Archive for the ‘Beej’ Category

K-K-K-Katy, Beautiful Katy; Diswitting The Trixter

Sunday, June 19th, 2016

So. Question: “How many gun nuts does it take to change a light bulb?”
Answer: “AK-47.”
We’ve company in from the northwestern coast of America for the week and it has been a treat. These are truly great people and they’re family—traits often mutually exclusive, yet to be treasured when shared.
“Let’s ask them to move in with us,” the Squirt asked me last night as we settled in bed. “Tony can fix everything you break, and Cindy can make you act right.”
While the tiny brown puppy might have made an accurate statement, getting Oregonians to move and me to act right are two monumental tasks. “Looka here, Squirty girl. You’ve not been to their home so you lack the understanding as to why they’ll not move here. And as for my acting right, I’ve had ten wives in possession of the Mother of All Male Persuaders, and none of the ten could get me on the straight and narrow. With Cindy married to another man, my cousin, she’s little chance to influence me.”
So, another joke. You may hate yourself for thinking it’s funny, but this is truly funny. What’s the difference between a chick pea and a garbanzo bean? Two, three and four. I won’t let a garbanzo bean on my chest.
OK, and maybe another joke, this one played on all of us. Remember Katy from over to Fascist Dyke Motors? Remember how she hooked us with her intricate life and stories well told, and then disappeared? Me, I’m not a conspiracy nut, but my buddy the Beej has drawn the conclusion that a recent addition to the bloggie scene, new buddy Nazzy at Groves of Spears, is actually Katy. Beej has done extensive research and has quite a convincing argument.
Me, for my part, I have been fascinated with Katy’s eyes and lips ever since I first met her. Long enchanted by lesbian women—as if there might be other varieties of lesbians—our Katy had me firmly in her grasp. Upon first sight of a personal pic posted by Ms. Nasreen Iqbal, I was taken by her eyes and lips just as Katy’s had enraptured me. Those lips and eyes much akin to Katy’s.
OK, and why isn’t it spelled “Iquabal”, with a “u”? Who, inthefuck, decided it be permitted, permissive perhaps, to drop the u?
Having done some research into the theory that Katy and Nazzy are the self and same human person, I ask you all, and most especially the Beej, to Googlate the following:
1. The Nasreen Iqbal Charitable Foundation in San Luis Obispo, Ca.
2. Nasreen Iqbal, staff writer for The Oklahoman newspaper.
3. Images of Nasreen Iqbal.
Beej, you brilliant son of a bitch! Katy, you slinkster. With that riddle now solved, let’s all go out and Fuck Walmart!

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Cat News; A Ghost Story

Wednesday, January 22nd, 2014


So. I’m starting another day—the sixth such day in a row—wherein I’m free to make a twenty-four hour schedule without considerations for anything but the dogs and my veryownself. Honor has forced me into a required hiatus and I’ve had a belly full of the four walls here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. There’s only so many of New Mexico’s infamous dust bunnies one man can gather-up in wet paper towels. Which begs the question: Where, inthefuck, do all those dust bunnies come from?

Wait. I don’t mean Honor the Cat, I’m speaking to the other Honor, the personal integrity and single-most important trait I seek in other men. As for said and same fucking cat, Honor Johnson has been on hiatus from our company for several months. And you cat people don’t need to be getting all up in my ass about my lack of care and allowing, as so carefully said by one feline-obsessed reader when she said to me, she said, “You can’t let a cat run wild in Santa Fe, you inappropriate shit, the coyotes will get her.”

Honor Johnson—house cat to this brood of Texas transplants—has decided that the living is far better in the environs a block over and one down from the adorable stucco compound we call home. It seems that said cat finds life far better with a crazy woman and her dozen other cats than living here at Sane House with me and the dogs.

“Don’t be pissed, Mooner,” the Squirt told me when I ranted upon first learning that the fucking cat had changed addresses. “It’s what cats do. Besides, your ADHD is tough on cats’ nerves. She says she doesn’t need a hot tin roof when you’re around.”

“But I saved her from that last crazy cat lady who had her imprisoned with a hundred other fur ball pukers. She said she hated that stinking place.”

“She did, Bwana. But she was a prisoner with that woman in Austin and she says she’s a welcome guest at her new home. When I told her we wanted her to come back, she said she likes living with her own kind. Those are cats and cat people over on Third street, Mooner. Here at our place Yoda and I are dogs and you’re an asshole.”

The adorable brown puppy was right about living with the same kind as yourself. I’m guessing that a cat living with dogs and me would be akin to me living with right wing conservatives, like the Jimmy Swaggart family. Then, again, old Jimmy Swags did get him some poontang, a commodity I’m finding rare in the rarefied, thin mountain air of Northern New Mexico.

Which reminds me. I had this dream the other night—one of those enjoyable dealieos that leaves you awakened with joy—and in this particular dream my daddy was still dead, but alive. The dream setting was back to Austin and we were having this big “Welcome-back-from-the-dead” party for Daddy. The entire family was there—Gram, Mother, Aunt Hilda, Grampa (also, I guess back from the dead), Sister and her wife Anna the Amazon, Rush Limbaugh the Pig and the ostrich Rick Perry, Streaker Jones and Gnat.

I’d BBQed a whole hog, Rush Limbaugh’s favorite, and everyone else had prepared a favorite dish to go with the succulent pork. We all were enjoying the food and company and everyone was asking Daddy what it is like in the afterlife. Daddy wouldn’t answer any questions about his current residence, he’d only say, “Don’t worry, you’ll see soon enough.”

Ordinarily, I’d have found myself somewhat disturbed at having a dead person tell me that I’d be finding out what being dead was all about “soon enough”, but just seeing Daddy was plenty to chase all fear away.

We finished dinner and as the table was getting cleared, Daddy asked me to go outside with him for a chat. We took fresh Carta Blanca beers and a fat doobie and walked to the fishing dock that sits on a cove off Lake Travis. After sitting on the worn planked deck and taking several pulls of beer and doobie both, I was staring at the tiny ripples in the brown water—thinking how nice it was to sit with my father one more time—w hen Daddy asked me, he said, “How’s it hanging, son?”

“Hanging is a good word choice, Daddy. Seems I’m all up in the air over a particular situation.”

“Hmmmm,” my father hmmed me in a voice that was familiar yet not my father’s. “I just want you to know how proud everyone is that you held your honor. You’re a right strong shithead sometimes, son, but you’re good for your word. If all a man has is his word, he’s rich beyond gold. You’re golden, boy.”

I felt tears in my eyes, the tears that only a father’s approval can put there. Those were the words I heard my father speak hundreds of times when I was a kid. I realized, in the dream, that it was my father who taught me honor. Daddy taught me how to be a man.

I turned my head from water’s gaze to look into my father’s face. The words, “I love you, Daddy,” were in my mouth, but stuck there when I found instead God, and this visit He looked the spitting image of my friend, BJ. As a devout agnostic, it has been difficult for me to accept that God pays me somewhat routine visits. But as a man who tries to give all precepts fair review, I’ve grown to think that this God is my God, my personal imaginings of who God should be.

Said another way, If I was God, this God is who I’d choose to be. OK, this God is Who I’d be. I’d get to be the subject of intense and silly capitalization rules as well as all-knowing and all-seeing.

Fuck. I’d be All-Knowing and All-Seeing.

“Are you taking good care of your mother?” BJ God asked me. “She’s in one of Life’s hard spots, son. You need to have patience with her.”

“I try, Pops, but it’s so fucking hard.”

“She’s got dementia, Mooner. Try harder, don’t be such an asshole,” and with that, God disappeared in a poof of sparkled dust.

I recounted this dream to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson in today’s telephonic psycho therapy session. She says to me, she said, “Oh, my God, you do have a conscience! I’m calling Psychology Today to report an actual miracle has occurred.”

“Bitch,” I told her. Why “bitch” was the best shot I could take makes me wonder at the state of my own mind, and trying to be a more caring son to my demented mother is my new goal. I’m guessing that my God thinks that putting in the time isn’t the same as caring.

Ugh. Ugh-ugh-fucking ugh!

But who really gives a shit about my travails. I’m going to call Mother and make nice-nice and then I’m cleaning the floors of dust bunnies. Again.

Fuck Walmat and all the other greedy fake capitalistic goat turds. Manana, y’all.

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Syria Brings Out Serial Liars; Beej Makes 6 O’Clock News

Sunday, September 15th, 2013


So. Labor Day has passed and I find myself deeply troubled with the labors of my country. In watching all the ballyhoo surrounding the entire Syria fiasco, I’ve come to realize that there are very few honest men or women left who are willing to run for public office, or who are willing to serve in offices of public service. It seems that each and every person who either has a Congressional vote, or an opinion that we should value as it relates to this Syria bullshit, is a liar. A prevaricator.

And don’t even start with me about how it’s all just “spin”, and we need to be cautious when discussing a delicate public issue. In my eyes, if you know what you are saying isn’t true in its essence, you, dear friend, are a fucking liar. Don’t nuance my ass, tell me the truth. This is a semi-democratic republic and it is we, the People, who need to be making decisions.

And speaking of the truth, I’ve found myself a new source for my news—a source that it seems from early viewing that I can trust. I can’t spell it yet, but I can watch it without questioning each and every word. I hear two sides of stories and actually get to watch a reporter question the words of “authorities” who spin facts into misunderstandable pabulum. If you’ve tuned your TV to watch Current TV in the last several weeks, you too have caught sight of my new news source.

On the phone yesterday, when I told my mother that I had started watching Al Jazeera America to get my news, she went all apoplectic on me. “Wh… Uh… Well, I… Uh… You’ll burn in Hell, Mooner. How can you do this to me?”

Maybe so, Mother, I’ve started wearing foil undies to get acclimated to the heat” I told her, “and why does everything I do reflect on you? At least I’ll burn with the knowledge that I died with some actual fucking facts about Syria.”

Oh please, Dear God, don’t tell me that you don’t support a Syrian war. This is the first thing that Muslim murderer from Ethiopia has gotten right. Are you going to tell me that you disagree with me on this, when I finally agree with Obama?”

I pondered Mother’s question carefully to organize my thoughts. I felt it was important to give her a precise answer. I took another full minute to gather, sort and emphasize the words. “You bet your bigoted and wrinkly old ass I disagree with you. This Syria business stinks from end-to-end.”

I heard the deep, martyred sigh that has been Mother’s go-to preamble to any emotional display. I heard it a second time—a sure sign that I would soon hear the words, “I don’t know what I did to deserve (fill-in the blank).”

Why doesn’t the Good Lord just take me right now—I’ve suffered enough. I just don’t know what I did to deserve living my life with such disrespectful children. That’s the first question I’ll ask Sweet Jesus when I finally lay to rest.”

Would you ask Him for me does He fold or is He a baller, Mother. I’ve got God’s answer, but maybe Jesus can give me a definitive answer.”

I’ve had a personal debate about which is truly the best method for wiping my ass. When I asked God that one time, She told me the answer would come to me in the end. Ever since I was a post-rape teenager, I have carefully folded my perforated sheets of papier de toilette and swabbed my quite attractive ass in much the same manner a maker of fine cabinets would file the burrs off rough-sawn birch planks. My psycho therapist has long told me that the precision of my personal ass hygiene habits lies in my desire to cleanse my mind of the entire experience wherein my Baptist deacon Boy Scout Leader laid hands on me on my thirteenth birthday.

Me, I think it is my desire to display my ass to the world that spurs the etiquette, as I see a dirty moon as a wasted effort. Nobody wants to see a 6’4” man lower tobacco-stained white cotton undies to display a cut and dyed depiction of the American flag with a couple brown stripes.

Mother’s response to my question was to hang up on said, and same, gorgeous ass. Can’t blame her. And why, inthefuck, is Microsoft Word telling me that my use of the capitalized word “She” to describe God’s words is a mistake. I’ve met God, I know of what I speaketh. OK, maybe that should have been “of which I speaketh”.

As far as the Syrian dealio goes, fuck Syria, fuck World opinion, fuck John “There is no Such Thing as Too Much Escalation” McCain, fuck Rand Paul, and I must say as well, fuck President Obama. One of the reasons I voted for him is because I believed him when he said that this kind of intervention—this Syrian shit—is not something he supports or would ever.

But he lied. Obama lied. Not a real surprise, but a disappointment.

And that reminds me. I was at work and I got a call from my next door neighbor—a comely woman of extraordinary nosiness. She likes to take my mail from the box at the street and place it, carefully, on the rocker that sits on the front porch and behind the great wall of Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. “Mooner, there’s quite a pile of mail today. You’ve phone, American Express, New Mexico Natural Gas and City Services bills, and a fat and lumpy envelope from some man back East. Another Johnson. Is he your cousin?”

Not every Johnson is kin, dear lady. Although you could say that every person with a johnson is my brother.”

Huh?” her first response. “Oh, for shit sakes, Mooner. You really are an asshole.”

I hung up with the wondering as to just what kind of lumpy surprise my buddy Beej had sent from Tennessee. After ruminating the possibilities, I settled on either a pulled pork sammie from this one place he drove me within thirty minutes of my first arrival in Murfreesboro, or a really fat doobie of Tennessee’s finest mountain-grown. My final considerations were that it would be a small doob to make me extra hungry for the mailed pork sandwich, and I went about my very busy day.

Day finished after dark, I arrived home late to find both dogs sitting at the front door with looks of consternation plastered to their faces.

You’re late, shithead. Yoda got so hungry he’s already eaten a cabinet door and most of your plastic containers from the shelf behind the door. I had him puke that appetizer into your basket of clean underwear.”

I’m sorry, Squirtie girl, but I’m crushed at work right now. Let’s get you fed.”

I placed my laundry back in the washer, put the first serving of their kibbles into their bowls and picked up the mail I’d grabbed from the porch as I walked in. The letter from Beej was in the middle and made the stack of envelopes cant awkwardly. “Did either of you take a sniff at this letter today? Smell anything interesting?”

Fuck you, Mooner. You’re lucky I didn’t tell the goat dog to eat your mail.”

I put the Postal offerings down and fed them the rest of their meal. I retired to the office to check email and then opened the lumpy envelope. Inside was not the treats I had expected to find. It wasn’t animal or vegetable nor was it precious metals of valuable bonds. But it was the most dear gift another man has ever given me.

Inside was a small gold lapel pin of the number 6. The significance of this pin lies in its meaning. Starting back in WWI, fighter pilots watching the rear of a comrade pilot would tell him that, “I’ve got your six o’clock.” Meaning that I have your back.

The note with the pin said simply, “Friend, I’ve got your six.”

Why are you crying, asshole. Oh, no, has somebody died?” Squirt asked. “Please don’t tell me something has happened to Gram.”

No-no, sweetie, everyone is OK. It’s just that Beej has managed to bring tears to my eyes with five simple words.”

Have you ever noticed that it’s the quiet men who can most impact your life. It isn’t the yacky assholes like me who make any great difference in peoples’ lives, it is, rather, those solid men of few words—men who speak with great thought and care—who make real impact.

I find myself felling unworthy of this honor. I’m lacking. The only true repayment of his gift is to tell him that I’ve got his six as well. But in the telling, I know with absolute certainty that my six is way better covered than will be his.

Manana, y’all.

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Thinking Of Beej; RIP Polly

Wednesday, June 19th, 2013


So. I awakened this morning at 2:30 am Mountain Standard Time, my head full of the normal ADHD-fueled swirling thoughts as usual. I wake most nights about that time to go into the bathroom to pee and also to assess whatever dreams have inhabited the swill filling my skull to that particular point in the night. As is typical with most of my normal rituals, my middle-of-the-night ritual is a planned routine—a somewhat complex set of steps that must be taken, in order.

Wake; ask myself where I am; realize I’m in bed; move Yoda from his nesting place in my armpit; sit up and scratch balls; stagger to the bathroom; check for night wood to avoid peeing on the floor; sit and pee while recounting my dreams. Should I miss any steps or take steps out of order, my ADD will consume the rest of my day. Missing steps of any obsessively compulsive routine in my life will, generally, fuck up whatever day I have left.

OK, stop. When it’s 2:45 am and you are writing about your life events that happened fifteen minutes before, do you say, “I awakened last night at 2:30 am…” or, rather, would it be more appropriate to say, “This morning at 2-fucking-thirty…”? That’s one that has always screwed with my head. When does morning actually take the day’s reins from night? Is it a specific time? Does it depend upon how long you’ve been awake? Does it really make a shit?

Tonight, the normalcy of this waking ritual was disturbed by a not normal line of thought. This morning’s first wakening thought was the same as the primary thought in my head when I lay down and snuggled the puppies into their nests at my side. I was dreaming the mangled imaginations that heavy emotions often place in our minds, and I woke with the dream surfaced in my conscious.

“BJ’s mother died, and he’s worried about me… Fuck!” I know I didn’t shout it, but both dogs jumped to alert status at my words.

“What the Hell’s wrong with you, Mooner? You got gas cramps again?” Squirt asked me.

The diminutive brown dog was at my side. “I told you to lay off the bean burritos late at night. You drop a bean burrito fart under the covers and I’ll have the goat dog eat all your new socks.”

I found a large display of thick cotton crew socks in the Size 12-15 Mens I require, and I bought them all. Four dozen plus an extra tube of three. When I unloaded my shopping cart and placed the socks on the counter, the sales lady said to me, she said, “That’s a whole lot of very big socks, sir. You a football coach, or something?”

I explained that they were all for me and how it is difficult to find the extra-large size and how I only wear cotton, and she said that fifty-six pairs of socks are a lot of socks for one guy under any circumstance, and then I told her it was only fifty-one pairs. She said, “Oops, but still a lot of socks,” and rang-up the five-sock reduction from my bill. I paid it with my American Express card—the one that says, “Member Since 1976.” I won’t tell you how many points I have, but I will say that I have never spent a single point in all these years. I’m saving for a first class ticket to Mars.

“It’s not terminal gas, sweetie, it’s sadness. Bill’s momma died and he’s concerned about my relationship with Mother. I just dreamed that God came to visit us again, and I offered to trade my live parent for BJ’s dearly departed. God told me to pull my head out my ass and get a fucking grip. And that’s a quote.”

God told me that He thinks I can learn a great deal about humility and love and forgiveness from my good friend BJ. Again, a quote.

“But I have trouble letting go of some of this shit, Ma’am,” I told God. “And really. Phyllis Diller? You had to show up looking like Phyllis Diller?”

God looked like the comedian, a personal favorite on my Way-Back Machine, and we were sitting on the fishing dock at the ranch back to Austin. “Came as Ms. Diller, dumb ass, to show you I’m serious.”

Some people have truly, deeply human relationships with their parents. Like BJ. And me, I find myself jealous of them. Truly. I think I need to fix that. Maybe manana, y’all.

Rest in peace, Evelyn Ruth Johnson. You are missed.



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Mayans Send Mixed Messages; Mooner Untangles The Myths

Thursday, December 20th, 2012


So. It’s Thursday before Friday’s world-ending events possibly predicted by the Great Mayan Calendar. It seems that the entire earth is in for a major calamity should the doomsdayer’s interpretations of ancient stone tablets be correct. Stone tablets, which I might add, that no living human has any real idea how to interpret, other than to say that, rather than ending their calendars for reprinting each twelve modern months, the Mayans chose to scribe their date keepers for page turnings every few centuries.

It’s easy to see how the Mayan calendar ends when it does since the fucking Catholics slaughtered all the Mayans hundreds of years before they even needed to think about quarrying the stone for the next period’s dates.

Evil right-wing murdering Nazi Catholic goat fucking shitheads.

Me, I see this silliness in the same way I see how different shitheads interpret the books of the Bible. Every wing nut and evil-hearted conman has an interpretation of the Bible, and those interpretations range from “Love your fellow man” to “President Obama is the Devil”. The longer I live the less I believe any Biblical interpretations are worthy of serious discussion. The longer I live the more I’m convinced that the Bible has jumped the shark.

That’s right. You heard it here first—the Bible has jumped the fucking shark.

If my grandfather were still alive, he’d say, “The world has already ended, Mooner, so who really gives a shit the Mayan calendar?”

I remember the day that JFK was murdered when it was my grandfather who came to William B. Travis Junior High School to pick Streaker Jones and me up after they dismissed classes. All of us were stunned in some manner or another—students and teachers alike. Streaker Jones and I were in Mrs. Browningwell’s Spanish Class when the Principal announced both the assassination and school dismissal over the loud speaker.

The institutional beige loud speakers at Travis Junior High were Altec brand, and maybe 14-inchers, that hung in the top corners of each room. The speaker boxes were bolted to the walls and the bolts had a spot weld to keep them in place. Seems some enterprising young schoolboy had found an after-market for institutional beige Altec 14-inch loudspeakers.

I always thought it was Mike Martel. We caught him breaking into all sorts of shit and stealing anything from the Valomilk candy in the cafeteria to the Kotex from the Girls’ Rooms.

God I loved Valomilk candy. The snap of the crisp chocolate shell, the way the marshmallow cream oozed out onto your fingers… That one time when Candice what’s-her-name sucked my finger clean. What was her last name?

Several of the girls in class gasped and started crying when they heard the President had been killed. Me, I didn’t quite hear it accurately. I’m sure that my ADHD had my brain spinning with thoughts of Susie Ashburn’s budding breasts or some other thought more interesting than Mrs. Browningwell’s dull lessons on conjugating Spanish verbs.

“Mooner… Hey, Mooner, snap outta it. Sumbody shot the President. We need ta go home.” It was Streaker Jones and he was already standing at my side and tugging on my sleeve.

“Sit… Down, everyone!” Mrs. Browningwell barked. “The Principal said to evacuate civilly and in our assigned order. Assistant Principal Smithson will come to release our room. You are to sit and shut up until he gets here.”

We all waited, squirmed and cried. After a few minutes, Assistant Principal Smithson did indeed stop at our door. He motioned Bat Brains Browningwell to join him where they conferred in whispers. All I heard that was legible enough to understand was her whispering, “It was bound to happen.”

Mrs. Leticia Browningwell was twenty-one and just out of college and just married to then Assistant Pastor of Mother’s Baptist Church, The Reverend Dr. Browningwell. Bat Brains Browningwell was a constant character in my life from the start of that school year so long ago, until today. Her hubby is the self-same asshole who managed to convince my mother to be the mean spirited shitwad that she has become.

OK, look, Mother didn’t need to be convinced to be mean spirited—she fucking IS mean spirited. But the good preacher has provided the focus for Mother’s attacks, most recently gays, President Obama and Public School funding.

When Granddad picked us up from school that day he was in a solemn, quiet mood. Which for Granddad was remarkable. See, I caught the dreaded ADHD from Daddy who caught it from Granddad, who likely invented the fucking AD and HD. When he didn’t respond to my, “Hey, Granddad, how ya doing?” I knew something serious was going on.

“They shot our President, son. It’s the end of the world.”

We rode the rest of the trip in silence. See, my grandfather was a man who felt that civilized people would neither assassinate their own president nor would they even feel he deserved to be killed. Civilized people talked their differences and then voted their preferences.

Granddad would yell at the TV when some shithead said something he thought was stupid. “You ignorant John Bircher ass licking Nazi loving sonofabitching motherfucker,” was his favorite yelled phrase. I guess I didn’t fall far from that tree myownself. Substitute “goat fucker” for John Bircher and “shithead” for ass licker and you’ve got my TV rants.

Anyway, what I want to say is that I’ll be on the road with the Squirt, Yoda the goat dog and likely not the fucking cat. Honor seems to have disappeared again and left nothing but smatterings of mouse blood and fur in her wake. I’m hoping her long hair and hunting skills keep her moving while we’re gone.

Armstrong! It was Candice Armstrong who sucked the sticky marshmallow Vallomilk center off my index finger. I’ll never forget the embarrassment I had from the delayed-action woodie she invoked. Are woodies invoked by sexy women? Evoked, maybe?

Remember boy’s short-short basketball uniforms? Hard to hide a big old boner when you didn’t even realize one had arisen from inside those shorts. We were all standing around after basketball practice eating Valomilks when Candice and the other cheer leaders walked by from their practice.

“What’s on your fingers, Moooo-nerrrr?” Candice cooed.

Then, without any additional foreplay, she grasped my wrist in her velvety-smooth hand and stuck my index finger into her mouth. “Mmmmm, marsh-mmmellow cream. My favie.”

I remember, for some reason, that she said the word “favie”. I think that my thoughts about how she said “favie”, when combined with the tingle running through me for minutes after she stopped sucking on my finger are what invoked that woodie.

Have you ever been standing among a group of friends and strangers and had your rock hard pecker come peeking out from the hem of your shorts? That shit is embarrassing no matter how many times it happens.

Maybe I can look Candice up while I’m in Austin, and maybe Squattie or Beej will stay abreast of the Mayan shit and let me know if the world ends while we’re on the road tomorrow. I’d hate to miss the end of times.

I’ll try to write you while in Austin, but no promises. Manana, (maybe) y’all.


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Thinking Of Q; Reflections On A Year Ago

Tuesday, November 13th, 2012


So. I was just reading some comments from Squattie and Beej and it hit me. A year ago today is when I packed my car and headed back to Austin after BlogCon 2011. That memory should have hit yesterday when I learned that Quincy’s wife died. That’s my buddy Q from over to Thank-Q For Common Sense.

My first stop for BlogCon 2011 was to see Quincy and his wife in Jackson. I thought of how the Mrs. Didn’t feel well enough to have dinner and beers and conversation on that November night I stopped in Mississippi to meet the Q. While he never shared with me any details of his lovely wife’s illness, I have never sensed pain from/in Q. I never sensed that he carried the burden that many people with a dying spouse carry like 80-pound backpacks. He was reverential and respectful and always loving towards his mate. But never a “woe is me” was uttered.

When I tried to say something meaningful in respects yesterday, I realized how insufficient words are. I wondered about how we humans have experienced billions of deaths over thousands of years yet we lack any truly comforting words after death.

Why don’t we have a standard statement that will make everything OK—why can’t we say a few words and have things actually be better?

I left Jackson, Mississippi the next morning last November with a new friendship, a half-dozen smelly beer glasses from The Bulldog, and a learned respect for common sense. I programmed the OnStar system in my little Chevy for the outskirts of Murfreesboro, Tennessee, and headed out. I arrived at the McDonalds near to BJ’s place where he picked me up for a “grocery trip.”

The two of us drove central Tennessee for a couple hours and hit four of the best pork and chicken smokers’ establishments in the South. We also established the foundation of one of the best friendships I’ve ever had.

OK, and let me also say that Beej was the assigned vetting agent for Squatlo and the Reckmonster—the toughest of the three of them whose job it was to make certain I wasn’t an ax murderer from Texas who’d driven 1,800 miles to thin the blogger population in Central Tennessee.

Which reminds me. I read that some silly assholes in Texas have gotten enough signatures on a Petition to Secede From The Union to make it official. Got enough other assholes to sign it to force the President to look at it.

Dear President Obama:

I hear that Texas wishes to leave the extreme discomfort of The United States of America in order to form what they consider to be a more perfect union—a union of one. Please grant their wish.

Sincerely (and I mean it),

Butcher Einstein “Mooner” Johnson, American Citizen and Former Texan”

Do those silly asshole even realize how fast Mexico will invade the fucking New Republic of Texas? Davy Crockett and the boys stole Tejas from the Mexicans and the Mexicans want it back. Don’t know why they want it back, they just do.

I wonder if Rick the Prick Perry would lead the Texas Brigade in the second defense of the Alamo. Take his Texas Aggie sword out of mothballs and lead the charge.

And that reminds me to say, “Hip-hooray for the Aggies football team!!!” Kicked that Alabalama butt and did it in Tuskalooser. And something just hit me.

I have always wondered about the elephant in the room with the Crimson Tide. Might that be because the word “tusk” is in their hometown’s name? What if the actual name was Tiskaloosa? Maybe they’d have Miss Manners as their mascot.

The morning I got up to leave BJ’s house exactly one year ago today, he fixed me several magnificent breakfast sandwiches. Bacon, ham, eggies biscuits…

One year ago today. Wow.

Anyway, our country will remain in good hands for another four years and we can all be entertained as we watch the right-wing talking heads explode. Manana, y’all.

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