Archive for the ‘ADHD’ Category

Big Banging A Religion; Could Methane Gas Be The Banger?

Sunday, January 25th, 2015

So.  Having received numerous interesting comments on the contents of my recent musings related to the latest visit to me by my God, I’ve decided to cogitate on whether to start a new religion, organize a church hierarchy, set some fucking dogmatic rules and regulations, and drum me up some paying followers, all while making regular visits for the next eight weeks to The Great Radiator.  Run-on sustenance aside, and likewise ignoring the fact that I don’t cotton to any form of religious dogma, I’ve started running the pro-forma Profit-and Loss spreadsheets on this religion dealio, and I find myself mightily impressed.  Religion, it appears, is a quite profitable scam—er, I mean business platform.

For those of you having noticed the typo contained above, herein, it is, quite simply, not an error.  As “elucidation and clarity of communication” is my middle name, nurturing support was the intended structural element.

Seems that if you are willing to compromise almost every aspect of your personal and professional integrity, there’s gold in them thar golden gates of heaven!  Everywhere I turn, there’s evidence that religion pays the big bucks.  I was flipping through the channels of the TV last night—the Squirt had a bellyache and asked me to sit up with her until she could pass enough gas to sleep—and that toothy jackass Joel Osteen, or whateverthefuck his name is, was on the screen telling everyone that he’s no happier now than he was when he apprenticed his daddy as nothing more than a Mega Church Preacher wannabe.  Pompous little prick was saying how all the millions he’s making haven’t brought him any happiness at all, and, by the way, “Don’t forget to continue your financial support for the ministries.”

Speaking of Squirtie girl’s gas, have you ever smelled a canned-tuna-and-Blue Buffalo Organic Lamb-kibbles dog fart?  Ever noticed how often you type the words “dog” and “God” one for the other?  Ever wonder if maybe the two words are interchangeable in ways other than on your keyboard?  Ever bared your nekid nether regions to the Austin City Council?  Have you ever wondered what it might be like to be an ADHD-addled and completely inappropriate fuckball?

To narrow my personal answers from the above, preceding paragraph, to but one, those dog farts are worse than little Frankie Martin farts.  Frankie was this guy back to junior high who was eighteen and still working his way through Ninth Grade curriculum.  Frankie’s momma didn’t know how to cook anything but cornbread and pinto beans, which she served with chopped onions and garlic bread from the bakery over to the Piggly Wiggly.  There used to be a PW located where 38th and 35th Streets sort of conjoin in this semi Y-shaped spit of land.  This particular Piggly Wiggly holds a spot in my heart as it was located maybe 120-yards off Shoal Creek, and just the other side from the Shoal Creek Mental Hospital.

Yes, dear readers, that Shoal Creek Loony Bin.  Anytime I could make a break from my confinements therein, I would race to the grocery store to use the phone.  Always got caught because, first, I never had a dime in my pocket, as hospital gowns have no pockets—a design feature of considerable frustrations to hospital gown tenants—and I was required to hustle that phone charge before making a call, and second, Piggly Wiggly store personnel seemed to be quite watchful for persons in hospital gowns begging for change.

Frankie Martin was the first person I ever saw light a fart through his BVD’s.  A thinking person would have the impression that burning off offensive methane ass gas would lessen its olfactory unpleasantnesses.   That person would be wrong, as Frankie’s farts only gathered richer, layered textures with torching.  Burn-your-eyes layers of textured stink.  Maybe it’s the same science as to how searing the outside of a meat before cooking enriches its depth of character.

The dogs and I sat around lighting farts this one time after a day of eating roasted pig and all the fixings.  That was a great day.  Dr. Sam considered relocating me back to Shoal Creek when she found out.  “You set one of your dogs afire, you inappropriate dumbass, and you’re getting a one-way ticket to Shoal Creek.”  I think those were her words.

Anyway, I’m looking for suggestions for how to organize my new church stuff.  Squat and Beej have already been offered executive positions, but we’ll need quite a large staff.  We need a name, organizational structures and dogmas so you can earn your way to Heaven, and for helping me with this shit you can earn a high-paying job at Mooner’s God’s church.

I’m working on the motto and here’s my current best effort:  “Mooner’s God-  All you could want, and more!”

OK, I agree it’s a lame effort, but I’m headed to play poker.  Which reminds me.  I have a secret meeting out to California that will take a few days away from The Great Radiator and place them onto the ass-end of my treatment plan.  When not secretly meeting, I’mma playing cards over to the Commerce Casino.  Commerce has the world’s largest poker room and it’s a bucket lister for any serious poker player.  Me, I think I’ve finally got my brain reorganized after the dehydration, bloat and newly-prescribed medicine befuddlements, and I’ve plans to make some cash out there to Poker Mecca.

Anyone sending suggestions for any of this church stuff can have a free gift package consisting of two pre-confessional excuses, a tithe rate-reduction coupon for a month, and a patch of the last of my bed sheets my God sat upon, autographed by me. But hurry, this is a limited time offer.

Fuck Walmart!


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Prophetical Chat Stew; Electric Windows As Weapons

Sunday, January 18th, 2015

So.  I think it time to supply an update as to the goings-on with the Johnson clan back to Austin, Texas.  I was speaking with a longtime reader hereof last week and she said to me, she bitched, “Look, Mooner, we’re all saddened with news of your prostate cancer, but some of us don’t even have prostates.  Tell us what’s going on with your family in Texas.”

As to her specific comment re: having no prostate, I felt compelled to ask her if she might volunteer for one of the several sexing positions of which I still have numerous openings.  She hung up on me.  I was going to tell her about Mother’s progress when the thought of her round hips entered my mind and I was inappropriate.  Maybe progress is the wrong word to use for my mother’s steadily worsening dementias.  Maybe I should call it Mother’s “regress”.

I got my most recent Mother’s regress report from my third ex-wife and my sister’s now wife, Anna Johnson-Johnson-Johnson.  Anna the Amazon called me to check up on me and the subject turned to Mother.  “She’s on a steady march to having no memories, Mooner, and the drum major is steadily picking up the beat.  Mother’s time marches on.”

Sister’s beloved is the only person I know who uses figures of speech more than do I.  Should have been “I do”, maybe, and that reminds me to tell you about the now betrothed pig and ostrich Johnsons.  Upon their wedding day, Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry—said and same pig and head-hiding, giant bird—moved out of the closet in my bedroom and into one of the small guest houses there to the ranch. Gnat—she’s my still personal assistant who runs things out to the compost plant—has hired a caretaker for the two-room bungalow now shared by hog and bird.  Seems when you combine a pig pen with the bottom of a bird cage, the resulting cleanings have pushed my Gram’s patience to the limit.  Not that Gram has any patience to push.

“If’n ya don’t find ya sumbody ta clean that shed a theirs, I’mma torch tha sumbitch,” Gram scolded me a month ago.  “Wi’ them in it!”

As for said and same Gram, she and the P-cubed, that would be her best buddy for a very long life, Penelope Paxton-Parades, well, the two of them abducted Aunt Hilda and took a three-week long “singles” cruise in December.  As my grandmother has a shorter attention span than me, I asked my randy old grandmother why she took such a long trip on the water.  She told me, she said, “Looka here, sonny boy.  Them big-ass boats carry more un two-thousant loose lipped peckers.  Would a needed another week to sample ‘em all.”

“Assides,” she continued, “ it took my baby sister ‘till we was gittin off the fucking boat over there to tha Can-yer-fairy Islands ta hook her first un, poor boy.  Silly fuckin’ name if’n ya ask me, who’d eat a fuckin’ canned fairy?  Yer Aunt Hilda ain’t had her no poontang since that man with tha giant pecker stayed there to tha ranch.  Took three a us ta pry ‘er offn that little man.”

I heard my Gram take a swig of what I assumed to be Carta Blanca beer, then she added, “’More fishies in tha sea, Hilda, ol’ girl.’ I tried to tell ‘er.  ‘Throw this un back and we’ll git ya another.  Next un might have all his teeth.’”

Seems my sweet old auntie is a somewhat more devoted lover than is my Gram.  Which reminds me.  I had a visit from my God last night.  She came to see me in the visage of Rosie O’Donnell cast in the lead of Grease.  I awakened from a beer-and-pot assisted deep sleep to Rosie O singing to me, she warbled, “I’m hopelessly de-voted to you-ooo-oo.”

“Hey, God, how’s it hanging, baby?” I asked Rosie God.  “Would you mind covering your breasts for me?  You know how I feel about breasts.”

“For shit sakes, Mooner, God said.  “I thought if I looked like a married lesbian you could focus on something besides my tits.  What is your fascination with naked bodies?”

I was required to ponder before answering God as this is a question I have often asked of me, myself.  “Well, Ma’am, on first blush I’d likely lie and say that since it’s been so long since I’ve been in the company of a nekid woman…But that’s simply not the truth.  You know I was married to a lesbian that one time, and the truth is, I’m just a hound dog, and…”

God interrupted with Rosie doing an Elvis impression.  “You ain’t nuthin’ but a hound dog, just a lyin’ all tha time.”

We both laughed.  “You here about the cancer?” I asked God.  “I’ve made it through the first week of therapies, and The Great Radiator hasn’t killed me yet.”

“Thought you could use a pep talk, my man.  I heard you mooned the wrong woman last week and felt maybe you were getting a little too close to the edge.”  Then she laughed, and added, “That was some funny shit though.  Reminded me of the time you mooned Sammie when you had your butt hair in corn rows with the African beads.  The good doctor rolled the window up and drove off with a handful of pubic hair and colorful beads tickling her ear.”

“I got those beads from Aunt Hilda.  They were some of what was stitched into the rug she brought back from the Congo all those years ago.  From when she and Gram were running from the bad guys from the next village.”

Somehow, God had transformed into Maria Schneider from that Marlon Brando movie, Last Tango in Paris, while I was thinking about my aunt. “Holy shit, God, are you about to shove YOUR hand up my ass too?  I’ve so many appendages diddling my prostate I’m ready to scream.”

God didn’t directly answer my question.  Instead, She said, She told me, “It is what it is, Mooner—all’s well that ends well.”

And She was gone.

Now, upon the writing about this to share with you guys, I’m thinking that I have been put into the self-same conundrum as so many other prophets over the ages.  I’ve now recounted specific, actual conversations with my God, just as countless others have done with theirs.  I have chronicled these words along with the many other times I’ve discussed my God’s visits.  I have, in a way, written the Holy Bibliographies of Mooner’s God.  Now, each of you gets to decide how you will view my religious tome when compared to your own holy books, you’ll look at my words through the tempered glass that is your system of beliefs.

Maybe some one of you will make a serious, scholarly evaluation, decide that I’m a false prophet and feel sorry for me, pray for my heathen soul; maybe you will see simple sillinessess and laugh at me; and maybe somebody will become enraptured with my God and attempt to seek my God’s blessings.

This last person might call me to see if we can’t start a worship group.  We do, get filled with the Holy Spirit, tell others about the happiness and calm our God brings us, and some of those others ask to join us.  We print a handbook of our God’s teaching and other words, and start knocking on doors to spread The Word.

Next thing you know, some silly shithead decides that—rather than calling right-wing religious Christian bigots “misguided”—my God is sending a message that right-wing religious Christian bigots are evil.  Things digress and degenerate from there, like Mother’s dementia, and somebody gets hurt.

Ugh.  It’s hard to be a prophet responsibly.  It’s a lot of responsibility, pressure.  Maybe that’s why so many people who hear their God speak to them shy from sharing that information.  Sometimes they shoot the messenger, right?  Sometimes the messenger is a totally inappropriate, ADHD-addled fuckbrain.

Maybe I need a beer.  Fuck Walmart!

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The Great Radiator- Part One; Je Suis Charlie

Friday, January 16th, 2015

So.  Here’s how this entire radiation dealio works, these are the basic steps as I now understand them.  Everything contained in this episode are what takes place to get things ready for your introduction to The Great Radiator.  The actual radiationating will be chronicled by me after I’ve had enough of it to be considered an expert at it.  Today is my fifth day of actual zapping but I’m yet to be fully in rhythm with the process.

Maybe I might should have said, “…is what takes place…”  Is “everything” singular, or plural?  Is it like a crowd?  As “everything” might be just one item, like, “She’s my everything,” and everything can also be an entire list of shit, maybe you singulate or pluralize based upon your intents.  Therefore, heretofore, I used proper grammatical efforts by using “are”.  It has also come to my attentions that mayhaps I use too many quotation marks.  However, as “clarity and emphasis in sentence structures” is my middle name, read and adapt.

First, you do a prep run in anticipation of the real race.  As The Great Radiator has its own bunker and segregated waiting room, you begin in the Oncology sub-waiting room swilling glasses of water to reach the point, as the nice lady tells you, “Drink until you feel the strong urge to urinate.”

“What inthehell do you mean by a strong urge?” you ask.  “My prostate is already so angry at me it’s constantly urging me to pee.”

And why does everyone insist on using the word “urinate”?  I’m peeing way too many times to use the extra consonants and vowels to even think, “Ur-i-nate.”  Too busy pissing to make a three-syllabic effort.

Nothing else can start until your bladder is water-swollen so as to “lift” it away from your prostate.  Need to keep it as far from Harm’s way as is possible when The Great Radiator casts its angry glare upon your prostate.  Then the real fun can begin.

You try to remember Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s words about anxiety.  “Live in the moment, Mooner.  Do not think about what might happen or of what you experienced in the past.  Focus only upon what is happening to you in each instant.  Live in the Moment.”

Words to remember as you get nekid, save socks, dress in a starched surgical gown and with the same urge to pee as induced by a six-hour non-stop car ride, you place yourself, backside down, on the cold plastic slab of an MRI machine.  Yes, an MRI machine and not The Great Radiator.  Keep in mind that this is a practice run—like an undressed rehearsal for the hopefully not final act of your Life’s play.  This gown is different from all the surgical gowns you’ve previously donned as it wraps and ties in your front, and it’s starched.  When you sat, waiting in your new gown, you absent mindedly started singing “Deck the Halls” using your present-minded, actual aloud voice, and “…now we don our gay apparel…”

The nurse laughs, tells you, “A good mindset helps, Mr. Johnson,” and you reply, “Please call me Mooner.”

“And you can call me Sandra.”

[Author’s note:  If you tell Sandra to call you Mooner, you, dear friend, have additional issues beyond the herein discussed prostate tumors.]

As is the gown, this medical procedure is likewise different from all previously encountered procedures, so your trial run must be done with great accuracies.  This is the start of what is basically a nine-week, daily exposure to a poisonous, invisible, death ray that might lengthen your life without wrecking it.  Data gathered hereat will be used to define the computer program used hereafter.  Like most advanced medical procedures, The Great Radiator is a robot controlled by a computer program.  Therefore, your life will be lengthened by the skills of the programmer, the radiologist doctor.

Not so incidentally, it might take your life by causing a different cancer, make your pecker to stop stiffening, cause you to leak urine constantly unless a clip is situated to prevent it, and it might wreck your bladder and rectum.  Your hope—based upon two months of research and conversation with others—is that this is your best option.  Your hope is to maintain all desired functions but rid yourself of the microscopic carnivores hiding inside the tiny bladder that is your prostate.  Those little cancer shits are cells that don’t know how to die.

They lack the DNA—RNA perhaps—to wither and pass-on to cellular Heaven and make room for other, new cells to grow, prosper and then die.  All cancer cells know is how to eat and reproduce.  So, they eat and reproduce—consuming more-and-more of your blood and vital enrichments—until they reach the critical mass required to metastasize.

I hate that fucking word “metastasize”.

And answer me this.  If cancer cells don’t die, why can’t we modulate those devious little bastards into extending our life rather than taking it?  Where’s the science on that?

Sandra places a large bag filled with Styrofoam balls under your feet and calves, and positions it to be, “Just right.”  She hits a button somewhere and you feel all the air sucked from the bag—it turns hard as a rock.  This is now “your” bag, the bag that will get you positioned just right each time they radiate you over the next nine weeks.

Your bag, and the four tattoos precisely placed at your bikini line, are the coordinates used on your body’s MRI navigational charts by The Great Radiator.  No sextants here, as we need absolute precisions when directing your cancer’s death beams.  “Wouldn’t want to zap your liver, now would we, Mr. Johnson.  I mean, Mooner.  This bag and your tattoos will help us insure that you are in the same position each of the forty-three times you visit.”

You and Sandra discuss the tattoos.  “As I already have one of Salvador Dali’s exploding, melting clocks depicted on my arm, might we tattoo four of his bottle flies for these navigational pursuits?  It’s called ‘Soft Watch at the Moment of First Explosion’.  Dali is my favorite.  Did you know what he always said when people called him crazy?”

Getting no response, I added, I said, “The difference between me and a crazy man is that I am not crazy!”

Sandra answers that it must be dots, that you have an “interesting” sense of humor, and calls the doctor into the room.  She did that air quotes dealio on “interesting”.

The doctor, your radiologist/computer programmer, talks you through the procedure, this “trial run” before the actual first application of radioactive beam bombardment, in the presence of your now, “your” nurse.  Your nurse, our Sandra, a mid-thirties woman with small, soft hands, soft blond hair and kind eyes, places her right hand on your left hip as the Doctor/radiologist drones through his spiel on your right.  Her soft hand fidgets as she watches the doc speak, and squeezes pressure at your hip as if to emphasize his words.

Her eyes, you now notice, are blue.  To yourself you think, you ponder, “I wonder if the upholstery matches the curtains.  The blond looks natural, her native color.  Makes sense with the blue eyes.”

Since you were pre-prepped in counselling before deciding to choose radiation, you’ve heard the spiel before, and your attentions are more focused upon the nurse’s hand than doctor’s words.  The doctor holds a bulb with a pinkish-colored rubber tip in front of your face.  “This is what I’ll use to place the dye into your bowel.  The two different dyes will provide the contrast we need to program your treatment plan—that’s the computer program.  Please turn to your side—face Nurse Sandra—and I’ll insert this.  It won’t hurt, but you will feel a sensation of cold liquid as I squeeze the bulb.”

Doesn’t hurt, and you feel the cold liquid dye solution as it pools in your backside.  “Can’t you warm this shit to maybe 98-degrees, plus-or-minus?” your question.

Doctor and nurse both assume it a rhetorical question as the doc now changes latex gloves and picks up a pillow-shaped plastic package while the nurse asks you to turn onto your back, knees elevated.  The doc says, “This is the catheter.  I’ll gently insert it just a few inches inside your penis and then squeeze some of this liquid dye into the catheter.  In the old days we had to push it all the way to your bladder.  It’s cold and you will feel some of the liquid spill onto your skin.  It will sting, then burn a little, but it won’t be that bad at all.”

He holds the inch-diameter syphon hose connected to a gallon jug to your face. “See,” he says, “no big deal.  Unless you wish a male nurse, Sandra will help me with this.”

Your mind attempts to place itself squarely in the Moment, but before you can say, “No, I like Sandra’s soft hands, and whatthefuck do you mean by no big deal?” Sandra places both of her soft hands on your pecker—one at the base and the second midway.  You feel a sting, then a searing burn, and wonder what he meant by a “couple” inches, and then cold liquid runs down pubic areas and to your butt.  The burn continues but you don’t seem to mind so much.  Your mind slips to Sandra’s soft blue eyes and gentle firmness.  You stay in the Moment, or at least the part at having your pecker held by a person other than yourself.  Soft hands become your entire focus.

“Focus on the sting, Mr. Johnson, or this will really hurt!  An erect penis aggravates this procedure.”  Not quite a scold, but firmer than her grip.

OK, let’s just stop right here.  Does anybody really give a shit what it’s like to have prostate cancer treatment other than those of us doing it?  Me, I’m starting to get numb about it—not care beyond what it takes to care for myself during the endeavors of having it, so why force it on you?

Je suis Charlie, and Fuck Walmart!

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Is Psycho Therapy An Effective Method To Cure Dumbass?: Ducking Simple Truths

Friday, January 9th, 2015

So.  Anytime I think, feel, that I’ve made some modicum of progress as a rational, mature human man, I do something so incredibly stupid that I realize just how close my DNA is to that of a furry ape.  Anytime I think to myself, I’ll think, “Why look at you, Mooner Johnson, wasn’t that a very smart thing you did!  You made a decision to save greenhouse gas and walk for a week, and you’ll save ten gallons of fuel.”

Then, the day before the day I’m to start my smart week, I’ll leave the bag of groceries required to make a roast duck dinner siting in the back of the Mini, whereat said duckie will start Nature’s inevitable march to decay.  As the owner of a commercial composting operation, I can tell you with absolute confidence that a five-pound, locally produced canard—with giblets—can begin that decomposition process post haste, and with great alacrity of microbial activities.

The dogs were very excited to have a duck dinner as duck is the Squirt’s favorite and this duck was a beauty—freshly arrived from the farm, healthy, yellow-hued skin and but a few pin feathers stuck to wings, legs and plump duckie butt.  When I was younger those feathers drove me nuts when encountered on my poultry.  I’d grab the needle nosers and pry every last one from the bird.  Often, the damage done by me during said removals would create a carcass that could be quite off-putting in its own rights.  And just as often my favorite poultry part—said and same ass end—would be made inedible with all the ripping and tearing.

And why isn’t it “microbrial” with the added “r’?  OK, and why not a double-b in giblets?  Ought to be “gibblets”.

But I digress.  Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson came to town Monday late to stay with a friend and to minister at me face-to-face.  Seems she feels that I need extra assistance in dealing with my shit, so she’s psycho theraparizing me here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe twice each day, and spending the money I pay for the sessions shopping with her buddy at Santa Fe’s trendy stores.  “I simply adore the shops at the Plaza.  I should visit your new hometown more often.”

As I both pay for these trips of hers and, likewise, endure the trauma that can be intensive psycho therapy, I’m basically wishing to cut back the visits.  When I mentioned this to her in yesterday’s afternoon session, she began scolding me, which brought out my “inner child,” as she described it, and I might have called her a bitch a couple of times.  A few times.

OK, let’s be honest herein.  She said to me, she said, “Look, asshole, you can’t only make fun about having cancer.  You have got to address the downside with a certain seriousness…An honest appraisal of what might happen, how to prepare and how you will feel/react if things don’t go well.”

Thinking that I’ve done a more than adequate job of those particular things, I told her to, “Bite my handsome, unkempt ass.”

She said something related to my lack of cogent thought practices, and I called her a bitch, she said something else to which I said, “Bitch,” and so on until, I said, “Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch!”

Might have been one or several more bitches in my bitch, but you get the picture.  She called me childish, I called her a bitch once, and again, she said something else and I told her to go fuck herself.  I can only take so much verbal abuse from anyone.

She told me, she said, “I’m leaving now, you inappropriate sonofabitch, and I’ll not return until you first apologize, and then pay triple-time.  Double-time isn’t nearly enough to deal with your issues.  And next time I’m flying!”

“Fuck you,” my well-planned response, “I’m going to the gym.”

She stormed out.  I dealt with the Squirt chewing my ass off for acting like a shithead, then dressed and went to the gym to work out.  I’m trying extra hard to prepare my body for the endeavor ahead, and I’m told that better physical conditioning will limit the ravages of bombarding my guts with photon beams, or whateverinthefuck they bombard you with.

X-rays, maybe, but that seems so yester-year.

I worked out hard and long in an attempt to rid myself of anger, and what I guess might be a touch of shame at yelling at Sammie, finished and walked out to my car.  I love my little Mini Countryman in spite of bad reviews, and I admired the back end of it as I walked across the lot.  I was two rows away when I realized that Dr. Sam’s new Acura TL was parked beside the Mini, motor running.

This current TL is the third such in the series of autos purchased by me for the first of my ex-wives, mother to my children and main life antagonist.  I’ve way more room in the driver’s seat in the Mini than her Acura, but she continues to assure me that my comfort in her car has no import in her choices.

As I approached closer to her car, it looked like she was texting or playing Candy Crush on her phone as she waited to apologize to me for being such a bitch.  “How sweet,” I said aloud to myself.  “She’s never gone out of her way to apologize for anything she says in my sessions.”

I waved to her from where I thought she could see me in her rear-viewers, and sidled up next to her driver’s window.  When she didn’t immediately look at me I thought, “What the fuck, once more for the good old times.”

I pulled down the back waistband of my workout pants to allow me to jam a furry ass on her window.  I was careful to not expose myself to the rest of the parking lot, but insured that the resulting pressed ham was a really good one.  I left it there in anticipation of feeling the electric window ease down to the sound of her laugh and her pulling several hairs from my butt, the usual reaction in previous situations such as this.

Rather than feel the window move, I felt, heard, the car transmission hit reverse.  Not the expected response, I started laughing, pulled up my pants, turned and replaced ass with my shining face to the window.  “I’ve still got it,” I said into a face that was not my darling ex-wife and psycho therapist.  It was, rather, a thirtyish woman with the same hair as Sammie yet a remarkable scared/angry countenance.  She displayed the face of her phone with “911” in the window, and punched her finger to a button.

As I’ve been in quite similar situations way too many times in my past, I waited a good half hour for the cops to arrive.  But they didn’t show.  Maybe my handsome smile caused the lady to cancel her emergency call.  When I told this story at this morning’s therapy session, my brain doctor laughed her ass off.  Then she asked me to tell it to her all over again, from the start.  And she laughed her ass off all over, once, and again.

I really am a sick fucker and I don’t mean my ADD or my prostate.  I need help and just maybe if I pay triple-time, plus airfare and expenses, some of it will stick.  Ugh.

Fuck Walmart.


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Ugh; The year In Review

Sunday, January 4th, 2015

So.  Here we all are in this happy, new year, and me…

I’m pissed.  I’m pissed at everything.  I’m pissed at my state and federal governments, I’m pissed at big corporations, I’m pissed at the weather, I’m pissed at my ass cancer and I guess I can say that I’m mostly pissed at my veryownself.  I’m pissed, pissed and pissed some more.

Here I sit at a time when I should be grateful for so many things, and all I feel is pissed.  I should be grateful for a (mostly) loving family, caring friends, adequate health care thanks to Medicare, enough cash stashed to live-out my days except and unless I live to be more than 94-years-old with today’s economy adjusted in historical terms throughout the next 29 years, my two constant companions love me and are honest with me, and I’m happy enough with my surroundings to not have too strong an impulse to pick up and leave Santa Fe for the Oregon coast.

Having said all of that, please allow me to add that I might should have taken the dogs—the above-mentioned constant companions—with me to Oregon.  I likewise should say “near” constant companions, a distinction of (to) which the Squirt has constantly reminded me since my return from the misty Pacific coastline of western America.

“Don’t you think we could have used a vacation, shithead…Think we might have basked breathing humidified air…Think we would have enjoyed the company of those nice people…Think maybe we’d have enjoyed naked rain bathing?”

That was the Squirt the first time after I recounted my pet-less visit over Xmas.  She added, “You, you thoughtless dickwad, left us with that nut-bag dog lady for almost two weeks.  I ought to tell the goat dog to pee all over your new memory foam mattress and to shit on all the heating vents.”

Yoda had gotten pissed at me when he found out he was staying with the crazy dog lady, and the night before I left, he took a giant, loose bowel movement on one of the floor-mounted heating grills out to the living room.  Required me to remove the grill, clean it and the metal pipe below, and all the while gaging at the verge of a puke.

As for the nekid rain bathing, I invented that one evening after returning to my room from a day of crabbing and munching on baked pot goodies made by my niece from up to Seattle.  It was actually too cool to lay on the concrete balcony—and I likely too far from reality’s grasp to make good decisions—yet there I lay, pin pricks of stinging rain pelting me from head-to-toe.  Nipples pursed like Mrs. Leticia Browningwell’s lips just before she scolded me in her third grade classroom, pecker hiding deep into groin from cold shock, and my eyes shut tight against the petulant rain.  Might have drown if I’d fallen asleep and it might have been the most invigorating thing I’ve ever done, save and except for this one time I ran from Mexican police with Streaker Jones.  The two of us had taken badly to getting rousted by a cab driver for triple the fare for a ride, and the cabbie called the police.  Seems that was a way for Mexican police and cab drivers to earn extra cash.

But I digress.  I’m pissed and Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson says it’s all about my prostate and me.  “You’re terrified that you’ll become incontinent or lose erectile function from your treatment, Mooner.  You love your penis too much to face those distinct possibilities.”

My psycho therapist is right.  What if I can never have sex again?  What if I actually become one of those limp dicks that we all have joked about?  What if I’ve already had the last consensual sex with another person of my entire life?  What if my Ivory soap bar becomes nothing more than a sanitary servicing device?

I can’t even imagine a life without sex.  Maybe I need to plan for that eventuality, you know, get twenty years of sexing done before treatment ends in case I go all erectile dysfunctional and shit.  Twenty years at once-per-week, a realistic estimate for the sexuality of a healthy older gentleman, would be 1,040 total remaining sexings for me.  To get that number in over therapy’s next two months, I’ll need to do the deed 8.67 times per day.  Not unrealistic.

Except for figurating with whom all that sexing will be partnered, this seems a doable dealio.  In the entirety of my life I haven’t met a single woman one who could, would, do it eight times a day for more than a couple days contiguously.  Personal experience tells me that new relationships can handle twice daily for a few weeks before losing the required ardor to even do it daily.  Using that logic, I’ll need five lovers daily for two weeks, then nine for a month and then thirteen for the remaining two weeks.  That’s a ton of willing women to identify when you consider that it’s taken me two years in Santa Fe to not yet locate the first.  Ugh.

Fucking ugh!  Initial thoughts would be to hire me some talent, but that would be so expensive it would cut my retirement bankroll in half and I’d run out of money before the cancer would kill me if I sought no treatment at all.  That’s not realistic as an option.  Double fucking ugh!

Seems like Medicare should provide this as a benefit to us as prostate sufferers under the mental health coverages part of the plan.  Maybe I can run an ad in the newspaper, maybe find some nice, caring women looking to do community servicing.  Or I can try the N.M. Department of Corrections—have them allocate some recently released detainees in need of social rehabilitations and assist them as they assist me.  Win-win is my middle name.

Maybe the best way to handle my anxiety over losing erections, and the hopefully resulting sexing, would be to write about it.  Dr. Sam tells me that writing about the things that bother you can help you overcome your worries.  I likely have a half-million words to say without giving this any further thought.  So look for the new best-selling novel by Mooner Johnson at your bookstore soon.

I’ll title it My Prostate and Me- the Love/Hate Diary of an Angry Man.

Fuck Walmart happily in this New Year.



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Do The Clothes Make The Dog? Camel Toe En Francais

Sunday, December 7th, 2014

So.  For starters this morning, please allow me to say that the elation felt by me yesterday as to having reset the font choice defaultings here to my Windows 8 computer was a touch premature.  Like this one time when, as a young and eager lover, I arrived early to the party, I have celebrated making Times New Roman in a size 12 my defaulted font choices, prematurely.  Fucking right click did nothing but allow me to take two extra steps to make changes from the regular way.

Having said that, once my error was discovered, instead of taking my rubber mallet to my computer, I chose to further infuriate myself over to the Admin place for my bloggie.  I set this silly web site upon its feet before Blogger was invented, or at least before it was far superior to Word Press.  As my computer literacies would match those of your typical variety of garden slug, I lack the wizardry required to do even the simple most activities.

Just as I was ready to take said and same mallet to my Word Press Admin, I decided to ease the pressures and took a look at who was visiting me over to the Visitor’s Bureau.  The “Visitor Snapshot” I reviewed showed that I had 32 visitors, seven of whom (of which, maybe) were Bots.  Two things were, to me, remarkable about this snapshot.  First was their locations when visiting.

One each from Kuala Lampur, Putian, Latvia, Hostice, in the Cz, Malverna, Kansas City, Seattle, Dallas, Boston and Los Angeles.  Putian is in the Chenxiang Province of China, Malverna is near Valley Forge, Pennsylvania, and I’ll assume we all know enough about the other single-visitor locations.

The dozen other visitors were each and every one from the same place.  All twelve reside in fucking France.

“What’s up with that shit?” I asked myself, and aloud at that.  “Whatinthefuck are a bunch of Frenchmen doing looking at my stuff?”  Aloud, again, and somewhat confused.

I know why Boston, as there reside in that area many Catholics, and Catholics are a breed of person finding my words highly offensive.  The particular Bostonian caught reading this morning was reviewing some of the things I’ve had to say about his/her/its church and Popes.  At the snapshot moment I saw, they were reading this thing I wrote about how the last Pope and Queen Elizabeth were maternal twins separated at birth.  Same faces, same dresses and hats and gestures.  Twins, I tell you.

I can tell you with some assurance that many of the exotic locals listed harbor thieves who steal what I write and paste it into their blogs in their languages.  Why anyone would steal from me is a mystery, but those shitheads do it, and with some alacrity.  The Latvian asshole is almost a constant visitor—one whom I want to charge rent he’s here so often.

“But why so many Frenchies?” again asked of me, by me, and aloud.  Well guess what?  What might you guess all of those French personages were reading?  Stories of human interest?  Political ideologies expressed from a quite liberal slant?  Self-improvement ideas?

No, no, and nope, the French had no time for any of that trivial shit this morning.  The French have far higher and mightier desires for their edifications than do the rest of us.  Nope, each and every French viewer had punched onto the “Camel Toe” Category button over to the right of the screen, and all were reading about my experiences therewith.  Several had already been reading for more than two hours.

At first I was confused as to what there might be about camel toes that would so entice the French to visit me in such a way.  Then I remembered the only French woman’s camel toe I’ve ever viewed, and it hit me.

“Evelyn,” I exclaimed.  “They’ve seen Evelyn La Roush-Johnson-La Marque’s camel toe!”

The Squirt came running into the office and skidded to a halt on the pine-planked floor.  “You alright, shithead?  Did your prostate kick you or something?

“No, little lady, but thanks for the concern.  It was my memory that got me.  You haven’t met the ex-wife who was an opera singer—a woman who could fill-out the crotch of a pair of leotards like no other.  I’m guessing she’s touring France and showing off her crotch meat.”

“She was the French wife, right?”

My tiny brown dog was almost right.  “Not 100% French, but she was from The Algiers, and spoke French as her native language.  Attended schools in France as well.  I’ll show you some photos.”

The puppy thought for a second.  “Do I have a camel toe?” she asked.  “I’ve been told I’ve got a big tooter for my size.”

She does.  “You do, you adorable little bundle of piss and vinegar, and I’m guessing your lady package would be quite a bundle as well.”

“I wanna see!” she said.

After fifteen minutes of trying to deny her request, we started looking for appropriate clothing with which to dress her in such a way as to display her camel toe.

“Hey, what about that stretchy shirt of yours—the one you just put in the rag bag?”

I have this thin, stretch pullover shirt I wear when it gets really cold and had torn an arm socket out of it when I put it on last week.  We sat at the dining table with scissors, needle and thread. We cut a pattern from newspaper, and after several adjustments and fake fittings with newsprint, we thought we had it right.  Then we cut the shirt to the pattern and had started to sew it together when the phone rang.

“Hey, Sammie baby, how’s it hanging, girl?”

Sammie is Dr. Am-Johnson, my first ex-wife and long-term psycho therapist.  “You missed your appointed time again, buster.  What do you have going on that’s so interesting as to cause you to miss a pre-scheduled phone therapy session?”

I told her.  Why, inthefuck, did I have to tell her?  I could have said, “Oh, the Squirt and I were just messing around and shit and I forgot.”  You know, tell the truth without full disclosure.

There was a pause on the phone line and then a long, slow, deep breath taken.  The breath exhaled just as slowly and then, “Jesus Christ, Mooner, have you lost your fucking mind?  Do you know how stupid you are?”

Before I had time to formulate a proper response, she added, “Of course you don’t.  I must have lost my mind to be surprised at one of your stunts.  Please tell me you haven’t taken any photos.  Please…, dear God…, let there be no photographic evidence.”

“Well, we haven’t finished sewing it, and I want to get it right before I snap any pics.  We’ll post the best over to the bloggie.  We’re gonna dress her up like a French poodle to attract more visitors from over there.”

Except for the hissing of breaths taken and released, there was more quiet from the phone.  Then, “OK, big man, do as you will.  But do not call me if this lands you in jail.”

I was about to tell her something in response, but she said, “Dumbass!” and hung up.

Maybe you guys will take my word for how adorable Squirt looks and we can skip the photos.

Fuck Walmart!



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Growing Pains For Dummies; Understanding Windows 8

Friday, December 5th, 2014

So.  I’ve had my new Windows 8 computer since April and I just, quite accidently, learned how to change the font style and size in a default action.  Heretofore, I was required to adjust the font from Calibri, at an 11 sizing, to size 12 Times New Roman, each time I sat to write.  As I haven’t worn a size 11 since 8th grade, and font in my now size 13 setting isn’t well accepted over to my Word Press bloggie dealio, I settled on a 12.  As for the font style, the Romans seemed to have anticipated an ink layout that is easy to read.

I wonder when Times New Roman was invented.  Did Caesar Augustus or his contemporaries develop the font style?  Back then with the quill pens and pimply paper products of the pre-industrial age, it must have been difficult to provide clarity of written documents.  All those splatters and blobs from quill-penned words can be off-putting.  Like this one time Streaker Jones and I made a pen from a turkey feather and ink from cow’s blood thinned with turpentine.

With my ADD and ADHD, funky, fancy print styles agitate what little focus I have and cause my mind to wander.  Makes me wonder too.  Like, remember when you were a young teen and your body was growing at its fastest rates?  Me, I grew a foot between sixth and seventh grades.  This I knew because I was measured and weighed for the William B. Travis Junior High School football team the first day of school.

Coach Pepworth—a nasty little man who most resembled a 5’6” bowling ball covered in a sniper’s ghili suit made of course, black hair—held my opened student file in one hand and the ruler used to mark where, on the height thingie painted on the wall, the crown of a student’s head  reached.  In my case, run-on sentence aside, Coach P teetered on a chair as I fidgeted around while looking at the marvel that was a junior high school locker room.

I focused on his face for a moment and asked, “Does all that hair itch, sir?  I itch all the time and my Gram says it’s because I’m starting to grow pubebies.”

“Stand still, you disruptive little shit, or your pubic hair will be the least of your concerns.  I fall off this chair and you’ll see why that two-by-four is sitting over there by the door.”

Coach P bandied about at practice with a scarred two-by-four used to punish poor plays, back-talk, and what he called, “Your lack of enthusiasm, Mr. Johnson.”  I still have a bone spur on my hand from when I tried to deflect that fucking piece of lumber this one time.  He’d grab you by the face guard and pull your head down to his level to deliver the judge and jury edict before administrating the punishment.  However much taller than him were you determined the force he used to pull.

“Well lookie here, Mr. Johnson,” Coach P said to me.  “If this record is right, you grew eleven-and-a-half inches over the summer.  You’d best be careful in contact drills…I’d hate for you to break one of those tender, new bones.”

I don’t, didn’t remember my bones as soft back then.  I can remember lying in bed in the dark with my tiny crystal radio hissing, “In the jungle, the quiet jungle, the lion sleeps tonight…” while I could actually feel my bones expanding.  Sometimes I thought I could hear them as they expanded—crackling and groaning.  This one night my arms grew a full inch.  I have semi-scientific proof.

This was also the summer I discovered the wonderment that is my pecker.  Also the summer my fucking Boy Scout leader discovered the wonderment that is my pecker, but that’s another dealio in its altogether.  Each night in my efforts to get to sleep, I would lay precisely in place on my bed, position my elbows on the only spot atop the springs of my twin mattress that didn’t touch my funny bones, and I’d play with my pecker.  The motions became so machine-like that I could position myself in my sleep.  With the usual overnight growing, the positioning adjusted so slightly I didn’t notice change.  But this one night was different.

This one night, I lay my head in just the right spot, adjusted to place my elbows on the springs, and reached for the spot where my manhood waited.  It wasn’t there—it was AWOL!

I won’t say I screamed like a girl, but as my voice was still in that awkward stage between man and falsetto, my Gram says I screamed like a girl.  She burst through my bedroom door with her double-barreled, 12-gage shotgun at the point and flipped on the light.

“What tha fuck, Mooner?  I thought that fuckin’ cooner climbed in yer winda and grabbed ya by yer tiny balls”

There was a raccoon we thought might be rabid hanging around the ranch down to the creek.  That racoon was a constant subject of conversation until Gram blasted it not long after this night.  “It’s OK, Gram, I found it.  Not the raccoon, my pecker.  It was only an inch away, but I thought it had disappeared on me.”  I was scared but I wasn’t crying.

“Oh stop whimperatin’ like a baby.  You Johnson men ain’t never lost a pecker one.  Yer great uncle George got shot in ‘is ass back to the WW One, but havin’ them ten kids says his pecker worked fine.”

Anyway, I was standing with my back to the gym wall, trying to make my skeleton fit flat against, and Coach P teetered on the chair as I fidgeted and squirmed.  Standing on a chair he could look me in the eyes without any adjustments.

“Says in your record that you’re a problem child, Mr. Johnson,” he told me with the dead look of a snake.  “Don’t you be thinking that your mother can keep you out of trouble on the football field.  Assistant Principal Johnson is a saint, and you are problematic.”

When he stepped down I asked him what problematic meant.  Saying nothing, his response was to flip his eyes across the room to the worn timber sitting by the door.  I’m not all that smart now, and was smart less back then, but I two-plus-two’d the two-by-four and problematic.

2X4 + problematic =  Owie!!!

And whatinthefuck does “wee-ma-whacka” mean?  I never thought that song was about a bunch of guys masturbating.  Maybe it was a symbolism I’m unable to grasp.

Anyway, and now again, my actual shoe size is a 13, except for some sneakers require me to buy a 14, and all in a wide, or doublewide.  The accident that makes this newsworthy lay back in paragraph one, herein.  I was fumbling with my computer mouse and accidently right-clicked on the font dealio up top-left of the screen.  If I wished to change the font in Word 8 to default, the little box explained, all I needed to do was contort six fingers onto the keyboard in a digital tangle, and sis-boom-bah, I’m defaulted.

Are you feeling as confused as I am?  Confused as me, maybe it would be.  I refuse to say “myself” as that word pisses me off for some reason and I only use myself when forced to do so.  Maybe it’s because sports guys refer to themselves as “myself” so often and I just don’t like it.  Speaking of myself getting used:

So, FUCK Walmart!





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Thoughts On Give-A-Shit Day; We’ll Stop To Pee When Your Dad Says So

Tuesday, December 2nd, 2014

So.  I’m going to take a minute to address today’s Holliday du jour, The Day of Giving.  In careful examination of this day, we all know what a “day” is, so let’s move on to the gift, or giving part.  A gift is simply that—something given without getting in return.  I herein freely admit that as a younger man I felt the need to get tit-for-tat when I “gave” to a charitable cause.  I always wanted to see my name, or Mooner’s Compost Plant, listed in the donor documents of whatever charity I chose worthy to receive my donations.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson finally cured me of my ignorance one day when she asked me how I chose a charity for my company donations.  When I realized that my corporate gifting was saddled to the estimated exposure I got in return, I got it.  Now, I may ask you to donate to particular charity, but I’ll not ask you to do it in my name.  And I ask that charities not use my name as a giver.

OK, stop.  Is it Giving Tuesday or Day of Giving or Give a Shit Day?  I can’t remember the actual name.  But whateverinthefuck the actual name might be, my sentiments are unchanged, and unbridled, both.

I was switching radio stations earlier as I drove the mountains looking for a strong signal.  OK, let’s halt this nonsense once, and again, to say that I was driving the mountains for shits and giggles, and the looking was with the radio and for a signal with enough strength to produce audible noise from the speakers.  Having said all of that, I was also looking at the scenery, but not for scenery, and, alas and also with some alacrity, I was looking for a place to pull over to pee.

Those of you with age-swollen prostates infiltrated with cancer-filled tumors can understand a man’s need to pee.  For the rest of you, think of needing to pee when you get into your car for a day’s drive.  Drink three one-liter bottles of water.  Wait two hours.  That feeling, but repeated every thirty minutes after the last pee event.

I now call them “pee events”.  Nighttime pee events are the worst.  I’ll awaken from a great dream with that car trip urge thinking I might not make it to the pot before my bladder bursts.  Then I sit on the commode for fifteen minutes wiggling and waggling to maneuver into a position that will allow the pee to flow.  Or drip.

Anyway, I’m driving the mountains and one of the radio stations my radio’s SEEKER button stopped at was a conservative talk show.  Can’t tell you which of those assholes was the host, but he was yakking about all the “gifting” done by the wealthy individual and corporate Americans.  He bragged about the Koch Brothers and sited The David Koch Theater, mentioned ATT Stadium and The Staples Center along with various hospitals and university buildings, and stuff.

This airbag bragged about how those “gifts” clearly demonstrated the “good hearts” of the gifters.

Bullshit.  Bull fucking shit.  That would be advertising, you sanctimonious goat fucker.  “And now, from the David Koch Theater we bring you the Metropolitan Opera.”  That, folks, is advertising.

Give a bunch of singers and dancers (many of whom you feel are doomed to Hell due to their homosexuality) $50 million to produce operas and plays and shit without broadcasting your fucking name all over the god damned place and I’ll credit your spanky ass for a gift.  Otherwise, it’s business as usual, and this business is you seeking even more control over the Arts.

Give a real shit, assholes, and make some true gifts.  One idea would be to buy Walmart employees a bunch of protest signs that say:




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Childhood Memories; Hey, Mikey Doesn’t Fucking Like It!

Monday, December 1st, 2014

So.  As Thanksgiving has managed to pass through the American landscape with barely a thanks given to the actualities of its foundings, we are now under siege by the actualities of what has become Xmas.  My local paper—a lightweight tabloid of maybe seven ounces average arrival weight—hit our driveway Thursday at a hefty two pounds and four ounces.  Filled with the advertising fodder of every fucking retail and service outlet within an hour’s drive, the actual newsprint seemed like a dust jacket for the War and Peace of coupon cutters.

When I unwrapped the parts I was to read and tossed the balance into the cardboard box I use to recycle newsprint, the Squirt said to me, she says, “Hang on, asshole, don’t you need to find some coupons for your presents for me and the goat dog?”

As I am one to always look for ways to better father my charges, I explained to the small brown puppy that, “It’s better said Yoda and me, sweetie, you should have said, ‘…the goat dog and me.’”

I’ll not tell you that she growled at me because that is forbidden between us.  I will, however, say that she gave me her best “eat shit and die” look while saying, “Look’a here, butthead.  If you plan to leave us with that nut-ball dog sitter for ten days while you explore the Oregon coast, you’d better give us some really good Christmas presents.  Otherwise, I’ll tell Yoda to eat her furniture and it’ll take $25,000 to bail us out when you get home.”

“Look, Squirtie girl, please don’t use the word ‘Christmas’ when referring to December 25th.  A major component to my plan to unravel excessively right-wing Christians is using ‘Xmas’ and ‘Happy Holidays’ instead.”

“Christmas, Christmas, Christmas!” was her reply. “Christ-mas, Chrrr-ist-masss!”

I spent the day Friday examining Thursday’s and Friday’s ad supplements with the two dogs looking over my shoulder.  OK, in actualities, one would sit in my lap while the other parked ass on the chair pulled tight against mine and both with chins rested on the table’s edge.  I don’t allow dog feet on my dining table and I’m pleased to say it’s the one rule they obey routinely.

“Hey, there are some attractive ladies at that place, Mooner. Are they for sale?  Maybe we should go over there and do some shopping for you when we finish here.”

“That’s a Hooter’s ad, silly rabbit, those girls aren’t for sale,” I told Squirt.

“Could’a fooled me, Bwana.  Looks like all their assets are sitting on the meat rack and ready to serve.”

How do you argue with that logic?

Did I mention I was drinking Carta Blanca beer and enjoying a touch of Raspberry Kush medicinal pot as we couponed?  I had the TV on as we perused and was down to the last two retailer’s packages when the Squirt told me, she exclaimed, “Look, its A Christmas Story!”

As the last two sales papers were for Walmart and Hobby Lobby, I told her, “Let’s take these papers out back.  You guys can do your business on them for me and then we’ll watch Ralphie.  I’ll pop some popcorn and you guys can share a jigger of beer.”

They did, I did, and we lounged before the big screen to watch my favorite Xmas Movie.  I try to watch that film anytime I catch it, sometimes as many as four times each season.  This time when we got to a scene when Ralphie has to eat the bar of soap, a childhood memory of my own flooded into me like an emotional dam had burst.  Bursted?  Why don’t we say bursted?  If it “burst” when actually breaking, whyinthefuck don’t we say “bursted” when referencing the event in past tense?

“Holy shit, guys, I just remembered an event quite similar from my own past.”  This said as tears started leaking from the corners of my eyes.  It seems that learning of my cancer has brought new levels of emotional tidings to me this holiday season.

I blew my nose and wiped my eyes, and paused the movie with my new pauser dealio on the TV remote, and recounted the remembered memory to the puppies.  I was five and it was either a Sunday or a Wednesday, and I know it was one of those days because each of those days of my childhood included visits to The Reverend Browningwell’s Baptist church.  His wife, Laticia, would later become my teacher in several grades.  We never got along and she is the mold from which I cast most every right-wing conservative Christian bigoted asshole I have encountered since.

In those days, the 1950’s, after each Baptist church service the pastor and his wife would stand on the church steps and shake hands with each parishioner and they would shake each down for tithes or service or some sin recently committed.  Leticia was an enigma to me even at that age- things I heard her say and things said about her behind her back.  I likewise lacked any social filters as a young boy, a trait upon which I’ve not managed any significant improvements even yet.

On this particular Sunday or Wednesday, I remember watching Laticia interact with people as we made our way through the line as Gram, Mother and I waited our turns. I remember how my hand ached as Mother gripped it like a chicken neck in a vice.  I think the fingers of my left hand are still blood-swollen from Mother’s attempts to control my movements as a kid.  My ADHD in her firm control, I kept trying to pull away to watch the preacher’s wife by peering around the folks ahead of us.  I peeked and peered between legs and around poofy dresses and jacket tails anxiously as I had a very important question to ask the preacher’s wife.

When we finally got to the head of the line, I remember Pastor Browningwell said something to Mother—likely something pleasant, as my mother was, is, a perfect Baptist—and then he said something to me.  For my part, I didn’t hear a word of any of that because all the attention I had was focused upon his wife.  I’d recently heard something about her and my curiosity was killing me.

In my anxiety to speak to an adult, I blurted out, “Does it hurt, Mrs. Browningwell?”

“Huh?  Oh, it is you, young Mr. Johnson,” said with a not varnished contempt as she and I already had some history.  “Of what, or which, are you speaking, young Butcher?”

She called me Butcher because that would be my actual given name and this was before I had earned my nickname.  And why isn’t it “knickname”?

“Does it hurt that you can’t fart?”  I elaborated.

Getting no understandable verbal responses, I continued, “My Gram says you’ve got a corn cob pipe stuck so far up your ass you can’t fart.  My tummy hurts when I can’t fart.”

Back in those days, ranchers and farmers would wash their clothes in Twenty Mule Team Borax detergent, and sitting by every sink was a lunky bar of Lava hand soap.  Lunky is now a word, and a perfect descriptor for this bar of soap.  The grit and lather was/is perfect for removing the grease and oil and barnyard gunk of everyday work with animals and machines.  As a child, we had Lava bars at the old pump head next to the big barn, at the sink in the wash room where we entered the house after working to wash hands and remove soiled clothing, and by the kitchen sink.  Seems this particular, egregious offense mandated a sentence to be carried out standing beside the barn.

“You stand here and think about what you said, you disruptive little shit.  I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life!”  That was Mother as she jammed the grease-and-cow-shit-blackened bar of Lava in my mouth.  “And I’ll be watching you through the window, Butcher Einstein Johnson. Don’t you dare take it out until I say!”

As she walked away, she flipped over her shoulder, “Einstein my rosy-red ass.  Your grandmother missed that one entirely”

The reason my eyes teared with this memory is my crazy old grandmother.  She’s who named me and later that night, after dinner, she corralled me to go out to her potion pantry that was the smaller barn on our property.  All my previous trips to the cellar where she brewed her psychedelic mushroom potions were for times when I’d been injured or poisoned, real or imagined. This was the first visit when the invitation was a curiosity to me.

My Grandmother started laughing on our walk to the pantry as soon as we were out of sight of the kitchen window where Mother was washing dinner dishes.  “That might’a been tha funniest fuckin’ thing I ever did hear.  Yer mother’s got no sense to a good humor, sonny boy, and she never did.”

Once inside the storage cellar of her potion pantry, Gram searched the shelves looking for a particular bottle.  “Little fucker’s here, I jist know it.”  She grumbled and groaned as she reached and stooped and crawled the shelves to find what she sought.

“Here it is!” she exclaimed. All I could see of her was the bottom of her Keds poking out from the heavy plank shelf where she was deeply planted.

She held the medicinal-brown pint glass bottle to my face for a close look, then set it on her work counter.  “I made this un fer tha boys when they got back from tha big Dubbie Two.  That war broke them boys right on down, Butcher.  They needed a pick-er uppie when they got back ta home.”

She turned the label to her own face and read me the label.  “Fuck Hitler and Tito too-  Mooseie Boy’s Done Already Dead!”

I now know that she was referring to Benito Mussolini, the best effort the Italians could make at a modern wartime dictator.  I’ve always thought the Italians spent all their real warrior vitriol back in the Times of Rome.  Too much amore in modern Italians to conger-up a true mirror image of old Adolph.

I just stood in rapt anticipation of what my Gram might say next.

“Here, boy, let’s give ya a double doser.  Ain’t used this shit in ten years and I’mma thinkin’ it might a lost its pow’r.”

Gram squeezed a first dropper into my opened mouth, I swallowed and then accepted another.  She looked at me and said, “Fuck it,” and squeezed several full droppers into her own mouth.

“Let’s us go sit onna dock an have a cold one.”

We did, my first entire cold beer sipped while my grandmother told me stories about war, and Baptist preacher’s wives and my mother.  Maybe it’s time for a repeat performance.

Fuck Walmart this Xmas season!



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Is That A Pepperoni In You Pants?; Plans For An Ungrateful Prostate

Friday, November 21st, 2014

So.  My ass doctor called me late last night to tell me that I have prostate cancer that rates a Gleason’s Scale 7.  The specificities of what a GS7 means will be revealed in Sunday morning’s consult, but what I do know at this time is, shit, it’s a GS7 and, thanks goodness it’s not a GS8.

GS7 is treatable but needs to be treated to prevent it from becoming an 8.  GS8 is when the cancer is all aggressive and shit and ready  to spread its ill-tidings to other parts of your anatomy.  Kiss-your-ass-goodbye is what GS8 cancer seems to be.

As I understand my options at this point, I can: A. Go through a regimen of radiation treatments (fuck this as I’m not letting a fucking radiator machine anywhere near my adorable ass); B. Do the newest treatment called Proton Treatment (expensive and taking almost a year spent at a clinic); or C. I can cut the little fucker out, dry it and wear it as a fetish.

Current thinking is Number C., above.  The now golf ball-sized anal gland should shrink to the size, color and shape as a whole walnut meat.  I’ll mount it on a short leather strap and wear it as a necklace where it will sit at the hollow of my neck.  Attractive single women will ask me, they’ll say something like, “Isn’t that an interesting necklace, sir.  I’ve never seen that stone before, might I look at it?”

I need a better opening line than, “How’s it hanging, baby?” and my psycho therapist tells me that the less I say, the better.  Let the shrunken organ do my talking for me.

How would you go about the dehydration process on a prostate gland anyway?  I’ve not dried organ meat before—is it the same process as with flank steak, or maybe tomatoes?  When I told my Gram about my plans, she said to me, she said, “Looks ta me lak it’ud be same as one a them dried headers dealios.  Git all tha bones out first.  I’ll ask yer Aunt Hilda to ask the Dubbie-J.”

Dubbie-J is Aunt Hilda’s shrunken-head-in-a-mahogany-box, a memento from when she and Gram were over to Africa as teenagers on a Baptist missionary dealio.  When I told the old gasbag that prostates don’t have bones, she snarked back, “Who gives a shit, Mooner.  Leave tha hair on it too, ya little shithead.”

A friend facing a similar situation asked me what it felt like to get the biopsy.  As mine was rated “more difficult than normal” because my colon wall was thickened with a layer of scar tissue courtesy of the infection I got from my first prostate biopsy, I decided that my actual biopsy would provide little insight.  Instead, I told him about the six hours of post op.

“OK, here’s what you do.  Take the 2.5-inch ball off a trailer hitch and weld it to a baby Moon hubcap.  Lightly lubricate the ball and place it anywhere in the vicinity of your asshole.  Next, swallow a four-pound, 700 AMP electromagnet. Take three deep breaths and energize the magnet.  Whine for six hours.”

In thinking back on my six hours of post-operative bliss, maybe I should have told him that at two hours in I swallowed four Vicodin tabs and smoked a fat doobie while lounging in a sitz bath with a sixer of Carta Blanca.  After toweling off from the bath I took a dropper full of a potion Gram makes to cure women of menstrual cramps.  Maybe my ministrations shortened my recovery when I passed out at the six hour mark.

And maybe I’m an ADHD-addled and totally inappropriate fuckball.

Anyway, maybe I can smoke the offensive organ first to give it a little color and then hang it to dry like a pepperoni.  Meanwhile, fuck Walmart!

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Waiting For Mister Goodbar; Wait Is A Four-Letter Word

Wednesday, November 19th, 2014

So.  I’m sitting.  And pacing.  And playing computer games.  And calling every fucking person for whom I have a phone number.  I’ve read the flimsy Santa Fe newspaper eight times and I’ve reread the April 2011 Oprah’s O Magazine.  I’ve played with the dogs until my knees are blue with bruises—knee-marching and rolling around on carpets and wood floors.  I’ve been to the gym and walked six miles, and all of this since I awoke at 2:00 am thinking the phone could ring at any minute.

But I’m not waiting, I refuse to wait.  I’ll not have my life held on-hold for the answers.  Waiting is for the weak and immature—those who can’t actually face their problems.  I’m an action man, hell, “Action” is my middle name.

So, I don’t wait, I, rather and instead, fill the hours of not knowing with important activities.  To wait is to obsess, to worry, and with the thirteen distinct thoughts in my ADD-addled brain right now, to worry would crash my mainframe and send the punch cards that control my programming spewing.

Interesting thought.  It just dawned on me that ADD and addled share common first letters.

I’d have given you better metaphoric images if I actually knew how modern computers work.  But all I know is from when I took a computer programming course at the University of Texas back to 1967, and I was required to determine how to appropriately punch the 577 paper punch cards needed to program, as was my written assignment, the calculations for: [2+2X8-40+20-10+?].

Where I placed the question mark was actually a blank space wherein the computer—when properly punch-card programmed—would print the answer.  I liked the stiff, almost-cardboard paper punchies.  Maybe that’s what started my love of Postie Notes.

Anybody remember how noisy those old printers were back in the day?  Reminds me of this one time I went to work with a buddy who was a weekend DJ for a religious radio station.  News was carried on a Teletype machine sitting in a small, concrete-walled room.  Noisy fucker that banged in stutters and steps, constantly, as some silly asshole back to News Central typed the words that made the news.

The two of us were going to drop some acid just before he got off the air and then head to meet other buddies at the bowling alley.  Me, never one to wait on any fucking thing, I placed the tiny paper stamp on my tongue sometime, maybe three hours, early.  Ended getting a touch rowdy, so my DJ friend quarantined my ass to the Teletype room.

One of the few unpleasant experiences I’ve ever had with drugs.  I’m trying to read and remember every single story coming over the wire and attempting to make periodic updates to my buddy.  Did I tell you this was a Christian radio station?

My doctor told me to call after 3:00 pm today, and only then if he hadn’t called before, and it’s not yet noon.  Maybe I’ll start War and Peace.

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Reflections In Death’s Mirror; 2,160 Words To Say Nothing

Tuesday, November 4th, 2014

So. Here we all are on the eve of midterm elections and the effects of the Citizens United SCOTUS ruling has now, and likely forever, handed the reins of our democracy over to the wealthiest among us. While it’s the conservative big money that concerns me the most, I am likewise unhappy that rich liberals can wield the same power using nothing more than money. Whomever has the most gold rules, so it seems that the Republicans are going to control both Houses of the US legislative branch of our government. Even though this shit is driving me nutso, I actually don’t see that as a bad thing.
One of several things will happen. One, those silly conservative assholes will propose one stupid bill after another and have them vetoed by Obama; two, the Democrats will filibuster the Senate as have the Repubbies and deepen the grid lock that is placing our democracy and public infrastructures in jeopardy; three, there might be some actual compromises on important issues, or; four, none of the above. And as my Gram always likes to say, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Ain’t nothin’ gonna git done ‘till them Kookie Brothers run outta money.”
I love my grandmother, and OK, maybe a fifth distinguishable option would be that my ADHD and ADD will cause a global calamity that gets the President to issue Martial Law and then cancel the next session of Congress. My already poor focus has been seriously diminished for the last week. I’m all over the place. I can’t see anything being different in DC until Obama runs out of days and I think he’s become milk toast anyway. Unless the actual people rise up and make their collective voices heard, America will continue our downward spiral.
Which reminds me. I had another visit from my God—the one and only true God from among all the many Gods—the good God. My God isn’t one of those pagan asshole Gods Who sends mixed messages, my God is a straight-shooting, helpful deity. My God doesn’t encourage me to hatred and violence. Fuck your other Gods, and I mean that in the kindest possible way, and having said that, let me inform all you right wing Christian assholes that I have a new tracker program on my bloggie dealio that can find you when you attempt to hack and damage my business.
My God’s better than your God, so nanny-nanny-boo-boo!
The weather turned cold yesterday when this moist cold front passed through New Mexico. Dumped half-an-inch of rain and then an inch of snow over that. I had been watching TV as New England obliterated my adopted Broncos when I noticed that it was snowing. I’d also been consuming icy cold Carta Blanca beers watching the game and had sampled three of the new harvest mushrooms that arrived in Saturday’s care package sent by the aforementioned Gram. It was halftime when I looked out at the falling snow and the mushroom induced purple haze made each snowflake sparkle independently in my vision.
I love to sit in my backyard under the big pine tree when it snows. It always reminds me of the opening of Slaughterhouse Five—the scene wherein Billy Pilgrim is running through the snow in WWII Germany seeking escape from Nazi soldiers. I can sit with my eyes closed there in the backyard and visualize that movie—hear the music, see his breath, and feel the thud and rustle of Billy’s labored flight through heavy snow. That scene might be the most visceral five minutes in all of moviedom. Snowflakes—fat and wet as they cascade from the sky—seeming to carry the music on their feathered, downy falls. The angelic look on Billy’s face—a look that you’d think out of place in his predicament, what with the Germans hot on his trail.
Wait. Is moviedom a word? Should it be? I could have said, “That scene might be the most visceral in film,” but saying that would include actual war footage of guys attempting snowy escape from other guys in WWII Germany, and that can be visceral with actual viscera. How about movieville? Movieland?
I sat out back in a wrought iron chair with both dogs in my lap, lit a fat joint rolled with Cherry Bomb medicinal, took a heavy drag and washed it down with a long pull from a fresh beer.
“This is the life, Squirtie girl,” I told the adorable lump of lap warmer, “only thing missing is a good woman to complete this idyllic scene of modern Americana.”
The dog looked up at me like I’d lost my mind.
“Oh, alright, we resemble the part of America that doesn’t like guns or bigots. We’re the part that thinks a man can have too much money.”
Squirt seemed to buy my modifications on the good life so I took another drag and tug of beer—both somewhat less of volume than the prior—and added, “What did you think about that nice lady over to the hardware store? You know, the woman with the purple and pink hair and pretty face that I accidently tripped over.”
We were in the paint aisle looking for a two-inch finish brush to do some touch-ups here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. The dogs have scratched a couple of the window stools while looking at the outside world and I wanted to freshen them. There were no two-inch finish brushes visible behind the marker tag stating, “2-INCH FINISH BRUSH $5.98,” so I turned to the side, reached and peered in to see if there was a brush hidden way back behind the empty slot for the desired brush, and heard a sweet voice say, “Oh, what a cute little puppy you have.”
Since I’d taken the Squirt with me to encourage just such a conversation, I turned, somewhat abruptly, caught my sleeve on the metal hanger dealie the brushes that were not there would have hung from had they been in supply, shuffled my feet, which tangled in the dog’s leash, and tripped ass-over-teakettle across the back of the stooped-to-pet-the-cute-puppy lady.
“Oomph,” was all I could manage as I landed on my hip.
“Are you all right?” she said in return.
“Are you OK is the real question.” I outweighed her at least two-to-one.
I was, she was, and we talked cute puppy and paint talk before her teenage son came to check on her. Smart boy. Took his mother by the arm, gave me his manliest stare and led her away. Quickly.
Squirt looked up at me from my lap—snow on her adorable nose and whiskers—and with that same look a parent has when telling her child a fact of life. “Not your type,” she told me. “She seemed rather meek—like she’d feint at the sight of blood—and you need a sturdy woman with a strong stomach. Besides, what you don’t need is a teenage boy counting on you for any fucking thing.”
She was right. “You are quite right, little lady. What with me having the growth on my prostate and all, I might not live long enough to raise a teenager.”
We discussed raising children and lumpy anal glands while finishing both beer and joint and when that mission was accomplished, I lay my head back on the cushion to let the tiny flakes of snow that could filter through the pine needles hit my face. I was stoned enough for the ice to feel refreshing and drunk enough to fall asleep, which I did. Not certain how long I slept but I awoke to the sound of the Squirt in animated conversation with Ali McGraw. Ali lives here to Santa Fe and I spot her often. As she has a boyfriend I’ve stopped chasing her, but I do, however, still hold her as most desirous.
“He’s a really good guy who just can’t help but mess things up. Treats me right, rescued the goat dog from that fucking puppy mill and he cares about other people. Has the dreaded ADHD but won’t take the medications. Says it makes him feel weird. And I think he really has learned a few things from his ten prior failed marriages.” That was Squirt talking to Ali about someone.
“I get all that,” Ali McGraw answered the Squirt, “but like I told you, I’m not actually Ali McGraw and I’m not the kind of God to interfere with an unsuspecting woman’s love life. Besides, Mooner needs to get his shit together before he infects another woman.”
I struggled awake to see my God sitting in the chair next to us, undressed, in the visage of the character Ali played in Love Story. The snowflakes had stuck to her hair, eyelashes, brows and cold-erect nipples…And the fine silken hairs on her belly and what I could see of the rest of her. Her skin was pink and lustrous.
And somebody needs to answer me this. How is it that some women have perfect skin? You know, that skin that seems to have never been dry and rough, seen a pimple or ingrown hair. I’ve been married to three perfect-skinned women and that might make me the luckiest man in the world. I bet fewer than one from a thousand women have that skin and I married three of them. Take that, Mickey Rooney.
“Jesus Christ, God, don’t you know how long it’s been since I saw a real live nekid woman? You’re gonna give me a heart attack putting Ali McGraw this close to me.”
“Just wanting to get your attention, Mooner. I need you to pay me some attention.”
And just like that God turned from Ali McGraw into Walter Cronkite. I guess God chose old Walter because my Granddaddy always said that you can trust Walter Cronkite to tell you the truth. Newscasts had more integrity back when news was just that, and I’m guessing that most of those national news guys were trustworthy. I think Dan Rather might be the lone wolf of that generation still on the air.
“Look at me, Mooner, and listen carefully,” Cronkite God said. “You’re of a certain age now and shit is starting to go wrong with your body. This growth on your prostate is age related and the first of these things for you to face. You need to spend time in careful reflection and do some planning for the rest of your life. I won’t have you bitching and bellyaching about what you didn’t do before you die.”
“Is this prostate dealio going to kill me?”
God looked at me with sad eyes. “What difference does it make, Mooner? Don’t allow it to matter. Look in Death’s mirror, son, it gets you one and all. And don’t forget that any man who lives long enough will get caught and killed by his prostate. Most of you simply don’t live long enough to get got.”
“Could you change back into Ali McGraw, Sir? I’d much rather hear this lecture while looking at her.”
“Goddammit, Mooner, it doesn’t matter what I look like, it matters that you pay attention to me. You are spending way too much time in worry over politics and what it is doing to your country. Your country is what it is. Stop fretting and do a bucket list—start getting some shit done.”
“One thing I’d really like to do is kiss Ali McGraw. I know you can arrange that.”
“You are a gigantic pain in the ass, Mooner.”
“Please, sir. Pretty please.”
Without another word, God turned back into Ali, got up and straddled my lap. She took my face in both hands and pressed Her lips to mine. I melted.
“Wake up, shithead. We’re freezing our asses off.”
It was the Squirt all up in my face, not Ali McGraw. It was Squirt’s hot breath on my lips and nose, normally a major disappointment. All my exposed skin was wet and steaming in the cold air, and ice was crusted on the legs of my jeans. But I was smiling anyway.
“You’re not Ali McGraw, sweetie pie, and I’m not the least bit disappointed. Let’s go make us a bucket list.”
My first bucket item is to see if I can open a hot dog franchise here to Santa Fe. I’m tired of driving an hour each way for a decent hot dog. Squirt’s first to-do is to go to Paris and pee on the feet of the Eiffel Tower. Yoda? Well, the little goat dog wants to go back to Oklahoma to take a nip at the balls of the owner of that puppy mill. I told him I’d hold the shithead down.
All reasonable requests if you ask me, and all attainable. To Fuck Walmart, and have Walmart fucked by many others might be second on my list. So, Fuck Walmart!!!

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Dog Jitters And Wedding Bells; For Itchier Or Pourer

Thursday, October 16th, 2014

So. I awakened Monday morning to the smell of dog’s ass and the acute understanding that something had my balls in a twist. Upon opening my eyes the canine ass dealio became clear. Crystal clear. The goat dog had found a way to pretzel himself around my arm as I lay on my side, his head on my shoulder and his hairy ass two inches from my face. It took me maybe three seconds to realize that if I didn’t handle my bed exit strategy just right, I’d end up with the bull’s-eye smack on my nose. Yoda is still skittish some three years after I rescued him and he jumps at a whispered “Boo”.
I carefully—and I must say quite carefully—moved my free hand from where the Squirt had it wedged between her fluffy, brown face and my scrotum. I then remembered a dream wherein one of my sons’ aunties had made an untowardly remark my way—something about her foot and my balls—and I’d felt required to protect the family heritage. Squirt grunted rudely when I jostled her, which startled Yoda, and I managed to spring enough synapsis fast enough to turn my head and catch the dog anus on my cheek rather than squarely on the snout. The goat dog then spooked the Squirt and she scratched a long, and now angry-looking, welt in the crease between my leg and pubic area.
That particular patch of skin can become problematic when gouged, causing itching and irritation and the deep-seated and sometimes unconscious desire to rub or scratch, things I’ve done both absentmindedly and with full focus all week.
The reason the dogs slept in places other than their usual, with the white one nestled against my side and the brown one between my legs with her head resting on my belly, is that I’ve been gone for ten days to attend my son’s wedding back over to Austin, Texas. The dogs stay with my friends Marla and Cheryl, whose own wedding I attended several weeks ago. They have five dogs of their own and seem to actually enjoy having Yoda and the Squirt visit. My two canines seem to have a good time while there, but still prefer things here to home.
“We didn’t get to sleep in their bed this time, Mooner. Maybe it’s because their wedding bliss is still with them, but we had to bed down on those lumpy foam things you got us. I didn’t sleep for shit the entire time, and the goat dog had nightmares. Said it reminded him of the puppy mill except without the beatings and throat slitting.”
“I’m sorry, Squirtie girl,” I told her, “but I couldn’t find a motel to take you and me, and no acceptable kennel in the little town where the wedding was held.”
“Then you need to know that Yoda’s liable to be skittish and clingy for a while. He still worries that you’ll abandon him.”
He was, and is, and that explains the tightened sleeping arrangements in spite of the fact that I promised him he was adopted for life, better or worse. Have you ever smelled a dog’s ass from two inches away? Have you ever felt a dog’s bull’s-eye smeared across your cheek? Have you ever been served hot dogs, mac and cheese and roasted corn for a wedding dinner? Well, folks, I’ve done them all in the last week and the only desired repeats would be the wedding fare. The food was a perfect match to the somewhat informal wedding hosted at one of Texas’ beautiful vineyards.
Like I was saying, my son got married and it was a wonderful time. I got to be with family and old friends and I need to be cautious what I say from here on out. I’ve a promise to not say too much about my kids herein and I work quite hard to keep my promises. Promises make me wish I was a liar and a cheat. Promises might be the things that disturbate my lifestyle the most. Promises have everything to do with integrity and having integrity causes me much, and many, consternations.
Like promising to not make a scene at the wedding.
So, to keep the promises, I’ll not mention the things not done by me that caused a scene at the wedding and I will mention that I’m in the photo purely by accident other than to say I was reaching for the chopped onions for my hot dog when the nice lady leaned in front of me for the mustard, and her open V-neck sweater snagged on the copper bracelet I wear to ward off the arthritis in my wrist, and while I remain unsure as to how her large and firm breast became nestled in the palm of my hand, I am certain with an absolute surety that she and I both found the experience less than terrible.
OK, maybe my copper bracelet snagged her sweater, actually the camera was a smart phone and I didn’t drop a single thing from my plate throughout the entire event. I’m holding my plate out to the side with my left hand while we did that dance people do when things get all caught-up in other people’s stuff—the twisting and turning and eyeballing. I offered to put my plate down and use said left hand in assistance, but, as the nice lady put it, “It’s OK, Mister Johnson, things are already a little crowded in there.”
As the sweater was one of those loose-knit wool jobbies, each wobble of our disentanglement polka caused the end of the copper coil to poke around like a curved knitting needle. The line for hot dog condiments was stacking up behind us so we moved off to one side, me still awkwardly holding my plate of now cold food.
“Oh for shitsakes, Mooner. I turn my back on you for two seconds and you’re groping a college coed.” This from Dr. Sam I.-Am Johnson, my ex-wife number one and mother of the groom.
“Thank God for that, Sammie. I was worried she might be under-aged.” As I’ve gotten older I’ve started seeing every woman between the ages of thirteen and twenty-five as a seventeen-year-old.
“Oh for shitsakes, Deedo, it’s my wedding.” My son, newly married, who has always called me “Deedo”.
Maybe my new middle name should be “Oh, for shitsakes”. Anyway, I turned of age for Medicare last birthday and I spent the day over to Social Security to make application one day in August. What with the budget cuts to social services, it took all day to wait in line to do anything. I understand that they want you to do stuff online rather than in person, but I had already fucked-up the original application online and was forced to reapply in person over there off St. Mike’s Street. When all my paperwork got back from the Medicare people there was one mistake in my “Certifications” which needed to be corrected. Punishments for incorrect certified information includes heavy fines and jail time and I choose to not go back to jail with cause. Fifty phone calls to fix the error went straight to recorded music, so I walked the dogs yesterday and then walked the mile to the SS offices.
It was a beautiful day—mid seventies and crystal clear skies—and I sweated a bit with the walk. The sweat irritated the ribboned whelp on my crotch making it itch and burn, and what does a person do when they itch and burn? They rub and scratch.
I plucked a pleated tab of paper marked “Number 106” from the roll in the big plastic box at the security desk and moved to stand against the wall and facing approximately 100 seated, smaller-numbered-pleated-paper-tab-holding visitors. My welt is itching and I’m fighting the urge to scratch and the guy next to me starts bitching about being Number 95. We discussed the entire online thingie and then the weather and had moved on to discussing the Texas Ebola outbreak. I blamed the right-wingers and he blamed Obama and then I saw a nice lady—seated in the second row of industrial chairs and dead straight ahead of me—who was staring at me with a somewhat angry look. I gave her a toothy smile to ease her anxieties.
I shook off the look as to her maybe holding a tab marked in the eighties and went back to attempting to convince the asshole blaming Obama for the poor quality of America’s health care. I felt the woman’s eyes on me and glanced her way once more to find a somewhat angrier face. I smiled, again, shrugged and mouthed, “I’m 106,” and went back to a careful dissertation about the history of the health insurance business. The dissertation and occasional glances with smiles at the angry lady continued for what I suppose was a reduction of ten numbered paper tabs. I had made it to the part wherein Herr Schmidt Rommel had created Obamacare for the Bean State when I felt a disturbance in the air.
“You, sir, are disgusting.” It was the lady from two rows over with the security officer in tow.
“I’m going to ask you to leave the building, sir. Please go quietly.”
“Who, me?” I questioned. “What have I done wrong—I haven’t said one word to her.”
He didn’t reply, just pointed at my midsection. Seems I’d jammed my hand into the pocket of my jeans and was scratching myself. Might have been doing it for a good fifteen minutes. I didn’t argue, a sure sign of my growth as a person, and left. Maybe I’ll try to correct my Certifications online.
Fuck Walmart!

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Little Pricky Perry; MSNBC Jumps The Shark!

Wednesday, October 1st, 2014

So. As hard as I try I can’t seem to manage either my technologies or my life. It appears that the harder I work at it, the worser I become. Let us begin with the technological side of this unequal fucking parallelogram. Don’t you love that word “parallelogram”? It was one of my favorite words from geometry. OK, it was my favorite word in the entire mathematical schedule of my formal educations. “Quark” was my favie in physics, and Malaysia my favorite in geography. I loved Malaysia because it means “bad Asia”, and that thought may be making a statement on my mental fitness, and in English my favorite word was “run-on sentence”.
My favorite word of all words is, of course, the word fuck.
In the last year I have upgraded both my technologicals and my life stylings and, having said that, I’m reminded that while upgrading those, I have downgraded my upholsteries. Now that I am re-retired from an actual job, I’ve stopped shaving routinely and wear only the clothing I deem appropriate. Don’t like my three-day growth of facial fuzz? Go fuck yourself. Paint stains and wrinkles on my tattered Mooner’s Compost Plant logo work shirt put you off your feed over to Dr. Field Goods café? Go fuck yourself. Me, I think the pizza sauce pasted in your nasty blond beard is repugnant, and you didn’t eat pizza today, shithead, you had the goat sausage special.
So fuck you once, and then again!
And what is it with MSNBC? I was trying to watch Morning Joe and they had the pompous pompadoured prick, Texas Governor Little Ricky Periwinkle, on the show. Joe Scabblurry, or whateverthefuck his name might actually be, starts this effusive mumbo-jumbo about how the Prickster is the second coming of Ronald fucking Reagan.
Really, Joseph, you’re saying that on MSNBC? Fuck you and MSNBC as well.
And your milk-toast pretend liberal cohost—Annika Sorenstam, or whoever the fuck she actually is. Who knew Elizabeth Hassleback had a clone pretending to be a progressive woman?
And now, a word from our sponsor, Attention Deficit Disorder:
“Do you ever have bouts of excessive loss of concentration? Have you ever forgotten you were having sex and asked your lady friend to get you a fresh beer? Do peoples’ eyes glaze over in the middle of your stories? Was your childhood nickname ‘He’s a Disruptive Little Shit’? Have you ever forgotten to wipe when your cell phone rang in the other room and you were expecting a phone call from your batshit crazy mother? Do you speak and write in incomprehensible allegories? Have you ever asked yourself, ‘Did I really say that?’
Well, folks, if you can answer, ‘Yes, Mr. Deep-voiced Announcer Man,’ then you, dear friend, might be afflicted with the blight of the dreaded Attention Deficit Disorder.”
Which reminds me. When I purchased a new cell phone—my first intelligent communication apparatus—I was conned into likewise buying the insurance for it. As I am both clumsy and foolish, I felt—after having ruined numerous $200 dumb cell phones—that the $15/month a wise investment to cover a $500 smart unit. As expected, I dropped the silly fucking smart phone and broke the face glass, said glass being a flat sheet of transparent molten sand with a replication cost of three-and-a-half cents. As I dropped and shattered said glass during normal business hours, I drove to the phone store to get a replacement glass.
Did I tell you that I sliced my finger when the damaged-glass phone rang as I was driving to the phone store? Can somebody answer me why, precisely, is the best way to answer one of these things to rub your finger across a piece of razor-thin glass? Why not require us to lick it? Makes as much fucking sense.
Anyway, I arrived to the phone store to stand in a line of maybe sixty other already glad-to-be-there phone patrons and started the hour-long process of waiting. Each asshole in line had: 1. a phone issue; 2. a unique and aggravating ring tone; and 3. what seemed to be forty-three calls per hour coming in over the cell tower radar beams. I felt my ears would burst, my brain microwave blister, and my patience lose itself on this shithead who had decided that “Girls, Girls, Girls” was an attractive ring tone when blasted at 88 decibels.
I finally made it to the front of the line and told the nice lady my problem, and that I had insurance and asked, “How long will it take to get a new glass thingie and do you have a Band-Aid. I have about another thirty minutes before I shove that guy’s Samsung Android up his ass.”
“Oh, sir,” she replied, “we aren’t allowed to administer medical treatment and we can’t replace the glass. You must purchase a new phone.”
Then she smiled at me like I was a moron for even asking. Moron I am, I then said, “That’s pretty fucking stupid—waste a $500 phone for a nickel’s worth of glass. But who really gives a shit, I’ve got insurance.”
She stopped smiling, stepped away from the counter and shouted, “Manager!”
Turns out that my insurance policy has a $175.00 deductible for “user damage”. Pig fucking greedy-assed cell phone companies. The phone is now sitting on my work bench and is in process of my gluing it back together. I need a new, better magnifying glass to tweeze this shit back into use.
Then again, I’ll likely not be satisfied with my glass reconstruction. If so, I’m grabbing the big sledge hammer sitting by the front door and marching out to the street to have me a cell phone party. If that fucker is rendered useless with a broken glass, then the phone company will have exactly zero used parts from it. Broken glass, broken fucking phone.
Fornicate Walmart!

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‘Tis The Season To Ponder; Poker For Dummies

Friday, September 26th, 2014

So. As I’ve been playing poker like a dumbass and losing my hard-earned dollars at the table with great alacrity, I have banished myself from the casinos for three days to give me time to reflect upon just whatinthefuck has happened to my game. I’m spending the daylight hours of these three days in intense psycho therapies and self-reflections aimed at a recapturing my lost poker skills. The three nights are investments in drug and alcohol-fueled reflective bliss, the aimless targets of which I cannot vocalize, other than to say, “That’s simply how we roll, baby!”
What I want to tell you today has to do with last evening’s boozy revelations, but I can’t tell that story without background. As “Full Disclosure” is my middle name, please allow me to elucidate.
OK, for starters, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson is writing a new book and she has asked me to assist her with reviewing her words before she sends them off to her editor. She thinks she has me fooled with the Guinea pig wool over my eyes, but I know for a fact that she is using me as her test subject for the premises of her silly fucking book. Having been the test pigeon for many of her prior experiments, I can tell when I’m being had.
Getting had? Do you get had or be had? I know you get head, but then, again, you let it be.
Whateverthefuck, I have been the subject for previous of the mad Doctor’s trials and having said that, I’m now guessing that the subject word is “be”. If I’ve been the subject, then, and therefore, I was “be” in it as the original tense. Now I’m tense and starting to grind my teeth.
ADHD kills!
This newest tome from my darling first-of-ten ex-wives is all about a person overcoming the anxieties and self-defeating thoughts we older farts have in the second half of life. Somehow she has found a way to distinguish between the anxieties we personages suffer from birth to fifty years of age and those we suffer thereafter. The good Doctor’s distinguishments perplex me.
“How the Hell do you draw the line at fifty?” I asked her when I first read and proofed her introduction. “I’ve worried about ‘is my pecker big enough’ since the first grade and on a continuing basis ever since. Did I ever tell you about when Streaker Jones and I went to the YMCA to try out for the basketball team and met all the boys from Carver Elementary in the shower?”
Texas schools were quite segregated when we were kids and my first exposure to segregated peckers was an eye-opener. “I’m just glad I was a late bloomer, Sammie girl, otherwise I’d be all fucked up over my pecker.”
She laughed into the Skype machine. We Skyper my therapies when in differing cities, and this morning we were at differences. “When you are reflecting later this afternoon, Mooner, I want you to think about your pecker and self-inspect back on your ten marriages—see if you can find any correlations between the eleven.”
“Bitch,” I called her. She really can be a bitch.
“Bitch all you want, Mooner, but you need to realize that your poor poker playing is all about your late-life anxieties.”
See, I told you guys she can be a bitch. Always turning my shit back into my face. Anyway, last night the dogs and I were laying on the couch flipping through the eight-thousand channels on the TV when a commercial for one of the armed forces came on. As we were a few beers, two joints and three mushroom buttons into our evening’s reflections, I can’t tell you which branch of our military service was touting its goods. What I can tell you is the message.
“We’re defending Democracy throughout the world.” That’s the tagline, the message conveyed. They said, “Defending Democracy,” several times throughout the thirty-seconds of advertisement and I felt myself flinch each time. My flinching disturbed the goat dog, as he was perched upon my chest, and disturbing him unsettled the Squirt as she nestled between my legs at the crotch. Yoda jumped and bolted to the floor and stepped on Squirt in the process.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, Mooner. You know he’s a jumpy little shit. We’re here to relax and reflect, shithead, so be still.” This was said to me through the hooded eyelid countenance of the fluffy, brown puppy perched in my lap.
“Don’t look at me that way, little lady. Makes me queasy,” I told her. “Besides, listening to that commercial makes me wonder just what fucking Democracy those people are defending.”
The squirt looked at me like I’d lost my mind—hooded eyes narrowing to slits. “I said don’t look at me that way. What I’m trying to say is that this ain’t my daddy’s Democracy, Squirtie girl. In fact, I don’t even know what a Democracy is anymore.”
That led her to tell me to get out the dictionary, and I did, and the only one I could find was the Student addition I had back to college—the one before I invested in the big fifty-pounder Unabridged model. I love that big dictionary. It has every word said by man until 1968. I was relieved to read that my memory was spot on. I was saddened to see how far from Democracy’s truth my country ‘tis be. ‘Tis are? ‘Tis is, maybe, and let’s stop the presses right now.
What, inthefuck, does that song mean? “My country, ‘tis of thee.” Really? Tis means “it is”, right? So my country, it is of thee? Thee is you, so my country is of you. Really, you are my country? Who the fuck do you think you are?
Maybe I’m still a touch stoned from last night. I found the student dictionary and Webster’s Student Dictionary defines “Democracy” as:

“Main Entry: de•moc•ra•cy
Pronunciation: di- mäk-r -s
Function: noun
Inflected Form(s): plural -cies
Etymology: from early French democratie “democracy,” from Latin democratia (same meaning), from Greek demokratia “democracy,” from d mos “people, the masses” and -kratia “rule, government,” from kratos “strength, power, authority” –related to EPIDEMIC
1 a : government by the people; especially : rule of the majority b : government in which the supreme power is held by the people and used by them directly or indirectly through representation
2 : a political unit (as a nation) that has a democratic government
3 : belief in or practice of the idea that all people are socially equal
Upon reading the full definition to the Squirt, she said to me, she says, “We’re screwed, Mooner. Democracy isn’t what it used to be, is it?”
We are screwed, aren’t we? Like our early years’ anxieties differ from our worries of the second half of life, Democracy barely resembles its veryownself here to modern America. Our Supreme Court has re-determined what “We the People” means, and that new definition is mean, inhumane.
Ugh. I need more beer and drugs. So, please, once and for me…
Fuck Walmart!

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Wake Up White People; Four Score And How Many More?

Thursday, September 11th, 2014

So. It hit me as we sat watching Masters of Sex on the TV last night. Actually, several things hit me as images of sexual experimentation washed across the screen followed by a scene wherein Dr. Master’s wife witnesses a truckload of white assholes pitch a beaten black man from the back of a 1956 Chevy pickup. What hit me first was that it’s been awhile since there’s been any two-party sexing in this neighborhood—this hit happening with the sex stuff visuals on the TV show—and the second was how proud of myself I was to have both recorded and replayed a video using my new Comcast internet cable system.
I’d switched from Dish when the inclement weather, and a super special price dealio from Comcast, made Dish an untenable choice. Not that my new “bundled” price for phone, Internet and cable TV is an actual bargain. Anytime your entertainment budget equals the lease payment for a Mercedes sedan you, dear friend, have been shit upon by big business.
As a technological dumass, I took great pleasure when I announced to the dogs, I told them with great pride, “See there, guys. I am smart enough to both record and play.”
“Only smart thing you did, shithead, was to spend seven hours on five calls to Comcast for instructions. The three days of watching you fiddle with that remote before calling Comcast for help was painful to watch.”
The tiny brown bundle of brown fur and prissy attitude I call “Squirt” had actually nailed the nail on the head. OK, she hit the nail’s head. Maybe it would be better said to say she “nailed it”.
“You are right on the money, little lady,” I replied. “I was smart enough to get assistance before smashing $500-worth of last month’s technology with the sledge hammer.”
I have a quite nifty sledge hammer—a Kobalt brand twelve-pounder—my weapon of choice for sitting by the front door. Seventh Day Adventists tend to shy from the door of a giant-headed crazy man holding a full-on sledge hammer in one hand, a cold beer in the other, and a fat, smoldering joint hanging from his lip. Add to that a pair of yappy Chihuahua mixed breed puppies bearing sharp fangs and vicious snarls and you got yourself quite the unwelcoming party.
Last pair of churchy visitors knocked my old gate off its hinges upon their spiritual departure from the heavenly courtyard here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. I put down the hammer and the joint and grabbed a fresh Carta Blanca, and the dogs and I went to sit on the curb by the mailbox. These days a man can legally sit on the curb in front of his house with a smoldering dube as the Santa Fe City Council has made it OK to do so.
“Evening, Officer Lopez. How’s it hanging, baby?”
Officer Lupe Lopez is one of Santa Fe’s finest and the afternoon dick on patrol in my neighborhood. Lucky for both of us she’s already married. I’m unsure how my lifestyle and that of a police person would work in cohabitation.
“Must you answer the door just to torment them, Mr. Johnson, can’t you just wait them out in a backroom and not scare them to death? You know they are true believers and just doing what it is they think God has asked. My Sargent is asking me to run you in next time. Wants to see if he can get you to behave.” Officer Lopez has a softened steel in her voice as she lectures. Not once has she gritted her teeth while asking me to behave.
Seen many law enforcement officials grind their teeth to dust in my presence.
“I’ve not been behind bars for a couple years, my little whole wheat muffin. But tell your boss I’ve been jailed for any number of different things, including murder, and just look at me—free as a fucking bird. Wanna toke?”
The last thing that hit me struck when we saw the black-man-from-the-tailgate lying on the pavement in the TV show. “Goddamn but white people are mean, bwana Mooner!” the Squirt scolded the TV.
OK, and it hit the Squirt first, and I answered, “White people have got a fucking mean streak in um, Squirtie girl, and just like the old hymn, it runs deep and wide. And the Christian religion seems to make it worse.”
We discussed how Christian white people have done terribly inhumane things to other humans over the course of the history of Christendom and how here to the good old US of A we continue those shit-headed ways to this day. We had four centuries of slavery here to America and now, more than a hundred-fifty years after slavery’s end, we’ve got millions of white assholes still wishing to appeal the Emancipation Proclamation. And now we even have a racist majority in our Supreme Court perpetuating the white elitist agenda of wealthy white assholes who are literally spending $billions to push it.
From my perspective, I am starting to envision a not too distant future wherein people of color will join with the rest of our poor and middle class Americans and take our Democracy back from the oligarchs. Take it back the hard way. Not pushing for it, my precious NSA observers, just watching the coffee grounds.
But really, what inthefuck is it about we white persons that makes us so damned mean? Is it the lack of melanin? Does melanin soothe the soul as well as add pigment to our skin and enlarge our peckers? Can it be that the tendencies for Lilly white skin to sunburn likewise burn deep scars into an old white farts’ civility? Is it because for centuries we’ve had asshole preachers telling us we’re “The Chosen”? Seriously, what the fuck makes us act like giant flaming assholes?
Makes me want to get an all-over tan and change my name to Lopez and take melanin injections. Can’t have too big a pecker. Which reminds me. I have agreed to ride on Senator Udall’s parade float in the Fiesta Parade this afternoon. Udall is a fine man and we same page it 95% of the time. But, after committing to ride the float with other supporters, I discovered what this fiesta is all about.
Speaking of white Christian folks behaving badly, this particular party is in celebration of the fucking Spaniards recapturing this chunk of the New World back from the Native Americans who had lived here for centuries before Columbus figured that the Earth might have rounded corners. The native peoples had chased the original Spanish invaders back to Mexico in much the same brutal fashion the Conquistadors had taken the land. The recapture was an even terrible-more bloodletting of the indigenous residents.
Goddamn shithead Spanish goat fucking Catholic asswad white men. Same sorts of scenarios have been repeated worldwide as white fuckballs from Europe spread their diseases and greed globally in the name of their beloved Christ.
Happening here to America all over again and not even for the first time here. Like I said, what is it with we white folks?
Wake up white people before it’s too late. Fuck Walmart and mellow the hell out. We are not God’s chosen. Trust me, She told me so Herself.

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Mooner Solves Texas Border Crisis; Not A Camel Toe Story

Monday, August 18th, 2014

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

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Changing Perspectives; Mooning A Senator’s Wife

Sunday, August 3rd, 2014

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

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Trickle-Down Integrity Is The Only Trickle-Down That Works; Has Anyone Seen The Fucking Cat?

Friday, July 11th, 2014
  1. So. I’m attempting to set a new Santa Fe record for consecutive days writing, this making three such productive days in a row, and I’m finding it difficult to talk about anything not related to my new retirement.  My psycho analyst tells me that is because I’m sad and hurt by the events that prompted my early departure from what had been a fun and fulfilling work experience.  But there is this annoying Windows 8 dealio that places outline numbers into my postings for no fucking reason.  Anytime you see these examples of bad format, Blame Billy Gates, not me.

(Editor’s note:  When I started this shit it was, actually, for the third day of writing in a row, said writing to have been published for the third consecutive day.  Today is now Friday, and I’m hoping to actually finish and publish whateverthefuck it is that I’m trying to say before today becomes Saturday.  See, on Monday I got a call from a buddy asking me to discuss some stuff with him, so I closed this down, showered and dressed, and went to his place to talk.

We then discussed what it was he wanted to talk about. OK, after first talking about the wonderful rain we’d had the night before, we discussed what it was he wanted to discuss, and then after all that stuff, we talked about poker—my new profession—and what my plans were for the day.  One thing to another, and it slipped my mind that I planned to set a new Santa Fe writing record as I went to the casino. What comes hereafter was previously written Monday save, and except, for some editing and infill.)

Which reminds me.  I spent the day yesterday (please read here yesterday to mean “last Sunday” as I was writing this Monday) doing nothing but mindless chores and other shit with the dogs—cleaning the carport and shed, trimming landscape, running the vacuum, reading a poker book—and it was the most pleasurable day I’ve spent in a year.  I forced myself to be, as Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson calls it, “in the moment”.  In the moment is another word for enjoying what you are doing as you do it.  OK, three words, but who really gives a shit?

And speaking of living in the moment, my mother’s dementia is worsening by the day and I’m speaking of the actual worse rather than her previously pretended memory losses.  Until recently I could never tell when Mother was gaming me with her dementia, whether she was acting like she didn’t know or was it for real a moment of forgetfulness.

Now, it’s for real.  For very fucking real.

Last night the phone rang and I could see Mother’s San Antonio number on the little display of my cell phone.  “Hey, Mother, how’s it hanging, baby?”

“Why doesn’t your sister ever call me?  I can understand you abandoning me, but never your sister.  The lesbians have told her to abandon me and it’s all your fault.”

When all I could do to fill the blank time was breathe heavily, Mother added, “I just wish the Lord Jesus would just take me right now!”

“Mother, you and I were on a conference call with Sister just an hour ago—remember?  We discussed my son’s wedding this fall and we tried to help you make decisions about that happy event—do you want to go, would you sit in the car for an hour with Sister and her wife or would I need to drive four hours out of my way to pick you up, and why didn’t either of your children ever call you?  Do you remember any of that?”

“Who’s getting married?”

Oh, for fuck sakes, I was thinking.  “For fucksakes, Mother, I’ve discussed this with you for the last month.”  I’ve been trying to say the word “fuck” so much around my mother.  Seems she has begun to think that her sweet Jesus will think less of her for what I say and do.

“I don’t know why the Lord doesn’t take me now before you swear me all the way to Hell.  I worked so hard to bring you up the right way and my reward will be to burn for all eternity in the fiery pits of Hell.”

“That’s fine, Mother,” I told her, “save a set of chains for me, will you?”

Her response was to ask me, “Where are you?” and then we did the “I’m in Santa Fe/what are you doing in Santa Fe?” dance.  I’ve done what I consider to be my best to heed my buddy BJ’s advice and not be angry or tormented by Mother’s mental deterioration.  It appears that my hard work has resulted in less motherly meanness, yet more motherly memory loss. Maybe I should stop retaliating.  Maybe I can feel better about Mother by enjoying her newfound niceness rather than trying to punish her.

A trade-off I need to discuss in my next psycho therapy session.

Anyway, I promised you that I would provide you with a copy of the short presentation I devised years ago to aid my employees with their decision-making processes and behaviors.  Here it is:

Integrity from the Top Down

Leadership Principles for Success

  1. Critical Thinking on a Critical Path- the Scientific Method.
  2. Stop Peeing on the Campfire (It’s never too late).
  3. The Man in the Mirror.


This was designed by me because I have this business philosophy related to my employees.  It’s pretty simple, actually, and it goes like this:  I want every employee to be a leader, reach their full potentials, and do those two things even if they find another, better job or go out and start their own competitive company.  Good, smart thinking and decision making skills are critical to business success, and better businesses make for a better life.

I’ll leave that with you to ponder and if I remember to follow up, I’ll fill in the blanks on what should have been the fourth day in a row.  In the meantime, help me with my Hobby Lobby protest sign slogans.  Everything I think of is too long and clumsy to fit on the stiff corrugated plastic signs I favor for protesting work.  And by the way, has anyone seen the fucking cat?

Fuck Walmart!


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Happy Independence Day; New Meanings To Mooner

Saturday, July 5th, 2014
  1. I find myself retired, again, and for the second time not by choice, and once more, again.  My first retirement was at the hands of Texas Governor Rick the Prick Perry, a small-minded asshole with giant eyes for political shenanigans.  The compost company I built into a major player in the state was dependent upon the Texas Highway Department for much of our business.  I’d developed ways to control erosion and grow serious vegetation in mostly sterile soils using compost-two important developments to TxDOT engineers—and TxDOT hungrily adopted the slightly more expensive, recycling methods for their significant improvements to roadway projects.

At the peak of the growth cycle of compost use by TxDOT, the Prickster stole $2 Billion from TxDOT coffers and used the funds to cover other State budgetary shortfalls caused by his mismanagement of my former home state’s budget.  Net result- Texas highway project fundings were ravaged by the loss, and anything declared “optional” (read here compost) by the Governor’s lackeys was, likewise, declared off limits to purchase.  The loss of that business forced me to make the tough decision to fire myself and save my salary.

One of the many reasons I dislike Little Pricky Perry.

This second enforced retirement is a horse of a quite different color.  I hate to say “again”, but I fired myself, again, this time for different reasons but resulting in the same ending to my employment.  I want to be angry, but the stoppage of me banging my head with a New Mexico adobe brick has led to a renewed sense of calm.  And that reminds me of the scientific research study just announced that states, in part, that the hallucinogenic properties of magic mushrooms can produce healthy brain function and assist depressed and anxious people adapt to life’s conditions.

Well fucking duh!

I could have saved them all that frustrating critical thinking bullshit and the bother of experimenting down the critical path.  Clear thinking logically is a skill lacked by many business people but thank goodness that scientists are required to do so before printing their conclusions.  The mushroom conclusions, basically, state that mushroom juice broadens a person’s emotional ranges while putting a lid on ego, thereby crafting a civilized human who cares more for wellbeing than for personal, egomaniacal gains.

Again, well fucking duh!  My family has been promoting the humanizing effects of mushroom juice for three generations.  Hell, my Gram is personally responsible for most of the civility in Central Texas for the past sixty years.  When she called last night to tell me about the study, she said to me, she said, “Looka here, Mooner.  I’mma cash cow it in on this new dealio.  I gotta batch a new potion I’mma callin’ “Who’s Yer Broad’s Mind A Risin’ Now?”  I’m gonna be rich!”

She hung up to go check on her potion before I could ask her, “WTF is who is your broad mind’s rising now?”  It came to me an hour later when the last batch of my Gram’s mushroom juice took hold on my own brain.

“She’s talking about broadening your horizons, Squirtie girl,” I announced to the adorable bundle of brown fur and sharp-tongued sweetness I call “Squirt”.  “Sounds like Gram has finally got scientific support for the medical use of mushroom juice.”

The dogs and I were cooking hamburgers to celebrate the birthing of our nation, and Squirt was at my feet the entire time, waiting for me to spill something.  I always spill something.  Yoda was busily poking his snout at the double wrapping of rabbit wire fencing that envelopes the tiny garden here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe.  The tomatoes have just fruited, and the goat dog loves tomatoes.

“What are you going to do now, shithead?  I can’t have you sitting around here all day pestering the bejesus out of me,” Squirt asked.

“I’m so worn out from working my ass off unappreciatedly that I’m vacationating for a while. Then I’m going to play more poker to replace the lost income and write more bloggie stories,” I answered.  “Oh, and protest.  I’m gonna start with those pig fuckers over to Hobby Lobby.”

I’m a decent poker player when I can control the ADHD-ravaged cauldron of swill I call my brain, and there’s a HL store less than a mile from here and I’ll be giving them a part of my mind.  I need to develop snappy slogans for my two-sided anti Hobby Lobby sign.  But my brain is too tired to come up with anything that works.  I need help.

Anyway, Fuck Walmart and Hobby Lobby and the United States Supreme Court!  Fuck those godless religious fanatics.

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