written the afore-over-mentioned book of 120,000 words, an endeavor that required me to keystroke more than 550,000 words before completion. That word count ignores all of my multiple self-edits, and includes only the rewritings required by my fancy-pants Editorators. I had already written 54,000 words of a second book before deciding to start this silly fucking webber and bloggie.

Since I postered the first bloggie story in March of 2010, I have pasted 1,636,8992 words herein to the pages hereof. Since Amin only counts words that show up when you guys read this mess, I’m guessing that I actually typed over 2,000,000 self-edited words. When I add onto this word count, I have emails, US Postal Service letters, my scribbles on my beloved Postie Notes and the reminders I scribble on the palms of my hands.

I took the time to calculate the sum total for all of this word smithing and I obtained a number that approximated 3,250,000 words. That, dear friends, is over a million words per year and about 2,900 words every day—a number that feels a touch light. And after writing more than 3 million words of self expression, I still lack any quality to my expressions. I work my ass off to say exactly, specifically and with great precision, what I mean to say. To no avails. Like what I was trying to say up there about the book.

Which reminds me that I had an idea that I will sell books directly from here and I can do personal autographs and dedications to the buyer—that’s the idea from two weeks ago. I’ll set up a Pay Pal dealie to insure safety for both buyer and seller alike, and I’ll be in business. My thought is that I’ll be so busy signing and mailing sold books that I’ll have little time to give books away. All I need to do to implement this plan is set up a Pay Pal account and get it plastered here. Easy-peasy!

Riiiiight. Did you notice when I said “I’ll” set up a Pay Pal dealie? As I said above, I had this idea fourteen days ago and I’ve been frustrating myself with it ever since. I’m almost frustrated enough to ask for help. Almost.

Which brings up another technologies point. After reaching a point just north of suicidal tendencies, I got help from BJ and Squatlo to get a photo of Yoda eating yard weeds postered. Since nobody commented, I’m going to paste it herein once more. Please notice how cute a truly ugly dog can be when photographed at the right angle, and in the soft light of late afternoon. Squirt says of her younger buddy, she told me, “You know, Bwana Mooner, he’s so ugly the flies won’t land on his ass.” This single photo is the only one from the hundreds I took of him and the Squirt grazing that was worth a shit. I literally wore the batteries down in the camera taking pictures, and that’s the only one that worked. This is the pic of Yoda eating a dandelion leaf from my hand, proof positive that he eats weeds like a goat.

 

 Oopsie, let me try again.

Yoda eats a dandelion

Now that prior reminder reminds me of another thing I need to remind us about. I want to have some guest bloggers here. I want some of my friends and enemies both to write stuff for me to put up. So far the only responses I’ve gotten to this request have been polite, “I’m not suited for your site.”

Who, in the fuck, is suited for this site? You think I’m suited for this site? Really? Do you truly think that my ramblings are suitable for print? And they say I’m crazy.

OK, I actually am crazy, which brings up my psycho therapy session from last Friday morning. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson was asking me how I feel about getting older and I of course asked what the fuck she was speaking to—did she mean does my body aches, or my thoughts of an early death or the abject fear I have that my pecker could stop working? If my pecker ever stops working I’ll have no reason to live.

“No, Mooner, you bat-shit loony bird, I’m speaking to your inappropriate behaviors. You’re at an age where you can’t maintain the pace required to be as crazy as you are. As the zoo keeper for your mental health, I feel obligated to recommend that you scale-back your proclivity to cause a ruckus.”

What the fuck? (That was me thinking to myself so I italicized it. I think was was the correct way to do it)

“What the fuck?” this time aloud. “Are you accusing me of getting into trouble on purpose?”

Her answer was a sweet smile, and a nod of her perfectly coiffed head. She has her hair cut into this pixie cut that has always been my favorite hair style. I’m not a long hair man, I like short hair on women.

“Bitch,” the best I could manage under the circumstances.

“Look, Mooner. How many more times can you be arrested and released unharmed? The Sheriff’s catch-and-release license is going to expire if Woozie ever loses an election, and you’ll be in some serious trouble.”

“Woozie will die with that star pinned to his chest, Sammie. Besides, you talk as though I do shit on purpose.”

My psycho therapist chewed on hep lip—an action that still springs my loins—and then gnawed on the fingernail of her left middle finger. My first ex-wife and mother of my children is a sexy little thing. Always was and likely always will be.

“Don’t look at me with those dewy eyes of yours, buster. If you think I’m falling for that Johnson charm again, you are crazy enough for Shoal Creek Mental Hospital.” Here she pointed to the buttons on her desk phone and said to me, she tells me, “I’ve got their emergency intake number on speed dial. I push button number 3 on this, and you’ll be the prize behind door number 7 in the close watch unit at the hospital.”

And now, dear friends, I have hit 1,286 words. I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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Invitation To Be A Guest Blogger; Rain Sex Better Than Make-up Sex

Friday, February 10th, 2012

 

So. It’s Friday and rainy and gloomy here to Austin, Texas, and I love it. We need rain and I need an excuse to stay inside, and I love rain anyway. Ever had sex in the rain?

One of my ex-wives, a woman of robust sexual proclivities who shall go herein unnamed, would get all hot and bothered with just the mention of rain in a weather forecast. We’d be watching the late news on TV and the weather guy would say, “… and there’s a ten-percent chance of light showers Saturday afternoon…” and the next thing I know I’m in the big shower stall with my eyes crossed.

Woman didn’t care about the temperature outside, wind velocities or any other inclemency attached to the rain. If it’s raining, she’s getting wet and laid. OK, wait. She’s getting laid wet. Actually, she used to say, “Just the thought of getting laid in the rain makes me wet,” so, maybe I should have said that, “If it’s raining, she’s getting wet and getting laid wetly.”

There was this one time we were out to the barn when a big Springtime thunderstorm rolled through. The barn had—still has—a full-metal jacket of corrugated roof and sides. She heard the pitty-pats of the first raindrops hit the side of the barn and she was all lathered up. “Come on, Mooner, let’s go the the pasture and screw in the grass.”

This was said with her hot breath on my neck and her hand jammed up and beneath the leg of my loose cotton shorts. I wear loose cotton shorts whenever I can. If I remember correctly, her hand was up the left leg of my shorts, and my initial reaction to those first pitter-pats of rain was a pecker expansion. We’d been married long enough at that moment for me to know how she got with inclement weather. In the time it took for her to squeeze me, me to issue a resultant moan and her to re squeeze, lightening flashed and lit up the dim barn and the thunder clapped and shook the metal covering almost simultaneously.

Now most of you are thinking the lightening would have been a discouragement, but you are wrong. “Oh, my God, Baby, let’s hurry outside,” she stammered with shaky breath. “You know how I love light shows.”

See, I told you. I dropped the pitchfork I was holding and grabbed her by the waist and kissed her hard. In that instant it started to hail. At first it was the small rock salt-sized pellets that I knew would make the pasture sex especially rewarding. But quickly the hail grew in size and was suddenly a waterfall of ice balls from golf-to-softball in size. The metal skin of the barn was like a thousand kettle drums as the hails pelted and hammered away.

“Hurry, Mooner,” she gasped and pulled me to the west wall where the wind was pushing the rain and hail in torrents. She quickly stripped and pulled me against her as she leaned against the metal.

“Holy shit,” she said when both the hail and her passion had passed. “That was better than using two vibrators.” When she said this her voice had a quiver like when you put a vibrator on your Adam’s apple. Of course she doesn’t have an Adam’s apple, I was using metaphor, but she did have a splendid neck. Creamy skin, and her big arteries would bulge and pulse when she was in heat.

Anyway, Rick “The Pompous Prick” Perry spoke to the right-wing Republicans gathering yesterday and promised to fight for the Tenth Amendment until his last breath. The Tenth is, of course, the “State’s Rights” amendment on the Bill of Rights, and what these silly fuckballs in state legislatures use to take away our rights in the name of family values.

His “last breath” comment caused me to cogitate a moment, and I ordered a sleeve of dry cleaners bags. I had the bags printed to say, “Executive Privilege Dry Cleaners- these bags are safe to put over your head.”

I’ll try to get someone to place them in Ricky’s closet.

Sister and Anna were over to dinner last night and we were discussing Lloyd’s coming visit and then the subject of gay rights. We all think that maybe it’s a good thing how the Christian right is pushing so hard and cruelly against gays and that the vitriolic nature of their attacks is awakening quiet America’s eyes. We’re starting to think that things are turning to the good on that front.

OK, stop. Somehow I have managed to kill the messenger and forgot to tell you what I intended to in this posting. If you check the prior posting to this one, you’ll notice that I managed to hang a photo of Yoda eating dandelions but not one of his acrobatic crappings. The weather is dismal and I can’t risk ruining the camera. So that pic will have to wait for the rain to pass—an event the weatherman says is likely a week away.

But, again, that’s good news since we need rain.

But here’s the deal. Brandini wrote about how smart it is to have/do guest bloggies at other guys’ webbers. I think that’s a great idea. Therefore, and herein requested, I am offering an open forum for anyfuckingbody to be a guest blogger. I’ll not censure, save for legalities and maybe dumb meannesses, and I’ll print every one of them.

That way we can cross-pollinate our readerships and gain critical masses. Come on, guys, step up to the plate! Maybe it’ll be you manana.

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When ADD Loses Focus; How To Write A Bad Bloggie

Thursday, February 9th, 2012

 

So. I got frustrated today and hopped into the GTO to go fix the problem. The problem is that after weeks of following procedures for getting my book for sale at the local bookstore, I am exactly where I started, when I started weeks ago, and that is no fucking where.

That has to make sense.

There’s this one guy who holds the golden key to unlock the gates to shelf space at the bookstore, and he is ignoring me. That or he is too busy to do this part of his job, or he is a right-wing fascist fuckball who won’t put my book in the store because of my politics. Whatever the reason, I find it unreasonable that the bookstore that touts itself as “local author friendly” is so very unfriendly with a local author.

In case things got out of hand, I left the cat and dogs behind. I can’t always find someone to pick them up from the jail right away and the Squirt says Yoda doesn’t like jail. As for the fucking cat, Honor would shred somebody’s arms and then I’d have to deal with that. Squirt likes jail, thinks of getting locked up as personal growth.

Anyway, I was alone and headed to the bookstore to pay my fee and get my book on the shelf for sale. Nope. Didn’t happen. I’m giving this little situation until the end of the week, and if we get no resolution by then, I’m gonna full-disclosure their asses.

After becoming ever more frustrated with the as yet unnamed bookstore, I left their parking lot and headed south on Lamar. At 5th Street I turned left and headed to Congress Avenue. I decided to eat lunch at one of the South Congress food trucks that are set on a gravel lot near Guerros Taco Bar. It’s a mobile food truck park, like a trailer park, but with food. Good food.

I turned onto Congress, crossed the river and headed up the hill. I got just a couple blocks when I noticed a young woman on a moped. She had a big mop of bright red hair tied into a tangled knot atop her head, she wore a black bomber jacket, a huge bug-eating grin, and a mini dress that exposed half-a-mile of creamy legs. I saw her approach in my left rear-view mirror and my eyes seemed to catch a glimpse of a Sharon Stone.

With my eyes on the rear-view, the GTO almost hit a parked car on my right, which reminds me. In its infinite wisdom, the City of Austin has installed these silly-assed reverse-angle parking spaces all along South Congress. Instead of pulling forward into a 45-degree angled slot head first, you drive past your chosen spot, stop and then back in place into a reverse-angle slot. I’ve heard all the reasons why this is a good plan to increase the numbers of slots and safety and all of that…

But that is the single dumbest parking dealie I have ever seen, and I’ve been to San Francisco and Rome.

The car I almost hit was an old Cadillac with its tail fins stuck a few feet into traffic. Obviously its owner has no more respect for this reverse angle silliness than do I. I swerved and honked, of course I honked, and scared the woman on the moped. She jumped off the seat and almost crashed. When she jumped off the seat I got a confirmed sighting of a Sharon Stone.

She regained control of the little motor bike and passed me with a flip of a bird and a screamed, “Fuck You, Asshole!”

I felt like an asshole for scaring her, so I followed her to apologize. I opened my window and waved at her six or eight times, but she kept looking back at me and speeding up. I’m tenacious if I’m a day over twenty-one, so I kept it up. I wanted to say, “I’m sorry if I scared you, maybe you should wear undies when you drive that thing, are you married?”

I’d followed her a mile or so south when a cop ahead of us pulled into the shopping center at Oltorff, and the redhead sped in after him. That’s when the red lights went off inside my skull and I passed the center, pulled into Habana and drove behind their building. Habana is a good place to eat, but not a trailer, so I watched until the cop sped past and I exited to drive back north up Congress.

Holy shit but this is starting to sound like an Incident Report. I didn’t get arrested but I did lose focus, and I ended up on this little one-block long street named College Avenue. On it is Lucy’s Fried Chicken, a new chicken joint. It’s this nifty little Austin funky place with a varied menu and nice staff. Will waited on me and was very helpful. He wasn’t afraid to say what he likes best from the menu and he wasn’t stuffy.

I got what they call Gizzers, a gizzard and liver combo basket of chicken fried wonderment. The meat was sweet and clean—soaked in buttermilk before frying to crisp perfection—and they were served with a spicy chipotle dipping sauce that was perfect. The also serve raw oysters and good sides and have daily specials that indicate not just cooks, but a chef resides in the kitchen.

OK, wait. They called them Lizards, not Gizzers. But who really gives a shit what they called them, they were great. I gave Will a copy of Full Rising Mooner and he promised to report back when finished.

Having successfully given one book away, I decided to push my luck and go for a second giveaway. I drove to Flipnotics coffee shop on Barton Springs, one of my favorite places in Austin. I could go on for hours about this place, but let me say that Chris was making coffee when I walked in. Chris is an author so I gave him a book and walked to the upstairs and in the back area and sat on the sofa.

There was a young man of maybe thirty holding court with three women. I think he was a writing coach or something and he was speaking rapid-fire and waving his arms, as if arm waving would add importance to the over-wrought erudite-ness of his patter. I couldn’t understand what he was trying to say, but he had the ladies full attentions. I decided to not bother them, finished my coffee and walked out.

Is this boring you as much as it is me? I realize that my mind has been focused since the third paragraph up there, and I’m starting to realize that I’m boring as shit without my ADHD. Which reminds me. Brandini over to My Private Idaho is a bloggie expert, and last week he wrote a smart story on proper blogging etiquette. He says that you need fewer than 500 words in each posting and that you have to put three photos or picto-graphics in each, or you lose readers.

This little ditty is already more than 1,300 words, and I don’t have a pic for you and couldn’t post a graphic to save Brandini’s life. Which in turn reminds me that I might have a pic to post. Squatlo accused me of dishonesty when I was talking about the dogs eating weeds. I’m going to go take a photo of some weed eating and I might get one of his acrobatic dog squats as well. I can get him to eat on command, but he’ll only shit at will.

If there is a photo attached after all of these too many words, I was successful. If not… I don’t know what if not. I’ll keep trying. Manana, y’all.

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Mooner Not On New York Times Bestseller List; Lloyd Is Coming To Austin

Tuesday, February 7th, 2012

 

So. I’m trying to make an evaluation of my success as a writer and I’m completely lost with it. I was Googlelating around for some sort of criteria that would help me compare my results, and it was nothing if not frustrating.

In the publishing world, the standard for success is the New York Times Bestseller List. Getting on that list is the benchmark for authorating achievements. Ever the practical and self-honest man that I am, I know I’m not ever going to see my name on that particular list.

Unless, of course, they start counting the thousands of books I’ve given away as “sales”[.]

But I don’t think that’s how they mean you get sales. Maybe I could charge a penny for each book rather than give them away. Then again, that might not work either. I can’t tell you how many people have told me I couldn’t pay them to read my trashy book.

Then there would be success as a writer that comes from helping people. Like if I invented a cure for dumbass and I wrote a book for proctologists. There aren’t enough total asshole specialists to buy that book and put it on the bestseller list if all of them paid full price. But you could say the book was successful if some docs read it and saved lives resultantly.

My book won’t cure anything but insomnia so the helpful method of success doesn’t apply here. Which reminds me. I was talking with a guy on the phone about doing some roofing work out to the compost plant and he got all up in my ass about what I said about Jerry Jones a few days ago. “You got no right talking about Jer-Jones like that. He’s a true Texan and I think he looks just fine.”

Now me, I appreciate a man’s dedication to his football team in the face of a full-frontal attack, but I always make sure of my facts before shooting off my mouth. I make way aplenty fool of myself when I know about what I’m saying. I don’t need to be foolish on purpose. I responded to him, I said, “Well first thing, Roscoe, your boy was born in California—somewhere near to Los Angeles if my memory is clear—and he was raised up in Arkansas. That part was near Little Rock, again assuming my memory is un-muddled. He’s not a Texan by birth or raising.”

I gave that a few beats to sink in. “Then he went to the U of Hoggies and played football against my Texas Longhorns and for Coach Broyles, on a team that had many players and assistant coaches who have gone on to become outstanding head coaches. Those guys would include our very own Jimmy Johnson, Johnny Majors of Vol fame, Batty Barry Switzer, Ken Hatfield and Hayden Fry.”

Again I gave him a minute to digest before I continued with, “Your boy Jerry likely got his idiotic desire to be a head coach from his jealousy at having so many of those other guys become successful coaches. Since he was born with a silver shoe up his ass, he likely thinks anything he wants he can have. I’m not saying he hasn’t taken what his daddy gave him and done well with it in the business world, I’m just saying it wouldn’t be his concussions keeping him out of the White House.”

This got me a, “You’re a real asshole, Mooner Johnson. You need to take back what you said about his titties twitchin’ when he talks.”

“Well, Roscoe, I didn’t say that, I said his nipples twitch when he smiles, and I meant it. Be glad I didn’t tell you what his plastic surgeon asked him in the middle of the operation,” two, three, four.

“OK, smart guy, what did his plastic surgeon ask him in the middle of the operation?” Some people can’t feel the prick of the hook through the meat of the bait.

“Now Roscoe, you understand that they put you all the way out for facial surgeries, so they had to wake old Jer-Jones up to ask the question. Once he was awake enough that the doc felt he could get an intelligent answer, he said to Jerry, he asked, ‘Mr. Jones, after pulling your skin tight enough to get all the wrinkles out of your face, your belly button is in the middle of your chin. I can either cut it off and graft it onto the end of you pecker—we call that foreskin retatchment—or I can just leave it as a big dimple.’”

Two, three and four, “Me, and here I’m just guessing when I say that since old Jerry’s not sporting a big chin cleft, he’s got himself a nice, soft new pecker hood.”

Then my silly brain started fritzing around and I thought, out loud, “Hey, that’s funny. A new pecker head hood for the head pecker wood.”

It took a couple more calls to find a roofer and I got wondering about pecker hoods. I was violated with a hood removal as a newborn like most the rest of us white boys back in the day. I have always wondered what it would be like to have one. Daddy and granddaddy both had them and bitched about their care. “Gotta keep it real clean, Mooner, or your Gram won’t sleep in the same bed with me.”

I loved my grandfather with deep respect. He was the first Johnson in my direct lineage with the dreaded ADHD and ADD. Granddaddy died in a farming accident with a 1940′s era combine. The story is in the stupid fucking book I’m discussing, said book available over there ====}}}} on the Bloggie Roller. Those of you with knowledge of a 1940′s combine know how terrible his death must have been.

Which reminds me to tell you about the dogs. I had to cut back a touch on their food to keep them healthy, so they have started supplementing their diets with roughage from everywhere. These two fucking dogs are now eating anything that resembles salad components.

It first started when Yoda was outside taking a dump. He gets all hunched up like a dog except to the extreme when he shits. Remember that yoga stance where you put your hands on the ground and then rest your knees on your elbows and lift your feet off the ground? That’s what he does and sometimes he’s got that look on his face like that little Russian gymnast, Olga Carmichael or whateverthefuck her name was. You know that time when she’s all balled-up on the balance beam in some silly position and she’s shaking and sweating and grimacing?

That’s our Yoda when he does the number two, and it was Olga Korbut. The Russian girl was Olga Korbut, and Yoda was dumping a few weeks ago and his lost his balance and fell nose first into a pile of dandelions. The weather has been so mild that the dandies have come out early, and often. I had pulled a dozen or so and piled them up to collect later for composting.

Yoda’s nose was buried in the pile of weeds while he finished his business and he came out of the pile with a big leaf stuck to his nose. He sniffed it where it lay, liked what he smelled and decided to take a nibble.

I haven’t had to weed the patch of grass where the dogs shit since. Once they ate all the dandelions, they went on to eat the winter grass, small milk thistles—the babies before the sticker gets hard—and this little vine that grows close to the ground.

“How in the hell am I supposed to control your diets if the two of you eat every weed that grows on 3,000 acres?” I thought this a thoughtful question of the Squirt and Yoda.

“Fuck you, asshole,” Squirt responded. “Who the hell you think you are, anyway?”

“I’m the asshole who can stuff your fat ass in a gunny sack and take you for a swim. That’s who the fuck I am, you ungrateful little bitch.”

Squirt gave me a smile and turned to go eat some more weeds.

Which reminds me. I just got an email from my buddy Lloyd. Lloyd is the man I most admire in the entire world. He and his husband are coming to Austin in March and I’m way too fucking excited. I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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Mooner’s Best Ad Choice; Wake Up Tea Bag Party

Monday, February 6th, 2012

 

So. Here we all are. It’s the day after the super bowl and conversation around the Johnson family breakfast table centered not upon what must have been a boring game, but rather the advertisements. Adult Americans have now been brainwashed to pay extremely-close attention to Super Bowl ads because, and here I’ll quote one of the pretty faces from a morning network news shows, “These will be the smartest, funniest and most social-oriented ads of the year.”

Really? I think that the ads are better because advertisers have convinced us that they are the best.

I didn’t actually watch the game or the ads, but I did sit in the TV room with everyone else. I started a John Lescroart novel, Damage, after lunch and couldn’t manage to put it down. So I named myself “designated fetcher” for the game, parked myself closest to the kitchen, and sat to read. I went to fetch things for the others so they wouldn’t have to miss any action.

I’m a seriously fast reader—I devour words on the page—but I’m not a speed reader. I didn’t take an Evelyn Woods course to be a good, fast reader. I am, rather, an ADHD-fueled rocket reader. I can consume 2,000 words in a minute-and-a-half, but I can’t remember anything about them. My eyes jump all over the place so I am forced to read shit multiple times to maintain any shred of plot or circumstance. I can be reading and, as is often the case be distracted from the reading, and when I return to the book I can’t find my place.

I’ve always been this way and it has always been problematic. I think I’m lucky I’m creative and imaginative because as a scholar I’m dumb as a rock. Which brings up an issue I’d like to address. I want to address the issue to two groups of people. The first group are those folks who think there is no such thing as ADHD or ADD. Those of you who think ADHD is a liberal plot to authorize lazy and bad behaviors.

The second group I want to address are those of you who are pretenders and use ADHD and ADD as an excuse to be lazy and behave badly.

ADD is not the cause when you don’t do something because you don’t want to do it. ADHD is not the cause when you get drunk and make a fool of yourself. When you choose to not perform a promised task you are either lazy or you’re a lying asshole. When the only times you act out are times when you’re drunk, then you are an asshole and quite possibly an alcoholic asshole.

There are not, I think, as many people with actual ADD as there are impostors. Using a false diagnosis for ADD and ADHD has become the “my dog ate my homework” excuse for lazy, rude shitbrains. One of my customers told me once that he wanted to thank me for showing him how to get away with shit. He said, “Whenever I don’t want to do something I just go all scatter-brained and skip around subjects and then I’ll say something like, ‘Anyway,’ and I can get away with almost anything.”

I told the fuckball that his prices just increased by 25% and I thumped him on his nose. I had just been released from Sheriff Woozy Wozniac’s jail for accidentally making a scene at the car wash over to that place on Burnett Road, so I didn’t thump him hard enough to draw blood. But I did tell him that rather than tell people he has the ADHD he needed to tell them that he’s a lazy asshole.

Then when I got the call from my major competitor in the compost business asking me if the guy was a good customer, I said to him, I said, “Please take him off my hands.”

The other guy says, “Why, what’s the matter with him?” and I said, “Oh, nothing at all, he’s my best customer ever,” and than he says, “Thanks, Mooner.” When I hung up the phone I told Gnat to send the customer a letter telling him that after a review of his account, we have decided to put him on a cash only program.

Anyway, I’m sitting there reading my very good book. It’s about a wealthy San Francisco family who thinks they are above both the law, and the common man. An underwear commercial played and Gram and Mother started arguing over its appropriateness. “Didn’t show ‘is pecker, goddammit. Ruth-Ann swored ta me ya could see his pecker.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus, Gram, please don’t use that word. You know how it offends me.” This came from my mother with the back of her wrist placed dramatically to her forehead, and an equally dramatic scowl on her face.

“Oh quit yer bitchy-aching. Everbody inna room’s either got a pecker or needs one.”

Since everybody else in the room knew that Mother was speaking of Gram’s using the Lord’s name in vain and not her use of peckers, we smiled in unison as Mother fumed. And speaking of peckers, Mr. Dave turned out to be a huge Patriot fan, and a vocal one at that. He was wearing his official Patriots workout uniform of Tom Brady jersey, Pats cap and sweatpants. He was jumping up and down from his seat—a sturdy pecan wood chair that my grandfather made when lightening struck-down a big tree out back that was placed squarely in front of the big TV—and Mr. Dave’s eight pound pecker was bouncing around the loose cotton pants like a dog’s tail wagging inside a plastic bag.

I noticed that all the ladies were moaning and sighing every time he jumped up. I guess size really does matter and I was reminded how grateful I am to at least have that old Johnson charm.

I didn’t catch much of any of the commercials, but I went to the kitchen before halftime to get some platters of food ready for the break, and when I returned to the TV room to tell the others a voice caught my ear. I knew the voice but didn’t place it at first. The voice was speaking of America’s economic woes in the manner of a halftime speech, and it turned out to be Clint Eastwood narrating a Chrysler commercial about Detroit.

That commercial brought tears to my eyes. With the specific help of President Obama’s loan program and the amazing cooperation between company management and it’s UNION employees, Chrysler Corp. has returned from the brink of extinction to profitability. Government, big corporate interests and a unionized workforce joined hands to create a remarkable success, and they did it when many conservative voices predicted dismal failure.

Chrysler’s success can be a formula repeated in many other areas and industries. This wasn’t a Detroit phenomenon, this was an American dream scenario come true. You say our President’s economic programs are failures, I say fuck you, looka right here.

It wasn’t a perfect reunion between the company, union and the Administration but it was an honest one. Each side gave more than it wanted and ended with more than it dreamed possible. That’s what happens when people work together to move forward with specific, mutually agreeable goals in mind.

And that, dear friends, is why our Congress is stuck in reverse. We have factions controlling the House who find all positions not theirs disagreeable. They either want everything done their way or they want nothing done.

I say fuck them too. Wake up, assholes, America needs more successes like Chrysler. Manana, y’all.

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Jerry Jones Admits Diminished Mental Capacity; Cowboys Owner Seeks Brain Donor

Saturday, February 4th, 2012

 

So. We were all sitting at the big breakfast table this morning, enjoying a delightful journey through the world of pig meat that only my mother could ruin. Fragrant sausage, bacon, Virginia ham, spicy Mexican chorizo, and this new English pork bangers recipe Dixie talked Streaker Jones into making. The porcine repast was supported by a cast of waffles, eggies of all varieties, and my famous potato cakes.

For those of you wondering what a banger might be, let me say that banger is British for bland.

Mother was reading the Saturday newspaper, editorial fashion, a habit of hers that is somewhat tolerated by the rest of us. The woman from whose loins I sprang uses these moments to make comparisons between stories in the paper and those of us in the family she considers to be of “low moral character”[.] Should I have said, “… from whom’s loins I sprang?”

To my mother, any Johnson family member and associate attending this morning’s breakfast not named Mother Johnson is of low moral character. Gram sexes with young boys, Aunt Hilda thinks that the shrunken head of a heathen African can talk, P-cubed runs with Gram, Mr. Dave is a gigolo, Squirt curses like a sailor, Yoda is so ugly he has to be the Devil’s spawn, Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are homo-sex-u-als, Streaker Jones and Dixie are involved in illegal business enterprise with me, and I… well, folks, I, quite simply, am me.

Some of Mother’s favorite news stories are when women teachers have illegal relationships with their students and the sting operations wherein the cops set a guy up thinking he’s meeting an underage girl for sex. These stories are fodder for Mother to lecture Gram and the P-cubed for their lust of barely-legal boys. I do admit that my randy old grandmother adds new dimensions to the term “cougar” and might have actually been the original model for it. But Gram and her best bud, Penelope Paxton-Parades, are strict enforcers of the eighteen is bare minimum rule.

“Oh quit yer bitchin’, ya old gasser baggie. We checks their ID an their teeth ever’ time,” Gram responded to today’s editorial chastisements. “Cain’t stand bad teeth, an’ yer startin’ ta git inta my short hairs.”

I’m reasonably sure that Gram meant “cross hairs” but why would anyone correct her?

Streaker Jones and Dixie caught their shit scoop with the story of a meth lab that blew up out in the country near Burnett, Texas. My mother doesn’t approve of any business enterprise that us illegal, and illegal is Streaker Jones middle name. Actually, Streaker Jones has no middle name, but illegal is his game. His and Dixie’s current project is breeding a new strain of sweaty toad. They think they can breed the little boogers to where you can lick them and not die.

Squirt had her chops busted over a story about the declining vocabularies of third graders. When Mother asked Squirt what she thought that might mean, Squirt said, “Who gives a shit? Those potato cakes are really fucking good.”

Another case where a different dog owner might feel compelled to correct his potty-mouthed puppy, yet I found humor and enlightenment in Squirt’s words.

My rasher of grief came from a very strange place. “Oh my, Mooner, would you listen to this. Jerry Jones just confided that he suffered more than fifty concussions while playing football at the University of Arkansas. He says he would have been President if he hadn’t played football. Now what do you think about that?”

“OK, first, I think that explains some things about Jerry Jones. Second, the little prick is always sticking his head where it doesn’t belong, so where’s the shock? Third, I think I’m glad I’ve already stopped liking the Cowboys because that kind of brain damage only gets worse, and I already can’t stand the sonofabitch.” I cogitated some more and said, “Besides, Jerry’s a right-wing Christian Republican. He’s never been more fucking qualified to lead that batch of shitballs than now that he’s lost his mind.”

I actually don’t know that Jerry is a right-wing Christian Republican shitball. I base my assumption on the simple fact that my mother likes him. Mother gravitates to her kind.

Anyway, I want to be interested in, and excited about, Sunday’s Super Bowl but I am, quite simply, not. I could not care less if it was with Jerry Jones’ Dallas Crybabies. Waaaaah, I had fifty concussions in college… Waaaaaah, Dallas lost an important game because of a bad call… Waaaah, I should have listened when my scouts told me Dez Bryant is a knuckle-head. Waaaaah, the plastic surgeon pulled the skin so tight on my face that every time I smile, my nipples twitch.

Fucking Jerry Jones. “I could have been President, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.”

I wanted the Forty-Niners and The Raiders this year. If BJ wasn’t my buddy, I’d have wanted the Niners and the Saints but that’s impossible since they’re both NFC. Hell, I’d be happy to watch them play a rematch of this year’s play-off game, only on a neutral field.

But as the Squirt and my Gram like to say, “Who gives a shit what you think, Mooner. It’s New England and The fucking Giants. Now pass the guacamole, and fetch me another Carta Blanca.

Manana, y’all.

 

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Read At Your Own Risk; Mooner’s Confusion Is Confused

Thursday, February 2nd, 2012

 

So. It’s Thursday and a beautiful day here to Austin, Texas. Texas state Governor Rick “The Prick” Perry is still too wounded with embarrassment from his national political debacle to restart his dismantling of our infrastructure. The pompous little bastard is hiding out, no doubt meeting with his big money handlers to determine just how bad his national exposures damaged his state authorities. So, as I said, it’s a beautiful day here.

I have never failed to credit the right-wing Christian religious of Texas, and I suspect Ricky will soon start blowing his fetid, stupid air up their dresses again and re-inflate that balloon. I wonder if those of the religious right have ever stopped to wonder why it is that their best political spokesperson is dumb as a rock. OK, that was an unfair statement. He’s not dumb “as” a rock, he’s dumb “like” a rock. Like the painted rock at his family’s hunting lease.

I also wonder if those same supposed “models of Christ’s image” realize that it is we, the hedonistic, agnostic and heretical liberal left who are actually the ones pushing Jesus’ “love your brother-take care of your weak and infirm” political agenda. Do those guys realize that their right-wing me-first attitudes have made us look more Godlike than them. (they?)

Which reminds me to tell you that I heard from a spokesperson from the Holy Roman Catholic Church late yesterday afternoon. Please allow me to say, here in advance, that I had already cracked a couple icy-cold Carta Blanca beers and also ingested one of my Gram’s magic mushroom potions she calls “A bruised peach ain’t right”[.] The bluish spot high on my arm where SAC Ellen “tapped” me night-before-last had turned into a purple and yellow, swollen lump. Gram gave me the potion to reduce swelling and I guess also to stop my whining about it.

I’m still amazed at how much unwanted attention I bring to myself.

Those of you with inclinations to stay abreast of current science know that studies now show how psychedelic mushroom juice can enhance concentration as well as imagination. I have always attempted to tell people that Gram’s potions straighten-out some of my ADHD’s worst habits, and now I have proof. I tell you this to provide additional clarity to the information re: the call from the Catholic guy. I was on my third beer, which likely dimmed my wits, but I was also in a state of altered ADD and AD-with-an-HD effects with enhanced imagination from the mushrooms.

OK, let’s face it, I was shit-faced when my phone rang.

The call wasn’t from Christian Gonzales, the communications guy, but, rather, from Larry Covington, who is the “Ecumenical Officer” of the Austin Diocese. Turns out Larry is a Catholic who attended a Baptist Seminary and he was the perfect man to answer my questions when doing a compare/contrast of Biblical foundations between Baptists and Catholics on three key issues: birth control, abortion and homo, I say homo-sex-u-al-ity.

At first I wondered how it was known that I was ecumenical as it relates to the Catholic Church. I mean really, how did they know I wasn’t Catholic? The answer, of course, was in my question. As I later learned, only a non-Catholic would ask such a silly question.

I’ll preface my remarks by saying that Larry was forthright, forthcoming and didn’t blanch at any question I asked. He didn’t attempt to avoid or deflect except when he felt directing me to printed Catholic stuff would serve to clarify. Unless Larry is a devious little Catholic fucker and the same Larry I’ve met over to the Planned Parenthood where I anti-anti-abortion protest. Short of that, if I were a Catholic I would want Mr. Covington in my corner.

I also wonder if the local Catholic clan has other Ecumenical Officers who attended Church of Christ, Mormon, Lutheran and other seminaries who stand at the ready for callers like me. My simple request lead me through four entire departments and six people. They’d need like at least a dozen specially trained Larry guys each with training in a different world religion. I wonder how many of those guys convert to the religion they study?

It’s no wonder that need so much money.

To understand my quest you need to know that I was raised Baptist and one, Baptists believe in the “literal” words of the Bible, and two, Baptists believe that Catholics are not “real” Christians. I never really gave a shit as to why Catholics were viewed as heretics at my church and I stopped going at an age that predated my quest for knowledge. I’m pretty well-versed on the Catholic Church’s stand on the centuries of child rape committed by its priests and also its stand on women.

But I had never bothered myself with the Bible verses either the Baptists or Catholics stand upon to justify those stances. I made the call to the Catholic Bishop of Austin because he started whining about new health care requirements that require health care providers, those that that accept payments under government programs, cover birth control. I got all pissed off that the Bishop was pissed off about such a basic human right of women.

I had +/-thirty minutes of conversation with Mr. Covington and while I can say that he cleared several things for me, I am even more dumb founded than before making the call. See, according to Larry, the Ecumenical Officer of the local Catholic Church, The Holy Roman Catholic Church doesn’t rely on the words of the Bible for their positions on those three issues. Instead, they rely upon what they choose to call “Natural Law” and then through “The Theory of the Body” the Church pontificates modern beliefs.

Only after filtering whatever original intentions God might have had in regards to my issues through a succession of dried up old men—that would be the Popes and masses of Cardinals over time—several re-interpretations of the Bible, The Dark Ages, The Inquisition, the Catholic Church plundering of the New World, and the actual acceptance of a New Testament that totally changed Christianity, can the Catholics even decide how they rule.

I want to thank Larry Covington for clearing a few things for me and also for confusing the shit right out of me. I’m way too confused to know how I feel about all of this right now, because basically, Larry told me that over the course of Catholic history the high muck-a-mucks of their church have decided how to act, not the Bible. And in these three modern issues, the only reliance on the words of the Bible come AFTER we apply the Catholic interpretation of the Catholic interpretation of Natural Law.

 

OK, then we’re required to re filter all of that through “The Theology of the Body” which is the last Pope’s cogitations on life.

Let’s start our journey through the mind of Catholic dogma with Natural Law. I apologize for the highlights, funky lines and dead-end hyper links, but here is some of the info I pulled on a Google search of “Catholic Natural Law”[:]

“From Wikipedia:

Paul of Tesarus wrote in his Epistle to the Romans: “For when Gentiles, who do not have the law, by nature do the things contained in the law, these, although not having the law, are a law unto themselves, their conscience also bearing witness.”

 

(Author’s note: Holy fucking shit!)

 

The use of natural law, in its various incarnations, has varied widely through its history. There are a number of different theories of natural law, differing from each other with respect to the role that morality plays in determining the authority of legal norms. This article will deal with its usages separately rather than attempt to unify them into a single theory.

In English this term is frequently employed as equivalent to the laws of nature, meaning the order which governs the activities of the material universe. Among the Roman jurists natural law designated those instincts and emotions common to man and the lower animals, such as the instinct of self-preservation and love of offspring. In its strictly ethical application—the sense in which this article treats it—the natural law is the rule of conduct which is prescribed to us by the Creator in the constitution of the nature with which He has endowed us.

 

 

 

According to St. Thomas, the natural law is “nothing else than the rational creature’s participation in the eternal law” (I-II.94). The eternal law is God’s wisdom, inasmuch as it is the directive norm of all movement and action. When God willed to give existence to creatures, He willed to ordain and direct them to an end. In the case of inanimate things, this Divine direction is provided for in the nature which God has given to each; in them determinism reigns. Like all the rest of creation, man is destined by God to an end, and receives from Him a direction towards this end. This ordination is of a character in harmony with his free intelligent nature. In virtue of his intelligence and free will, man is master of his conduct. Unlike the things of the mere material world he can vary his action, act, or abstain from action, as he pleases. Yet he is not a lawless being in an ordered universe. In the very constitution of his nature, he too has a law laid down for him, reflecting that ordination and direction of all things, which is the eternal law. The rule, then, which God has prescribed for our conduct, is found in our nature itself. Those actions which conform with its tendencies, lead to our destined end, and are thereby constituted right and morally good; those at variance with our nature are wrong and immoral.”

*** OK, I’m back, and please allow me to repeat myself when I say, “Holy fucking shit!”

I need BJ to help me work my way through all of this stuff, I’m just not smart enough. One thing that Larry told me is that women can’t be priests because priests are stand-ins for Jesus and Jesus was a man. I assumed that to mean that Priests are supposed to only act like Jesus, but I’m again confused because the Pope is a priest first and he is bigoted towards many people and balks when given the chance to do what Jesus would have done.

Here’s my rationale. The only time Jesus EVER got angry to the point of physical acts against another was when he kicked the money changers out of the temple. Jesus was physically angry and assaulted these guys for the act of currency exchange on church property.

Yet this current Pope, and those several before him, have been mealy-mouthed about the priests who have raped and otherwise molested thousands of children while wearing the collar and performing the Holy sacraments. Pope’s have not only approved of the slaughter of millions of non-Christians, they have blessed and financed the missions to conquer. Popes have endorsed the killings and taking of slaves in God’s name, but they don’t want us to terminate a two-month pregnancy?

Have I managed to confuse you guys now? My head is spinning and I haven’t even addressed the Theology of the Body. Wait until you see that one. What I wanted was simple answers to modern issues and maybe in all of this confusion I have them. Maybe it’s one, simple answer.

Just like we Baptists, Catholics make shit up to suit us. Manana, y’all.

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Mooner Panders To Gay Readers; No Word From The Catholics

Wednesday, February 1st, 2012

 

So. BJ over to the Dumb Perignon told me that I had additional webber commenter information available to me that would prove his innocence in a formerly-raging commenter debate, and when I looked into his suggested bloggie administrative functions I stumbled upon an interesting tidbit upon which I will now act.

OK, let’s stop here and examine that last sentence. Let me first say that I have read that little ditty thirteen times, and while each reading has brought new meaning to those words, I remain convinced that I said exactly what I meant. And they say ADHD prevents focus and concentration.

The tidbit I tripped over was that many of my recent first time visitors had come here via Good To Be Gay

What the fuck? I can’t continue typing up there in the last paragraph without having it continue the Good To Be Gay hyperlink. I had to leave that paragraph open like that to get out of the linkster, and that shit drives me nuts.

Anyway, I was banging around the Admin section yesterday after BJ told me something, and I discovered that one, I had a significant number of new visitors, and that two, many (most) of those newbies had arrived from GTBG.

I received an email from one of those viewers that said in part, “… and while I find much of your writing interesting, I feel lost with some of people and situations. Might you give your new readers a refresher?…”

For some reason this Emailer wished to go nameless and I hope that isn’t because she is still in the closet. I prefer to think that she’s the mother of a gay person and that she finds me attractive and that embarrasses her. Join the club, Ma’am.

Anyway, I though about her request and decided she’s right. It’s been over a year since I did the Cast of Characters button up there ^^^^^ and things change. So here is my best effort to clarify things:

Mr. Dave is an elderly gentleman in possession of a penis the size of a large Japanese eggplant, said penis is a physiological phenomenon when under the influence of Viagra, and my randy old grandmother rescued him from the nursing home and brought him here to the ranch where he services the matrons of the Johnson family ranch. Mr. Dave is a true gentleman who shares his bounty without prejudice and burns through extra large rubber like a drag car.

I have a menagerie of household pets that includes regular domestic varieties and also pets not typically considered to be of the household. Squirt, the half-Chihuahua/half-Dachshund puppy, currently speaks at least a dozen human languages and is taking the place of Dixie, my long-suffering Golden Retriever and personal translator for the previous sixteen years. Yoda, the supposed same half-Chihuahua/half-Dachshund puppy who is actually a mix of Chihuahua and fucking Whippet, is a bugeyed little shitball who is so ugly that he’s actually cute, and thus aptly-named. He was rescued from a puppy mill over to Oklahoma where they beat and choked him. He has resultant bladder control issues and he sounds like an old man with throat cancer when he barks. Only had him six months and love him like a son.

Honor the fucking cat is a minor character in my life and not because I have anything against cats. It is, quite simply put—because she’s a fucking cat. Honor is with us as the result of a therapy assignment (read “experiment”) forced on me by Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my first-of-ten ex-wives and only psycho therapist. The cat “adopted” the Squirt and me when she escaped from the crazy cat lady’s house and hid in the back seat of my old GTO.

Maybe I should spend more time telling you about what little the fucking cat does. Do gay people have an especially strong leaning towards cats to where I should add some silly cat talk for their/your edification? Would I be showing a prejudice should I allow the construction of my viewer constituency to sway my content? Did Lee Harvey Oswald really act alone?

Rush Limbaugh is 550+ pounds of domesticated porcine drag queen, a pig named after the gigantic asshole of radio fame. If you buy my book, Full Rising Mooner, you’ll find the back-story on him. Rushie and his lover, the ostrich Rick Perry—a 350-pounder in his own right—live in my bedroom closet where they pretend nobody knows they are gay. The two of them are likewise aptly named as Rush Limbaugh is a pig in every way, and Rick Perry is a pretty bird who runs in circles and has a usable brain the size of a pea.

I love all my pets and treat them like family, a condition they return on me.

As far as prejudices go, I have several. Right-wing Christian shitballs, the Baptist church, Her Royal Highness The Pope, and people who are bigoted against other people because of differences in color, religion and sexual preferences headline the recipients of my prejudice. I am a liberal of just past rare cooking and I am an anti-anti-abortion protester. I think Dr. Marcus Bachmann IS out of the same closet where Michele Bachmann hides deep within.

My sister, named Sister, is a lesbian woman who happens to be married to my third ex-wife. Sister and Anna the Amazon are quite an attractive couple and next to Streaker Jones, my first choices as backup in a bar fight. Each is quite feminine and both are well-trained in the martial arts. They and my long-time friend Lloyd are gay persons who mean very much to me. Lloyd is the man I most admire of all men I have known.

Do you guys have men and/or women you most admire? For me the choice of a woman for the category is a difficult choice. I have so many strong and amazing women in my life that I’d name different ladies at different times. Even though I’ve had some incredible men near to me, Lloyd is the one man I wish I was more like. More alike? Lloyd’s actual first name is Curtis, but I guess that really doesn’t make a shit in this context.

OK, I’m going to stop with this line of discussion because I feel like I’m starting to pander to my gay readers. I’m not opposed to pandering buy I always attempt to pander with a specific goal in mind. Let me just say that I am a non-denominational admirer of good people regardless of their persuasions.

I’m also crazy. My aforementioned psycho therapist calls me a, “crazy lunatic redneck fuckbrain,” a diagnosis not found by me in any psychiatric journal. I am an environmentalist who owns a compost business, I ingest every known organic mind-altering substance so far identified, and when I drink beer I demand Carta Blanca.

Fuck Two X’s beer and those silly commercials. Have you ever had a Dos Equis beer? (imagine the sound of me spitting) Hopped and malted rat piss.

Which reminds me. Mr. Christian Gonzales—the head muck-a-muck in the Communications Department over to the Austin Diocese of The Holy Roman Catholic Church—has not yet returned my call. I’m not prepared to call him a chicken and make clucking noises quite yet, but I’m warming up my clucker.

Which just caused a thought to hit me. When I was transferred to the Communication Department I assumed that meant the place where information is disseminated. Maybe Christian (what a fucking name for this guy) is in the Communications Department meaning he’s the guy that de-communicates a Catholic from the church.

Holy shit but isn’t the Catholic hierarchy a complicated and critical bunch of prissy old gasbags? Who is that guy at the Vatican who serves as Papal spokesman? You know, the guy I call Ratso Rizzo the Second. Has a pointy rat face and speaks with these red, pouty lips all pursed-up like he’s got a mouthful of spoiled piss in his mouth.

Anyway, I’m running out of steam and time as well. Welcome, new readers, and I’ll see you manana.

 

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Mooner Mucks-Up The Bachelor; Baptists Vs Catholics

Tuesday, January 31st, 2012

 

So. I’ve been mostly missing from the scene since Friday because I’ve been busy with planned activities. As a sufferer of acute ADHD and ADD Types I through XV, I have also been busy with unplanned activities. Just last night I was flipping between the Texas mens’ basketball game and The Bachelor on the TV and I got into an unplanned argument with my sweetie.

SAC Ellen is in town for a few days and spent last night here. I don’t usually watch “Der Batch O’ Dummies” as Streaker Jones calls the ABC show, but the SACster is hooked on it. Under normal circumstances I would have watched my game, because I’m hooked on University of Texas sports, without interruptions in another room. OK, wait. Under normal conditions, SAC Ellen would have been in the living room with the flock of old Johnson birds watching The Bachelor on the big screen with Mr. Dave.

Mr. Dave is home from his visit over to the P-cube’s house and arrived back to the ranch with an extra bag. P-cubed is now staying in the guest room in Mother’s wing of the house where she can fit herself into Mr. Dave’s routine schedule. Things have gotten so confusing with that poor old man’s sexing schedule that the ladies asked Gnat to organize it for him. My able assistant set up a spreadsheet, and here “spreadsheet” is apt grammatical syntax.

Anyway, last night I hit the “Previous” channel button—I swear by reflex—and flipped to the game just as the bachelor, Ben is his name, removed his undies to skinny dip with the crazy woman. They always put one crazy woman on these shows to garner viewer interest.

“Dammit, Mooner, you ruined it.” My sweetie snapped at me and punched my arm high, near the shoulder. As I’m writing this my arm still hurts from the punch.

“Ow, dammit, ow, ow, ow!” I didn’t actual cry out in pain, but it hurt.

“Oh, stop being a cry baby, I barely tapped you.”

Have you ever noticed how persons with hands that are dangerous weapons always say “I barely tapped you” after they punch a bruise on you? My buddy Squatlo can back me up on this one. Right Bob? His sweet wife looks like a school teacher and has the balanced countenance of an Earth mother. But Bob says she can split a bowling ball with a stab from one finger.

I didn’t need to attempt the bowling ball dealie to know that’s quite a feat, and I suspect SAC Ellen might possess similar abilities. Her “little tap” left bluish imprints of her knuckles.

Holy shit but I have left the fucking building. I wanted to tell you about my little research project. The local Catholic High Muck-A-Muck, Bishop Joe S. Vasquez, issued a statement last night that he is pissed about “Obamacare” because it requires health care insurers and providers to cover contraceptives costs if they participate in government programs. I know that last sentence was poorly constructed but you catch my drift.

Le Bishy-Poo was pissed that his church’s dogma were required to take second place to the law, and he started that tired old “separation-of-church-and-state” argument where the church takes the opposite side of the coin than what was meant in The Constitution. They try to twist the Big C to say that a law shouldn’t ever contradict religious dogma, when the actual words are different. The new health care package does not REQUIRE Catholic hospitals to sell/offer birth control pills. But it does say that they need to offer the same full coverage as other health care providers on government programs.

Or said another way, the Federal plan needs to be administered in like kind at every fucking institution it is administrated. Another awkward sentence with specific meaning. The new program is designed for the human recipients of the health care and not the fucking institutions providing the health care. I know this is a change from the Bushie White House years where the providing institutions got all of the consideration in health care regulating.

But that debate isn’t what got me off track. It was, rather, that I started wondering what specific Bible verses (versi?) does (do?) The Holy Roman Catholic Church base its positions re: contraception and abortion? I was reared Baptist and those silly shitwads cannot make a clear decision where in the Bible they come up with some of their crazy ideas. But the Catholics are waaaay more organized and have been at the business of silly dogma for hundreds of years longer. Hell, the Catholics invented the fucking Inquisition, so you know they’ve got the whole dogma dealie down pat.

So, I called Bishop Joe (Jose) S. Vasquez to get some answers. I wonder what the S. is for—Stephen, I bet, or would it be Simon after the Apostle? I was passed from department-to-department as nice-sounding women answered the phone in each department. I guess the local Diocese of the Catholic Church don’t have the same rules as up to the Vatican. I guess women are good enough to be secretaries down here at the lower ranks of Catholicdom, but lack the needed proximity to God for holding the higher offices.

Anyway, I landed at the Communications Department and the voice mail for Mr. Christian Gonzales, it’s head. As I listened to his message I had a bigoted thought. I was thinking that I might have found the level at which the gender barrier was erected at the Diocese. I know that I have a quite real bias to bigots, and having that bias is a bigotry all its own.

I left him a message that said, “I’m doing research on the differences in Catholic and Baptist beliefs on several topical subjects and I would like an official position of your church.”

I’m going to ask him which specific Bible verses The Pope relies upon to make his edicts on contraception, abortion and homosexuality. I’ve tried since last year to get The Pope to answer for himself but my queries have gone unanswered.

I’ll let you know what I find out. Mooner Johnson, Investigative Reporter. Manana, y’all.

 

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Posted in ADHD, gayrights, Religion | 7 Comments »

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 »

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