Archive for the ‘Bigotry’ Category

Fuck The NRA- A Capitalization Offense

Sunday, May 12th, 2013

 

So. I’m wondering what it is about America and Americans that makes us think we’re so fucking great. I know the words we use to tout ourselves, I’m just having trouble translating the conceptualizations contained in all this “America is wonderful” rhetoric into actual actualizations. After extensive research and memory searching, it appears to me that the most common “sell America in as few words as possible” sales pitch would be contained in the old tried and true axiom stating that America is:

“The Home of The Free, Land of The Brave.”

Really? Home of the Free? Free what? Free to love who we want? Free to make decisions about our own bodies? Free from economic suppression? Free from the autocratic edicts of another’s religion?

Land of the Brave? Really? Like brave enough to vote for simple, smart gun legislation?

Bullshit. It’s like the same thing as I see on the sides of police cars. “Protect and Serve,” might be written on the sides of more American automobiles than the word “Police”. Ask those three young women up to Cleveland in the O-hi-o about the quality of protective services rendered in their favors.

Which reminds me. Whatthefuck is up with the grammatical usages of the words “who”, and “whom”? Why does it even matter? Is there a single English-speaking non-moron on the face of the Earth who wouldn’t know what you meant if the two words were merged into one?

OK, maybe that should have been, “…non-moron whom wouldn’t know…” See what I mean? It’s the same thing with I/me. And answer me this. Why, in-the-dog-shit, do we capitalize I and not me? Hell, if I’m so important to deserve capitalization why aren’t me and mine? For Christsakes, I am me. And what about you and her and them? Why does my shit stink and I don’t?

Talk about your capitalization punishment. I say we string up all the grammar Nazis by their nipples until they fix some of this shit. I think it’s time for a little Grammatical Anarchy!

We need a slogan and a name for our cause. How about “Free Americans for Brave Grammatical Change!” as our name? Oh-oh, and our slogan could be, “It ain’t about whom, it all about Who?”

And speaking about stringing-up by one’s nipples, there was this one time when one of my ex-wives visited her buddy up to New York City. I’ll not tell you which of the ten exes I’m referencing herein, except to say that she’s the one with aureoles the size of porcelain saucers and nipples you can hang your old letter jacket from while role playing “Cheerleader meets football hero”.

Anyway, this lovely and buxom woman had this buddy living to the big city, and on this one trip to visit, the friend took my wife to one of those bondage clubs. Wife comes home with an extra suitcase of what she called, “This is a case full of sexual delights, Mooner my main man.”

After a short discussion as to why I was her “main man” and not simply her man, and, likewise, numerous slapping of my hands when I attempted to open the suitcase, I was instructed to, “Go take a shower and shave yourself from your belly button to your knees. Then put on the pink Speedo I bought you and meet me in the basement.”

And don’t even start with me about the pink Speedo. I never went swimming in it and you, likely, have never seen nipples the size of Little Smoky Sausages get hard enough to cut glass. So back off on the pink Speedo.

Me, I should have had the presence of mind to carefully examine my lovely spouse’s words. See, the “shave yourself from B-button to knees” part was a key phrase. Shaving my hairy ass alone is a two-hour process involving the dulling of three new razors, so the half-day it took me to get skinned and make it to the basement in a pink thong gave the wifey-poo plenty of time to adorn said basement with her newly-purchased sexual delights.

I slid the pink swimsuit up my legs, settled it into place, and took a look in the mirror. “Holy shit!” I said to the surprised look on my own face, “Half of my man package was fur!” I then spent a few minutes fluffing myself and then went to the basement, which was locked.

Me, I’m thinking that my finding the key and doing a “breaking-and-entering” scenario was part of the plans. After finding the key I decided to sneak in like a cat burglar. So I craftily opened the door and crept (creeped?) down the stairs where I fully expected to find a pair of giant, oiled breasts awaiting me.

“What about that? Is that one there fer you twatter er yer titties?” I heard from behind the big stone column that supports the floor above. It was my Gram’s voice, and “that one there” was a pair of car battery clamps with mink pads, fastened to a fancy bungy cord.

The wife’s voice answered her, “Here, let me show you.”

There was a yelp, and then, “Oh, baby, that’s what I’mma talkin’ ’bout!”

I turned the corner around the stone column and saw a sight that still gives me nightmares. Wife and grandmother—both naked—were standing at my work bench with the opened suitcase atop. I can only describe what I saw by saying, “Think battery boosting competition.”

Remember how the Bedouins used to make water bottles out of dried camel stomaches? Pin jumper cables on a pair of those nomadic water jugs and you have a perfect visage of Gram. Think “instant wood” and you’d gain understanding of the lovely ex-wife.

Have I ever told you that I have the dreaded ADHD and its little brother ADD? I have no fucking idea why I called this meeting other than to say, “Happy Mothers’ Day!” to all you mothers, and that reminds me that my very own mother is coming to visit in less than a month.

Ugh. Please send drugs. Manana, y’all.

 

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Perils Of ADHD; A Tale Of God’s Visit

Sunday, April 7th, 2013

 

So. It’s a cut crystal sky awakening in the view from my office window, and the dogs are back asleep in the bed. I’m sitting here with soggy eyes and nose from the juniper pollen still filling the enchanted air of my new homeland, and I just realized that God paid me another visit last night.

“Why, Mooner,” you might ask, “does sitting at your desk with three pounds of crusty snot plastered on your face remind you that God made a house call to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe?”

“Because, dear reader, I’m an ADHD-riddled fuckball who has absolutely zero controls on his thoughts.”

OK, stop. Do I lack controls ON my thoughts, or, rather, would it be more grammatically correct to lack controls OF my thoughts? I do know that I would ponder ON my thoughts should I be in a pondering mood—which I am—yet, and alas, I now realize that the aforementioned ADHD has taken control of the steering wheels of my brain and has every intention of driving us into a ditch.

To emphasize this notion, I got a call from Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson Thursday afternoon for a scheduled psycho therapy session. While the original intent of that particular session was to, and here I’ll quote Sammy with some precision when she said to me, she said, “I’ve been meaning to speak with you about your blog posts, Mooner. I think it’s good for your audience that you are not posting so many of your whatever it is that you post on your blog. While it might be good for you to write your loony thoughts often, I think you should consider the fact that your kind of crazy might be contagious.”

Huh? Did my lovely first ex-wife, babies’ momma and psycho therapist just tell me that I’m making other folks nutso? “Are you saying that my writings make other people crazy? Really?”

“OK, maybe I didn’t say that just right when I said that your sort of lunacy MIGHT be contagious.”

I blew my snotty nose and wiped the hardened pellets of tears from my eyes while I thought of an appropriate response. After thirty seconds of careful debate I responded into the phone. “Fuck you.”

The good doctor did that “Tsk-tsk” noise that has always pissed me off. I added, “You sound just like Laticia Browningwell—the other bitch to ruin my life in a significant way.”

Mrs. Browningwell is the wife of my family’s Baptist preacher and was my school teacher in three different grades. And that thought re-reminds me that God stopped by for a chat last night.

I was maybe a little drunk and was certainly under the influence of my grandmother’s mushroom tincture, and the three of us were sitting out to the portal admiring the sliver of dusty light made by the moon as it dripped its way through the darked sky. The Squirt was in my lap almost purring as I scratched her back just above her tail, and the goat dog was in the far corner of the yard eating his fill of the newly-hatched weedy fodder Spring-sprung from the dusty soil.

“Yoda’s gonna be puking all night long, Squirty girl. I bet he’s eaten five pounds of green weeds,” I mostly mumbled as I scratched the little dog’s back.

“He can’t help it, Mooner, he still has fears of going to bed without any supper,” Squirt informed me. “I guess when you consider that he was caged and beaten and sent to bed hungry as a routine…”

She was referring to the fact that the little white dog spent the first years of his life incarcerated in a puppy mill over to Oklahoma, where they beat and otherwise abused him. Rotten pig fuckers even cut most of his vocal chords to quiet his plaintive pleas. To hear him bark is to want to slit the throats of animal abusers.

OK, maybe slitting their throats is a tad bit harsh. Perhaps a better thought would be to crush their nuts with a ball peen hammer.

Anyway, I had dinner Friday night with two new friends I met through my Realtor. Georgia and Mary Michelle are a lovely pair of ladies who have been in a committed relationship for decades. They are smart and funny and thoughtful people for whom I hold much admiration. To me, any same-sex couple who has stayed together for the last few decades are admirable in so many ways.

As we sat on the portal last night watching the moonlight move through the big Ponderosa pine tree, I heard the rustling and scraping sound of a metal chair moving on flagstone. “Ah, now this is what life is all about.”

I knew the voice. It was Jeffery Holder’s rich basso-profundo from one of those Seven-Up commercials back in the day. I didn’t bother to look His way when God spoke to me, and in response I said to Him, I said, “Hey, Big Guy, how’s it hanging, Sir? Are you in the form of a tall black man or did you come as Ali McGraw again?”

“Too many questions, Mooner my man. And just so you know, Ali McGraw is out of your league.”

I turned to give God a piece of my mind only to discover that He had appeared in the visage of Montana Wildhack from Slaughterhouse Five—my favorite movie of all time. I was somewhat stunned and mildly aroused. “Holy shit, Sir. Are you telling me that I’m in Valerie Perrine’s league?”

God laughed—a huge and hearty sound that vibrated dead needles from the big pine tree. Needles floated like heavy feathers and covered the four of us. “Your little white dog will be OK, son, I’ll see to it. So stop worrying about him. And you need to also leave Yoda’s puppy mill torturers to me as well,” and God laughed again.

“Alright,” I answered. “Is that why you’re here tonight?”

“Nope, I’m here to give you some advice. Ask yourself a question, OK? Ask yourself why it is that whenever you first meet homosexuals you feel obligated to demonstrate your support by telling them every single fucking incident in your entire life where you were supportive of a gay person?”

“Huh?” I responded, “I don’t do that… Do I?”

“Yeppers, you certainly do.” Now God both looked and sounded like my good buddy Lloyd. Lloyd and his husband are two of my most-admired human beings. “Look, Mooner, gay people realize that you understand their plight and support their causes by intuition. But you act silly and try to impress-just like you used to act around black people. Remember?”

Oh, yea, I remembered. Anytime I was in the company of a black person I would conjure up every instance of my support and interaction with black people for my entire life. I even married two black women, but not just because they were black. I married them because I had sex with them and until recently, that would have been my modus operandi. Until recently, I had had sex with ten women and, therefore and to wit, I have ten ex-wives.

“I think you might have something here, Sir. But could you cover your breasts so I can concentrate?”

Valerie Perrine had the most adorable breasts I had ever seen, and many was the night they filled my passions. OK, many the night, morning and afternoon did my Ivory soap and me visit memories of Montana Wildhack in the scene wherein she first lands in Billy Pilgrim’s domed world.

“You think I should call Georgia and Mary Michelle to apologize? I really like them and don’t want to have driven them off.”

“No, shithead, that would make matters worse. Just treat them like any other friends you have and let sexual orientations be their topic of conversation.”

And with that, God gave me a chaste kiss with Valerie Perrine’s lips (or were they Lloyd’s?) and disappeared in a puff of smoke, leaving me to ponder why it is that I’m such an dumbass sometimes. Why is it that I sometimes feel that I have to demonstrate that I’m not an asshole to people who have been oppressed and abused by Society’s assholes?

Is it guilt? Do I feel responsible for all the ignorant and prejudicial old white men of the world just because I’m an old white man?

Is it a desire in me to be accepted? Do I admire people who have stayed stable and true to themselves in the face of extreme prejudice, and feel a need to be accepted by them? Do I want them to like me? Am I an insecure shitbrain? Am I the only one?

Ugh. Is it too early for a Carta Blanca beer? Manana, y’all.

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Selective Absolutism; Simple Solutions To Complex Problems

Sunday, March 17th, 2013

 

So. I was driving I-25 between Albuquerque and Santa Fe on my way home last night and a thought hit me. Ed Schultz was on the radio and he was discussing the asshole Republican from Ohio, Senator Portman, who recently found out that his son is homosexual. This man, upon learning from his own child that the son was “born homosexual” and didn’t choose “the life” and that this young man has “always been” homosexual, has gone from sponsoring the Defense of Marriage Act to supporting the freedom to marry whoever you choose.

Whomever you choose?

This man’s son having had this particular conversation with his parents is hardly remarkable in today’s World. I’ll bet this very instant there are thousands of young people girding their loins to have the same talk with their parents—sweating and fretting and frittering brain cells away in the angst all children experience when we worry that we will disappoint our families in some major way.

Nothing remarkable about these closet cleanings happening across the globe with an increased regularity. Me, I find this heartening in every imaginable way. Our world becomes more enlightened every day. If only so many of us wouldn’t close our eyes to the light that makes us uncomfortable or those rays of truth that challenge our dogma.

But what is remarkable about this particular closet evacuation is that this Republican congressman from Ohio has been a staunch opponent of same sex marriage his entire career. Every chance to attack the issue, this shithead managed to find face time to condemn gays from having this most basic human rights. He fucking sponsored the Defense of Marriage Act!

Until it hit home. His home. Now, he’s “rethinking the issue”.

Ed Schultz brought up the issue that these right-wing Christian fuckballs are against each and every human right and social issue until it hits them there square to their house. Then, they decide they need to “rethink” the issue. They choose to be absolutely against something because of their “core beliefs” until it helps them to rethink the issue.

This made me think about “Someone Shrunk My Teddy” Cruz—the unimaginably dense US Senator from Texas. This boy’s momma dried his undies in a way-too fucking hot dryer when he was a kid and pinched his brains up tight against his asshole. Cruz talked-down to Senator Feinstein on the Constitution and Bill of Rights like she was a first grader. Using the stupid logic and lies so often employed by people with no facts at their disposal, “All-shrunked-up” Teddy chose to defend, with absolution, certain sections of our Nation’s Charter while pretending other sections and the grammatical modifiers don’t exist. He, in effect, rewrote the Constitution and Bill of Rights to say what he wished they said.

And that made me think of the arch conservative Christians—the ones who choose to believe that the Bible is the literal words of God, except for when they don’t.

So. Like I said, I was driving between the ABQ and Santa Fe. I was at that spot whereat you crest this one hill and suddenly see the valley where Santa Fe starts its meandering that ends in the Sangre de Christo Mountains. Each time I see this sight I almost cry with its beauty. Last night as it came into my view, I had an “Ah-Ha!” moment.

“Sonofabitch!”

I yelled it and slammed my hand on the thick, padded steering wheel of my work truck. “Son, of a fucking, bitch! Now I get it.”

What I got was the answer to a question that has pestered me for decades. The question? “How can you easily identify an asshole?”

The answer? “When they practice Selective Absolutism.”

Anytime a person has absolute convictions to a small part of a policy or issue or doctrine yet denies validity of other parts—that, dear friends—is the asshole marker. Like the Christian shithead who will condemn homosexuality because he believes that the Bible is the literal word of God. If the words in the Bible are God’s literal words, then why aren’t these same charismatic Christians killing all their current Prophets?

In Deuteronomy 18:20-22, God said, “…A false Prophet is one whose words don’t come true, and they must be put to death…” Then in Ezekiel 14:9, God tells us that, “…A Prophet who is deceived is deceived by God and, again, must be put to death…”

Therefore, and ipso-fucking facto, anytime Pat Robertson made a boo-boo in his predictions… He was to have been sacrificed in the name of God for his sins. The actual act of making a prediction that doesn’t come true is God taking action against the impure—some shithead who uses God’s name under false pretenses.

And Selective Absolutism doesn’t apply just to right-wing conservatives. The same logic can be used with liberals as well. Like Jessee “The Crazy Made Me Do It” Jackson, Jr. Jessee—dude—when you stake a claim to defend the downtrodden and then steal their money… You are an asshole. You’re a liberal asshole, but an asshole none-the-less.

Holy shit but does this ever make life easier for me. I spend so much time in my attempts to specifically distinguish precisely what it is that makes a person an asshole, that it wears on me. Now it’s easy. Now I have more time to pursue Allie McGraw. Now I’m taking the puppies on a walk over to the railroad tracks walking path for a chance encounter with Mz. Love Story.

Manana, y’all.

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Black Smoke- Whaaaa; Catholics Catch A Day Of Peace

Wednesday, March 13th, 2013

 

So. Black came billowing from the Pope Alert Smokestack rather than white yesterday, marking a day of freedom for the world’s Catholics. Me—if I were Catholic—would rejoice. If I were Catholic I’d be glad that my chosen religion had managed to survive a full day without one of the string of God’s second-hand men. For those of you wondering why I didn’t say “God’s right-hand men”, to me, there is nothing right about the hierarchy of the Holy Roman Catholic Church.

OK, please allow me to stop right here because if I were Catholic I’d have slit my own throat years ago and none of this would matter. That said, would somebody please answer me this question. Where in the Bible did Jesus say that He wished to be honored and worshiped in giant fucking cathedrals? Wasn’t Jesus the guy (Guy?) who told the money-grubbing currency exchangers to get the fuck off sacred religious soil? Didn’t our boy (Boy?) Jesus encourage us to gather and hunt for our salvations in small groups rather than in mega churches?

In all of those childhood Vacation Bible Schools I attended as a kid, did I miss the part where Jesus said, “OK, boys, here’s what you do to honor My spirit (Spirit?). Find the fussiest old prune-faced male pedophiles among you and dress them up in silly red gowns. Have those assholes elect a Queen from among themselves to serve as front man, and let me reinforce that I said men. Oh, and how about we have all these shitheads wear really ornate headgear. You know how I love the headgear. Once you’ve got yourself a Queen, figure the best way to raise cash in My name. I’m OK with you raping and murdering and pillaging and spreading disease and poverty, just so long as you do it in my name. Oh-oh-oh… Do it this a way. Be all humble and shit and mimic forming a cross over your heart, and say, ‘In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.’ And somebody will need to figure out just what the Holy Spirit is. In a few thousand years there will be this guy who has real trouble with that one.”?

And I do. That entire Holy Spirit shit has perplexed me from the beginning of my religious indoctrinations. I get the concept of God just fine. Anytime we aren’t smart enough to figure something out as a species, we can use God as the originator (Originator?). Anytime something good happens we can thank God. And anytime something goes terribly wrong we can blame God.

But wait once more, as we’ve just hit upon another instance whereupon I don’t get the Christian shit. If I’m to place all my faith in God, and He fucks me over… I’m finding fault. If the big boy (Big Boy?) wants me to credit Him with every little thing that I do or that goes right in my entire pitiful life—if He is so needy and insecure as to require credit for making every good thing happen—the the Big He needs to suck it to and to take some fucking responsibility.

Be a man (Man?), God. Teach us how to bear responsibility for our own shit with Your example. I think this little screw up of yours is where the entire religion-as-a-life-format has gone so terribly wrong. As long as we can use You for justification, we’ll misuse Your name (Name?).

Which reminds me that I’m not at all pleased with the capitalization rules for God’s grammar shit. We either need to capitalize all references to God and His stuff, or none of it. Like that last word in the previous paragraph wherein I questioned the capitalization of God’s Name (name?).”

Anyway, I was awakened by the dogs in their obvious confusion as to the recent time change—another of Mankind’s misconceptions as to how to better live life. Just like with that “Holy Spirit” bullshit, I’ve been waiting fifty years for someone to tell me just one logical reason to ruin my life twice every year by rearranging the time. I’ve got one dog springing forward for an early breakfast and a second shitting in my shoes because she doesn’t like my explanations as to “Why it’s not breakfast time” any better than I like my explanations.

“Makes no fucking sense, Mooner,” the Squirt told me at the new 4:00 am MDST. “Now get your ass up and feed me before I take a dump in your new shoes.”

So I’m up and bothering you guys. Manana, y’all.

 

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Mooner Johnson: Modern Day Prophet or Simply Pathetic?

Monday, December 10th, 2012

 

So. It’s snowing in Santa Fe. Finally, it’s snowing. It will be just a few inches of fluffy moisture but we are in need of it. We need it for agriculture and water supplies, and we need it in order to open the Northern New Mexico ski slopes.

The “not created by mans’ sillinesses” global warming trends have already altered the ski seasons in the Western US, and this year has been brutally dry. Here to Santa Fe, the hoped-for Thanksgiving opening of ski slopes is now a Christmas prayer.

Which reminds me. God paid me another visit last night and it was the strangest of all Their (God’s) appearances. The dogs and I were sleeping and I was having a quite weird dream. I was in my mid-twenties and working for an older gentleman selling orthopedic shoes in his store. I was dressed in an Armani pinstripe suit—medium gray with tiny, thin lighter gray stripes—and I wore a pair of highly-polished handmade oxblood Oxford dress shoes from England. The tops were sewn to the sides with thick, waxy threads, and the expensive shoes’ soles were comfortably cushioned for walking.

I could see my face in the reflection off the tops of my shoes as I hoofed my way from the retail store to home. The face that blinked up at me off the shoe tops as I looked at my walking feet was a not happy one. My eyes were narrowed and my mouth was screwed up into a tight knot.

It was the face I seem to always have these days when disconnecting the phone after talking to Mother.

Home was a dream house I’ve never owned and occupied by a dream wife I’ve never married. She was a stunning, nubile young woman wearing a silk muumuu swirling with colors, and her perfect breasts were outlined on her chest as she lounged atop a pile of plush velvet pillows. The sight reminded me of that one time when I saw this 100-carat opal that was nestled in a cushioned display case—beautiful, colorful. Cold.

“I know those breasts,” I said to myself as I approached the wife.

The wife stared lasers at me. “It leaked again, shithead,” she told me as I neared her, “you, Mooner Johnson, are a terrible husband.”

“You’ve got great titties, wife, but what a bitch you are,” my feeble response.

“I’m a bitch and you’re a complete failure; we’re the perfect couple,” she said with what seemed like glee. “Go look for yourself. It’s a mess.”

The wife shifted on her pillows and her lush hips rippled waves in the silk of the filmy dress. The sight of her gave me instant night wood but I passed her by. Somehow my desire for sex was overridden by good sense. Not my awake life Modus Operandi.

I walked to the master bedroom of the big house and found water on the floor. I remembered that I was supposed to be at work and called my boss at the shoe store. “I’ve got problems at home,” I told the older man, “this may take awhile.”

“Home IS your problem, Mooner. Fix your leaks and love your mother.”

“Huh?” I said aloud.

When I looked down at the floor, the water trailed back from where I had just come, and several men from the home builder’s office were standing in the bedroom with me. They wore uniforms with their names on the chest. One said “Larry” and the second read “Moe”. I looked at the third man’s name and it was in an Arabic script. I somehow knew him to be Curly.

I was on one side of a giant four poster bed across from the men, and there was a huge spider web hanging off the posters and rails between us. Sunlight glistened from the ropes of the spider’s ladders and drops of sticky moisture ran down the central spine towards the bottom.

“That’s from the scene in that James Bond movie where Sean Connery impersonates a Japanese man and the bad guy on the tiled roof kills the pretty, sleeping girl by accident when the poison drops slide down the silk line into her mouth by mistake,” I told the men. “I masturbated to the memory of that girl.”

The men were nonplussed.

It was a classic movie spiderweb and there was a fat rat spun into a cocoon of the spider’s twine. The rat hung like a miniature ham from a smokehouse rafter. I reached down and twirled the little cocoon like a top. I watched as it quickly wound its spider rope into a tight knot and then gazed while it unwound—up and down again, as heavy weights at the end of strings tend to do when twisted by some moron.

I left the room and walked back to the wife. “There’s a giant spider web with a dead rat cocoon hanging off our bed.”

She lifted a glass of Chateau Margaux wine and took an elegant sip. A drop of the wine hung on her bottom lip like a dollop of honey. She tipped the glass to me in a mock salute and said to me, she said, “And I’ve got a killer body and a bottom sheet covered with your stains.”

I awoke on my back with the Squirt’s nose jammed up my ass and the goat dog wrapped on my neck like a muffler. Yoda’s warm breath smelled like a landfill on a sunny afternoon. “Holy shit, you two, you’re making me dream some very weird stuff.”

That’s when I felt pressure at the foot of my bed and heard a deep, hearty laugh. I wedged myself up to my elbows to see the wife from my dream sitting Indian-style at my feet. She held two glasses of wine and a magnum of the Margaux from the dream. “Here,” She said with a proffered glass. “I took the liberty of opening this.”

It was God, wearing the dream wife’s bright muumuu. Her breasts were clamped tight to the front and I could envision the curves of Her hips. I took the offered glass, sipped from it, and said “Nice tits, Ma’am. I think I’ve seen them before.”

God took a swallow from Her glass and replied, “Thanks. Jane Fonda—Barbarella. I remembered how much you liked Ms. Fonda in that movie so I dredged her up for this visit.”

I appraised God with a more critical eye. “You’re square on with the body, God, but that’s not Jane Fonda’s face. Whose face is it?”

“Why, I’m Betty Jo Bialonsky.”

Fire Sign Theater humor, my favorite. I think the world would be a far greater place if everyones’ Gods quoted Fire Sign Theater. Hard to start a war when your God is telling you, “I think we’re all Bozos on this bus.” Or, how do you hate other people when your God says, “Don’t crush that dwarf—pass me the pliers.”

God shape-shifted into an unrecognizable form I can best describe as a ball of metallic colored gas reminiscent of the aforementioned opal. The gaseous ball made me nauseous to look at Him. Her? It, maybe.

“You’re making me sick to my stomach, Sir. Can you do another trick?”

“No, son, I’m getting you ready for Christmas. It won’t be a pleasant trip back to Texas.”

“Whatthefuck does that mean, Sir?” I demanded.

“Not saying. You need to live it in real time, kiddo.”

God can be a real asshole sometimes. “How about I puke last night’s chicken soup, caramel candies and Carta Blanca beer all over your pretty gas ball?”

I heard a loud “Crack!” and suddenly found myself sitting in the back yard with the dogs curled in my lap. I was on the rock wall that we built this summer, wrapped in a quilt and covered with snow. A branch of the big Ponderosa pine tree had snapped off, I guess from the weight of heavy snow.

God—now looking like Sophia Loren—sat next to us. She reached for my hand and placed my palm to her soft cheek. My hand was icy cold and God’s warmth spread from Her face through my arm all the way to my heart. In thickly accented English, God said to me, “Hold your water, Mooner. Your Mother needs you.”

God set my hand into my own lap and started rising into the snowy air. As She rose She changed form into Michaelangelo’s classic God visage. I looked up to follow God’s ascent and yelled to Him, “Hey, asshole, is that all you’ve got? You punished me like this to tell me to be patient with my crazy mother?”

God laughed his deepest belly-buster laugh. “OK, Mooner. One more thing just for you,” and He belly-laughed again.

“FUUUUUCK WALLLLL-MARRRRRRRT!!!”

The bellowed God sound reverberated from the walls in the backyard, knocking snow off the tree onto the dogs’ and my head. When God was almost out of sight, He whispered down at me, “Merry Christmas, shithead. Be a good son and surprise me.”

God’s laughter trailed off into the sky—drifting into nothing in the fat snowflakes.

The Squirt, her face dusted with white powder, looked up into my eyes. “Sounds like good advice to me, Bwana. Mother’s been a pip lately, but she’s still your mother.”

“I think I might be a prophet, Squirtie girl. From what I remember from Vacation Bible School, one Godly visit is a vision. Multiple visits make prophecy.”

The diminutive brown puppy stifled a giggle. “And telling folks that God visits you makes for crazy talk, shithead. Think Pat Robertson.”

She was right. Maybe I should keep this to myself and gird my loins for Christmas. My mother has been especially nasty lately and I’ve been thinking about not visiting her in San Antonio when I go back to Texas for a week. I’ve had that whole “Love/Hate” dealio swirling in my skull for days now, so I guess God came by to give me some guidance.

Ugh. It can be hard to be a good son.

Manana, y’all.

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Fuck Walmart!; A Dr. Marcus Bachmann Story

Monday, November 26th, 2012

 

So. What if we Americans stopped shopping at Walmart and those other retail giants that employs Walmart’s tactics to profit at their employees’ welfare? I’m not certain that any other retailers denigrate their employees as much as Walmart, but there are bound to be a few more shitheads we can stop doing business with.

OK, stop. I should have said, “… there are bound to be a few more retailers with which we can stop doing business.” I love danglies, but I need to modify my prose for better reading. OK, might that be better said by saying, “I need to modify my prose to be better read.”?

Think about it. What if a huge number of Americans decided to shop elsewhere until Sam Walton’s kids decide that the four of them owning 40% of America’s entire fucking private wealth is enough? What if we forced Walmart to change its views on its employees?

I did some reading on Walmart and I came across the following:

“When Sam Walton created Wal-Mart in 1962, he declared that three policy goals would define his business: respect for the individual, service to customers, and striving for excellence ( www.wal-mart.com).”

Which of those three goals holds the umbrella that covers sexual bias? How about worker abuse and unhealthy working conditions? Which goal stimulates Walmart’s “Buy Chinese first” purchasing policies?

Walmart’s product lines are 70% Chinese products today and in the 1980′s and 90′s were estimated to be at least 50% Chinois in origins. Who of us can forget Walmart’s infamous “Buy American!” advertising campaign? Maybe Sammy W. had that big lie covered under the excellence goal.

Which reminds me. I was flipping through old reruns late the other night and tripped over an old Shark Tank show. There was this guy from one of the Carolinas who wanted money from the Sharks to make his product in America instead of shipping the jobs off to fucking China. One of the asshole investors actually had the gall to call the man stupid for choosing to give his neighbors jobs at a higher cost than he could employ Chinese children.

Asshole right-wing greedy fucking Shark Tank shitwad.

And which Company Goal was served when the Walmart security guard choked a shoplifter to death over the weekend? To the Walton family, stealing a DVD player is a death penalty offense. I guess that when you think that $0.90 per hour is a livable wage, you can place other human values on a low scale as well.

Am I the only one who thinks that the Waltons and the Kochs and Trump and Limbaugh wish for a feudal society as America’s next evolved government? Am I the only one who thinks they look on us commoners as serfs?

Fuck Walmart. Fuck Walmart hard and dry!!!

Which reminds me. The Squirt has started snoring. OK, that’s not quite accurate. The Squirt has started snoring loudly. She’s long snored this adorable little snirffle snore that is so cute it melts your heart. Nothing says “love” like a soft snore from an adoring pet.

But there’s nothing adorable about what’s coming out of the 10-pounds of brown fur these days. The Squirt’s nocturnal noises are literally cartoonish—long, loud and full of multiple intonations. I’m reminded of an old Popeye cartoon with the basket full of puppies snoring away.

I bought a bag of foam earplugs to help me sleep through Squirt’s snoring, and that is the crux of my current problem. I’ve been wearing these cute purple foam earplugs every night for a few weeks—jamming the small rubber cones deep into my ear canals. I didn’t take time to think that plugging-in my hearing devices in order to sleep would create additional health complications, but I neglected to reason the simple fact that your ears are a vital component of your body’s sinus system.

My nasty cold is now in my ears and it feels like I’m on an airplane that roller-coasters up and down from zero-to-20,000-feet each thirty seconds. I’m in a continuous loop of compressing/decompressing and I’m ready to slit my own throat.

And for some reason that thought brings to mind something that has been bothering me for quite some time. Chris Hayes and Rachael Maddow are the same person. It’s true and I know it’s true. I loves me some Rachael Maddow and I think Chris Hayes is a very smart young man, and I simply don’t know how Rachael makes the transformation and where she finds the time to live that particular double life. I find myself unable to concentrate on Chris half the time because I’m looking for clues as to how they could make Rachael look less like herself when they do the makeup.

Maybe a blond wig and handlebar mustache.

Smart women really turn me on and many’s the time I’ve been sitting with MSNBC on the tube and rMs comes on and I start to daydream about Rachael and her partner and me. I think her partner is an artist named Susan. OK, maybe it’s Leslie or Margaret, perhaps.

Anyway, I’m unsure as to what I might even suggest to do about this entire Rachael/Chris dealie, but I am going to give it some thought.

And might it also be possible that Grover Nordquist and Dr. Marcus Bachmann are the same woman? I’ll need to research that one as well.

Anyway, “Fuck Walmart!” and come back manana, y’all.

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A Message From God; Big Guy Twists Mooner’s Arm

Thursday, November 8th, 2012

 

So. I’ve finally sobered enough after the Elections to sit still and tell you some stuff. I’ve a long list of entries today, so let me start by saying that I rejoice in the American people and their sensibilities shown on Tuesday. We narrowly avoided taking a terrible pathway to the destruction of our civilization.

Hoo-fucking-rah for sanity!

Second, I got a phone call about Gram—American Express contacted me about a questionable charge on the family credit card.

“We have a tire store in central New Jersey placing a $14,696.44 charge on your AMX credit card, Mr. Johnson,” the nice lady, Marlene, told me. “Snow tires, the manager says. It doesn’t fit your Cardholder Profile, and we’re concerned.”

“Do you have the store on the line?” I asked.

“Yes sir,”

“OK. Ask if the tires are for a giant stretch Hummer limo.”

They were and now I know what’s shaking and where my Gram has been. And don’t even start on me about how I should call her or be actually worried over her disappearance. She’s a big girl as often said to me by her, and she doesn’t like me to, as she also says, “Stay tha fuck outta my beeswaxxies, ya little shitbird. I was a wipin’ yer ass fer ya afore ya could scratch yer own balls.”

I guess Gram and crew decided to drive up and see what they can do to help with the devastation up there to the East Coast.

The last thing I want to tell you is that God stopped by again yesterday afternoon, a happening that is starting to bug me. I don’t have enough shit on my plate already that God doesn’t need to add an extra helping on top.

He—this visit God appeared in the visage of a homeless man that used to hang out in downtown Austin many years ago. Man wore an old top hat—tall, cracked and faded—that served as the container for a head of hair that hadn’t seen scissors or soapy water for ten years. Man would take his hat off to salute any donation and reveal a finely-woven log of greasy hair in the precise shape of the tattered old hat.

I was sitting out on the portal with my bare face exposed to the high desert sky. Through my closed eyes, I could see the shadows of the afternoon sun, one of our big Ponderosa pine trees and one of a hovering Abraham Lincoln.

“What’s shakin’, Mooner my main man? You look pretty happy with yourself today.”

I opened my eyes expecting my visitor to be the lone Republican president I have ever really given a shit about. “I am happy, Mr. President, err… Louis?” I answered. “Is Louis still alive, Sir? I really liked that crazy dude.”

“Nah, old Louis met his Maker, Mooner. I just thought I’d use his image to set the tone for this little conversation we’re about to have. I need you to do me a favor, son. A big favor.”

Oh, shit, I thought to my self, God wants another favor.

“Look, Sir, please don’t ask me to kill my firstborn son, he’s doing really well right now. And I’m really not up to starting a Crusade—my knees hurt and my back aches and I’m really much more of a lover than a fighter.”

God laughed at me—a deep rumble that sounded as if it had originated from a cavern. “You’re a hoot, dude. I say ‘problem’ and you think ‘World War III’. What I want you to do is give a message to some folks for me.”

“Thank God,” I said. “I was worried you’d want me to do something I really don’t want to do.”

“You’re welcome, but who said you would want to do this?” God told me. “What I want you to do is tell the losers of Tuesday’s elections some things to help them in the future.”

“Huh? You want me to help those shitheads?”

“Yep. I’ve got some advice for them and I want you to give it to them.”

Huh? “No fucking way, God, I won’t do anything to help those assholes. They’re trying to ruin my country with their idiotic religious insanities. Look, how about I sacrifice my second-born son?”

Again, God laughed heartily. “Don’t be childish, Mooner, this won’t hurt a bit. It’s a simple request.”

Why do people always say, “It’s a simple request,” when it’s never a simple request? “Oh, alright, Sir, sit down and tell me what I can do for You. My neck is starting to hurt from looking up at You.”

God sat in the chair beside me and drank deeply from a bottle of Carta Blanca beer that materialized in His hand. He wiped His mouth on the sleeve of His black Lincoln long jacket, burped and said to me, He said, “I want you to tell the right-wing conservative Christians of America that I heard their prayers for this election. I heard them pray for Obama’s defeat. I heard them pray to send their anti-abortion candidates to Washington. I heard them pray that I would end Obamacare and I heard the prayers to increase the military budget.

“I also heard the angry and bigoted prayers—the ones wishing for the President to drop dead and for his assassination. I heard the millions of prayers asking me to send all homosexuals straight to Hell and give America’s governments over to them, the ‘real’ Christians.”

God took a deep breath and another swig of beer, and He grasped my wrist with His left hand. “Look at me, Mooner, listen carefully to what I want you to tell them.”

I did, and when I did I saw deep-brown eyes shimmering with tears. “Tell them I heard every single one of their prayers, Mooner—Every… Single… One.”

God blinked away the water from His eyes and strengthened His grip on my arm. “Tell them I heard those prayers, Mooner, and tell them they have received My answers. Tell them I responded and that praying louder won’t change anything. Tell them to not ignore me again.”

And He was gone.

Ugh. I thought this was going to be easy. Why does God always ask us to do shit we don’t want to do?

When I showered this morning I was pondering what would happen if I didn’t write about this recent visit. And should that be a capital “V” Visit since it was God’s Visit? I was thinking that I would just tell you about the Gram sighting and some other stuff and I started soaping my arms to wash. When I slid my wash rag down my arm I yelped when I got to my wrist.

“Ouch!” I yelped, “what the fuck?”

I rinsed the soap off to expose a purple bruise shaped exactly in the image of a firm grasp. Maybe that should be “Bruise” and “Grasp”. I finished bathing and sat down here to do my task.

My final word to all of you right-wing conservative Christians out there is this. God heard your prayers for this recent election—each and every one. And He answered them.

Take a hint from His answers.

Manana, y’all.

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A Fistful Of Fucks: Mitt Romney, Bigotry and Politics

Tuesday, November 6th, 2012

 

So. It’s finally election day and I, for several, am glad of it. I say I for several because I have mixed feelings about this election—I’m confident that President Obama will be reelected and I’m terrified that he might not.

It is still astounding to me that bigotry and religious radicalism can have such strongholds in “The Greatest Nation On Earth”. I’m amazed that the right-wing Christian radicals can’t see the parallels between themselves and the Muslim extremists they seem to hate so deeply.

Somebody please ‘splain this one to me. What is the difference between a Muslim thinking he can get to heaven, where 72 virgins await him if he blows up a crowded school bus, and Mitt Romney thinking he will get his own planet over which he gets to be God if he blows up America’s middle class?

Please. Wherein lies the philosophical or logical or practical difference? I mean other than the color of their skin or their religion, how are the Muslim shitheads any different? All of this fucking “Will of God” talk will be the death of us.

I have a good buddy who thinks that Armageddon is the self-fulfilling prophesy that will come about in a global religious war. He thinks all of these Christian asshole extremists WANT planet-wide war, that they actually pray for the “Rapture”.

I had lunch yesterday with my lawyer buddy down to the Del Charro. I’ve decided to start a contracting business with Adrian and Pedro and we needed a Registered Agent in order to be licensed in the state of New Mexico. I decided to get into this venture out of self defense, what with all of the repairs and remodeling I’ve had to do on La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe.

We both ordered the Monday Special—pulled pork sliders—and our central topic of conversation was, of course, the elections. The pork was tasty and the topic of conversation somewhat tasteless. “How can this election even be close?” I asked.

We talked about the President’s solid record of accomplishments and Romney’s lies, attacks on women, flip-flops, and all the rest of it. After a few minutes of talk we had a thirty-second period of dead air, as each of us pondered the answer.

“Bigotry,” we both said at the exact same instant.

“Racial bigotry,” I said in follow up.

“Religious bigotry,” he added.

Which reminds me. Why are most Republican surrogates fat and gray-headed white men?

And will somebody explain this one to me. How can we call America the planet’s greatest if we deny social services to the needy and make public education a secondary budgetary issue? How can we say we’re the finest if we make it more difficult for retirees to live in comfort after they worked so hard to retire?

Somebody needs to tell me what would make Mitt Romney’s America the Greatest Nation on Earth.

Fuck Mitt Romney. Fuck bigotry. But please don’t fuck America.

Go vote!!!

Manana, yall.

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Tough Questions Tackled; Mitt Romney Still A Prick

Thursday, September 13th, 2012

 

So. Here we all are in the middle of the year 2012—ten thousand years into our evolution as a civilization and our planet’s highest life form—and we don’t seem to have moved far beyond the tribal mentality from when we were all hunter-gatherers. We have once more regressed as a world to repeat the bigotry of Territoriality. America’s religiously-bigoted Christian shitheads are inciting those with Muslim-based bigotry and violence is the net results.

I think these incidents of zealots with opposite ideology are not unlike back to our cave dwelling days when Grog shit in Grunt’s campfire in an effort to get him to move to different hunting grounds, and Grunt stole Grog’s woman in retaliation. Then Grog gets really pissed and rolls a big rock off the cliff onto Grunt’s head, killing him.

Grog runs down the hill, cuts Grunt’s ears off with a flint stone ax, steals his stuff, grabs the wife and has a party back to his cave.

I think that the more we evolve as a species, the more we devolve back into our baser instincts.

And I also think that maybe I might be just a touch crazier than previously thought. I think I might be just as big a cuckoo bird as Joan ‘d Arc or Osama Bin Laden or Pat Robertson. I’m spending an inordinate amount of time speaking with God and I’m giving advice based upon those conversations. I guess the only thing that distinguishes me from each those nut cases is the simple fact that I’m not a nut. I’m telling the truth—God’s words from His lips to my my ears to your eyes.

I spent last evening watching news reports of the latest Mideast insanity while sipping Carta Blanca beer and sampling a selection of my Gram’s latest mushroom potions as we sat on the patio. My personal favorite, labeled in Gram’s sloppy handwriting as, “Don’t laugh at me, buster, I have spies,” was a soothing concoction designed to keep us from getting too happy at Mother’s vacating our premises.

Maybe I wasn’t sipping the beer and again, like I said before, maybe I’m slightly more than slightly nuts.

“Hey, shitball,” Gram said to me when the Rachel Maddow Show went to commercial break. “Ask yer buddy God about all a this crap. Maybe He can make headers from ass holies.”

I thought about it. “I’m not sure when we’ll be speaking again, I have no control over his visits,” I answered.

Then I wondered if you should say capital-W “We’ll” when the we part is you and God. See, me, I don’t understand why we don’t capitalize every fucking thing when we are speaking of the capital-G God. Maybe that’s the real reason we have a Caps Lock key on keypads.

And why, inthefuck, isn’t the Caps Lock key lettered in all caps? English is a confusing enough language without all of the contradictory rules and regulations. If we can’t spell shit phonetically we should be allowed to punctuate as it feels when we write.

Anyway, I told Gram that God visits at His will and not mine. Then she told me, she said, “Who gives a shit, Mooner, ask God to come an’ talk ta ya.”

I thought about that. “OK, but won’t that be like a prayer. Asking stuff from God—isn’t that what a prayer is?”

See me, I’m really unsettled about asking God for anything. I’m worried that even asking a question is dangerous—I think that the ultimate example of “Be careful what you ask for” would be to say a prayer. You know that joke where the guy asks God if he can have a pecker long enough to touch the floor and then the guys legs fell off?

Add to that unsteady logic the simple fact that—just like in physics—for every prayer you offer there is an equal and quite opposite prayer getting offered up to your, or some other God.

“Maybe that’s why the world is so fucked up,” I told Gram. “Maybe all of those Gods from the different religions are all trying to grant all of those conflicting prayers and making a mess of things.”

“Nah, too simple, Mooner. Ask tha big guy.”

“OK,” I said and closed my eyes tight. “Dear God, how about You come over for a little chat. There’s some craziness I’d like You to explain to me. Please don’t come if I won’t like Your answers. Amen.”

Hours-long story shortened for brevity’s sake, God came to see me last night. I was fast asleep when I was awakened by the sound of John Lennon’s voice singing Imagine. I love that song.

“Hey, God, how’s it hanging?” I asked him.

God stopped singing and transformed into M’hat’ma Gandhi. “I’m unwell, Mooner my man, things are not so hot with your world.”

We discussed the world situation for a bit before I said, “OK, answer me this if You will. Why are there so many religious zealots out there who are willing to kill for their faiths? Why is there so much hatred and distrust among the World’s greatest religions?”

“How about I answer you by making you one of those zealots? Close your eyes and I’ll make you a loony charismatic Christian for a few minutes.”

I shut my eyes and immediately felt a sense of personal calm and one of political agitation. The personal calm came from the absolute knowledge that my buddy God was THE God and that His promise that I would have everlasting life at his right hand in Heaven, and that my job on Earth was to promote those facts to others. I also felt that I had the right to enforce those beliefs onto others.

The political anger was for anything of contrary nature. I was so committed to my belief in my God that any other thoughts were unacceptable to me. I felt a hatred of those different. I felt a surge of desire to do something—any fucking thing—that would put down those with conflicting ideas from mine.

“Now I’m going to make you one of the men protesting at the US Embassy in Yemen,” God said, and I suddenly found myself dressed in a robe and throwing a rock.

I was angry to the boiling point and had the absolute knowledge that I had a few dozen virgins awaiting my arrival to Heaven’s gates. I felt, simply said, exactly the same as when my fanaticism was Christian based except for my perspectives. Suddenly I felt like meeting my virgins sooner rather than later, and I rushed the Embassy walls.

“Wake up, boy, come on. It’s not your time yet.” God said.

But I was anchored—right foot stuck in the cement of Mohammad’s Love and left leg knee deep in Hate’s quicksand.

“Wake up, dammit,” and God slapped my face. Hard.

“Ouch, Dude. That hurt.”

I was stunned from the slap and still punch drunk from the overpowering emotions of religious fervor.

“Powerful shit, no?”

“Is that really what it’s like?” I asked.

“Why would it be any other way? If you have absolute certainty about unsubstantiated theories… Well, how else could you think, act? There is no more egocentric or bigoted human position available. Your species’ ability to have absolute faith-based convictions is the root of your evils, sonny boy.”

I thought about that and God interrupted by saying, “And don’t even think that it’s only the lower-intellects who think these things. Some of your brightest are delusional, bigoted.”

“Why can’t those guys find it in their hearts to live and let live, Big Guy? Why must they hate each other?”

“It’s contra-intuitive. Impossible to have absolute certainty about one thing and not distrust/dislike opposing views. That’s also why those guys can be so easily manipulated.”

Ugh.

“It’s Your fault,” I told God, “I think this is all your fault.”

“Oh, please. Don’t be a shithead. I let you guys drive your own cars, Mooner, you’re the ones putting them into the ditch.”

And with that, He was gone.

Hard to hold much hope when the fact is so sobering—that bigotry’s very origins lie in our gathering in the comfort of like-thinkers—that by conjoining and solidifying our faiths we generate arch enemies.

Ugh and again. I had to ask.

See what I mean about prayer? Manana, y’all.

 

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Wee Willy Koch Plays Cowboy; When Does A Horse Have Two Assholes?

Saturday, August 25th, 2012

So.  Here we all are on a fine Saturday morning in America.

America.  Land of the Free, Home of the Brave.  Right.  Free–if  you’re rich enough–to buy the US Supreme Court, the US and States’ Congresses, and enough pristine Colorado wilderness to build yourself a real-live old western town like our boy Koch.  But Brave?  My dictionary defines brave as, “Possessing courage and valor…,”  and has something to do with Honor.

How Brave is it to send the truly Brave among us to fight wars started by and based upon,  lies?  How Brave is it to use bald-faced lies to push your religious-based political agenda?  How Brave are you to lie to get ahead?

How fucking Brave are you when you grab your banana-clipped automatic weapons and shoot up women and kids in the name of white bigotry?  How Brave are Glen Beck and Savage and the other assholes when they wind up their Nazi toys to do their killing?  How Brave is it to hate based upon nothing more than a difference?

America.  For amber waves of grain; For purple mountains majesty.  Right.  Amber-stalked, dead corn and soy beans and amber-bleached animal carcasses spread across our drought-plagued infertile plains.  Amber is the color of the gold lining the pockets of the oilmen and financiers who profit from the greenhouse gasses that cause the extremes in weather that cause the droughts.

As for your majestic mountains…  Better not have coal or gold or uranium or another valuable commodity buried within its geo structure.

Which reminds me.  Tennessee’s state song is Rocky Top, or at least it seems to be.  Do you think those 100,000 plus Volunteers are thinking about the dozens of their rocky topped mountains that are getting dug into flattops by the coal industry as they sway and sing at Neyland Stadium?

America.  American Industrial Might.  Right.  Man walks into a bar in Detroit and says to the bartender, he says, “Say, barkeep, I’m a foreign journalist and I’ve just flown in to do a story on American Industrial Might.  Where would you suggest I start?”  Barkeep says, “China.”

America.  America, where all men are created equal.  Really?

Ugh.  I’m getting all pissed off with the state of things in my beloved country.  The story about that asshole William “Wild Bill Willie” Koch building his own old west town in the back yard of his Colorado home has hit me hard.  Go read just one of the stories and see if you don’t get pissed as well.  Motherfucker has enough money to pay for all that excess of greedy ego and he still wants to manipulate our political processes to gain more.

There is a group of Christian-based robber barons who want to take us back to the 1800′s, when labor unions were dreams and a man could buy any fucking thing he wanted.  That, dear friends, is why Wet Willie Koch is so fascinated with the Wild, Wild West.  He wants to buy the fastest gun in town and be the land baron.

I guess Wild Willie wants to play gunslinger and shoot up Dodge City.  Maybe that’s what it takes to get his pecker stiff at age 72.  Me, I hope his little adventure turns into a true life Westworld.  I can envision Yul Brenner’s The Gunslinger character staring him down, and…

Wasn’t Yul Brenner a scary fucking human being?  If he had been born anytime in history before 1850 he’d have been a military dictator.  If he were to give me that stare and say, “Eat that plate of cat shit, boy!” I’d be forced to reply, “Just one plate, sir?”

America’s infrastructure is crumbling–roads, bridges, dams and all the rest are in a terrible state of repair.  We manufacture less than we consume.  Our forever free and quality public education system is getting ruined by extremists.  We are losing the important personal freedoms gained by Americans starting with our Revolution to gain freedom from England, and from slavery, and the Suffragettes, and segregation and women’s reproductive rights.

Women’s Rights.  There’s your oxymoron if Mitt Romney can steal enough votes to become President.  Do you realize that in more than thirty of our glorious states, if a woman who gets pregnant as the result of rape and decides to have the baby, she is REQUIRED by new laws to take that child to visit the rapist father while he’s in prison?  That’s right, a rapist get’s visitation rights to his little love child in the majority of our states, and the mother is required to produce the child to the prison gates.

Are… You… Fucking… Kidding me?

What has happened?  How did we get here?  Why is the Jesus of peace and love now used as a battering ram to oppress all differing views?

Which reminds me.  Last night I worked late with the stone masons to lay the flagstone walkways out back here to our Santa Fe casita.  I finished too tired to get cleaned up, so I just washed the red dust off my hands and face and headed to a fast food joint for a greasy dinner of fried fish and chips.  It was just a half hour before closing time and there were but two families seated in the otherwise empty dining room.  One family rose and left as I got my tray of food and the other–a family of Native Americans–were seated in a booth next to the table I chose for myself.

There was a mother-grandmother, and I’m thinking two of her sons and a granddaughter and grandson.  She was dressed classically in Navajo fashion and her grandson of maybe seven years called her “Shímásání”.   That’s how I knew them to be Navajo.  For some weird reason I know the Navajo word for Gram.

She spoke to her family only in her native tongue–quiet, hyphenated rhythmic speech with emphasis on almost every other syllable.  It made me tear up to hear her speak and the reverential treatment she received from her family.  I sat, enchanted, as my tears peppered the fried fish fillets like the sprinkling of malt vinegar I’d just applied. I felt a passion and respect for this woman and her history.  I started thinking about that asshole William Koch and wondered how long I’d need to practice to become a gunslinger so I could go face him down at high noon.

That’s when it hit me.

I haven’t had a psycho therapy session in over three weeks!

Manana, y’all.

 

 

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Last Day Until Santa Fe; Mooner Johnson- Poetry In Motion

Thursday, August 2nd, 2012

 

So. You might think that the recent Texas Republican US Senate primary results would have my rankles so mangled that it would be all I could speak to. Hell, you might even think that I would be so rankled that those politics would be all to which I would speak.

But alas and dangling prepositions be damned, the fact that Texas Repubbies chose a Sarah Palin endorsed Tea Party Chinese jobs-supporting lawyer hack over Governor Prick Perry’s endorsed Lt. Pretty Boy David Dewhurst has barely registered on my ADHD-addled mental gyroscope. Texas politics is getting even more radically right-wing stupid and it has barely registered on my radar.

You might also think that I’m so pissed that asshole Christians flocked to show their solidarity with Chik-Fucka-Buckets that I stopped by at the lunch hour yesterday and flashed my ass at them. OK, you’d be right on that one. And, “Yes, Virginia, those handsome and quite manly hairy butt cheeks were mine on display as you waited in the long line to order your hormonally-enhanced soggy fried sandwich.”

I didn’t even know that those assholes had a rally planed or I would have made a sign to accompany my ass flashing. One side would have said, “Fuck Chik-Fucka-Buckets,” and the reverse might have been, “Everyone in this line is a bigoted asshole!”

Not very creative but as I say, I didn’t give it any thought in the altogether at all.

Nope, I’m riding a high these days—the high of dry mountain air and Enchantment. I’m loading the car today and leaving early in the am for Santa Fe! Two weeks this time while I get the new casita ready for Johnson family occupancy. I’m taking the dogs and the fucking cat this trip and we’ll be camping out of sorts. I have an air mattress and some canvas chairs for furniture and enough kitchen stuff to make simple meals.

Squirt told me that Yoda has already asked if he’ll be able to, “Mark all of our territory,” in the two short weeks of this stay. We started marking the three thousand acres here to the ranch a couple months ago and still aren’t done.

“Don’t worry, little guy,” I told him. “You can cover the new place once a day if you wish.”

Tears welled in the small puppy’s eyes as he thought of a manageable territory. Dogs like to have limits and parameters in their behavior patterns, just like kids.

I’m finding that the closer I am to New Mexico the less I care about Texas and it’s slippery slide towards right-wing Hell. I’m even starting to like my buddy Squatlo’s idea about encircling the entire state with a fifty-foot razor wire fence and then just dumping all of our country’s “right thinkers” inside. Let them call it The United State of Bigotry for all my give-a-shit. Knowing that Theo is moving to Austin has helped cement the building blocks of this idea.

But again to quote my Gram, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Yer gonna be off over there to tha Land of Enhancements an’ I’mma be stuck here with yer fuckin’ mother. Now fetch me another beer an’ quit yer bitchy achin’”

That was last night as we sat on the flagstone patio watching smoke curl skyward from the BBQ pit. “It’s Land of Enchantment, Gram, and do you know how much I love you?”

My randy old grandmother cocked her head my way, smiled a wicked grin and replied, “Don’t you go getting’ all sedimental on me, boy. Now fetch me that beer an’ git them ribbies off’n tha fire. I’m hungry ’nuff ta eat a goat.”

I kissed the top of her head and she swatted me half-assedly. The ribbies were tasty and Mother was lucid during dinner and spreading the good cheer that Chick-Fucka-Buckets had record sales yesterday. Mother thinks that America has finally reached moral high ground.

My take is that America has achieved record levels of insanity and has reverted to its level of civilization found in the early 1800′s. At least in some states, like Texas.

But I frankly don’t give a flying fuck, my dear. I’m off to Santa Fe.

Manana, y’all. (Maybe)

 

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Sunday Interrupted; Stolen Paper Caper

Monday, July 30th, 2012

 

So. It’s only 10 am and I’ve had an event-filled day. I was going to comment my thoughts on two concurrent events stories this morning but something happened to change my plans. Not that my plans don’t change often.

OK, stop. Not that my plans don’t often change. I’mma cure my ass of that danglie hanging dealio if it kills us. I seem to compulsively hang modifiers and prepositions off the ends of my sentences constantly. I’m now dedicated to obsessively correct these grammatical infractions always.

Intent being the controlling factor to the logic string herein, I was going to speak to first, the most obvious political absurdity of the hour, and two, the current most silly issue within the Catholic church. For starters, how predictable was it that Mitt Romney would publicly announce that he would support Israel should they unilaterally decide to bomb Iran into finer dust than currently inhabiting its desert borders? Oh, and that is the Jewish culture that makes them more successful than the Palestinians.

Really? Are you kidding me? You mean to tell me that Mitt’s crack team of advisors would support a full out war in the Middle East? Not since Doctor Strangelove has a possible American president had such a blood thirsty and extreme hawk panel of advisors trying to pull the puppet strings. Of course Herr Schmidt Rommel wants war in the Middle East—there’s money in them there sand dunes!

But enough of that and on to my second not-to-be-written story. Very quietly, the Catholic women wives of God have been struggling to gain somewhat equal rights with God’s boy wives. Yeppers, the nuns want the church to treat their wifely status more akin to that of priests. The Holy Roman Catholic Church, however, expects girl wives to be subservient to the boy wives because…

Because who really gives a shit when what happened this morning happened. As back story, someone has been stealing my Sunday newspapers. I think I know who it is but can’t manage to catch them. They don’t do it every week so a stakeout offers a low percentage of success, and the mud dobbers love to build nests on the shiny lens of my surveillance cameras.

Today’s paper was missing and I decided to go down to the Starbucks and grab an espresso and read the paper. I donned my UT ball cap of the month, cranked up the GTO and headed out. The coffee shop I chose is in the Arboretum, an affluent shopping area of high end stores that is surrounded by affluent housing and offices.

I got my coffee and sat to read the newspaper at precisely 7:02 am. This I know not because Jesus told me so, but rather, because my cell phone rang and I looked at the time of the call. That call interrupted me from reading the second article that was to be centerpiece of today’s ramblings—the Nuns versus the Vatican story. Around me, several of the well-dressed patrons gave me the same aggravated look I give to persons answering their cell phones while in the company of strangers. So, as I always fucking do, I clicked it to V-mail.

I settled back to the paper and was reading about Syria, when a not-so-quiet whisper went through the crowd. I raised my eyes from the newsprint, but my quick scan saw nothing worthy of the misplaced rich folks breath. Then I heard, “That’s disgusting!” and, “Go away, you’re making my wife sick!”

As I raised my eyes this time, I saw the centerpiece of my neighbors agitation. An obviously homeless man was rifling through the trashcans for coffee cups and leftover foodstuffs. As fate would have it, I know this man. He’s a very bipolar fellow who spends his days hanging out at one of the underpasses nearby this Starbucks and his name is—he thinks—Robert Something.

Robert was in this one trashcan up to his chin when a large man of maybe forty years got up from his chair to confront the situation. “I said you’re making my wife sick, asshole. Get out of here!”

At the “here” part, the big guy grabbed Robert Something’s filthy shirt sleeve and started to pull the crazed man from his meal service station. Robert’s weight stuck down into the trashcan was more than expected, and big guy stumbled nose-first into the tangle of Robert’s quite dirty head.

Now let me tell you guys something about homeless people. Some homeless actually have homes of a sort—shelters where they can sleep and eat and take a bath. Others, like my main man Robert here, either have been banned from the shelters or they make the conscious choice to not take baths at the shelters. I have twice taken Robert to the emergency room and each time I wrapped him in the plastic tarp I carry in the trunk of my car. And each time the tarp was torched afterward and replaced.

In the middle of the Austin summer, a man who lives outside and hasn’t taken a bath in three years has a certain bouquet.

Sensing a possible upgrade of additional indignations once Robert Something’s stench reached big guy’s olfactories, I jumped up to render aid. “Take your hands off Robert,” I said. He’s my guest.” I patted big guy’s back just as his brain caught up with his nose.

“Ewe… Oh God, what is that stench?” Big guy obviously had little experience with the unwashed masses. “Now I’m going to need another shower before church.”

Robert, oblivious to the commotion, was still deep in the bowels of the trashcan and now big guy is deep in Modern American Christian compassion. “You fucking homeless prick. Get back in your cardboard box where you belong.”

And he stuck his shiny-loafered shoe in Robert’s ass sending can and Robert in a tumble. Me, I thumped big guy in the ear. Then when he turned, I thumped his nose, hard, and then the other ear. “Help him up, shithead. Now!”

The big man glared at me, his balled his fists for a fight while rubbing nose and ear. He took a half step towards me when, “Stop, honey, don’t do it. Stop, I said!”

It was the man’s wife. “That’s Mooner Johnson, Steve, Streaker Jones’ friend.”

When Steve hesitated, his wife said to him, she said, “Streaker Jones promised he’d come back to see you if you ever messed with his friends again. Now LETS GO!”

Big guy deflated like an overinflated balloon. “I’m sorry, sir, I was just protecting my wife.”

“It’s not OK, Steve, you’re an asshole,” I told him. “As a Christian, have you ever taken the time to consider how a man like Robert got to where he is?”

I got no answer as Steve and his quite smart wife walked away. I gave Robert Something a twenty-dollar bill and told him he should move on. I finished reading to the stares and mumblings of my fellow coffee drinkers and took off. In the car, I dialed Streaker Jones’ number. When he answered I said, “Thanks.”

“Yea, I heard. Anytime,” he replied. “Need sum else?”

“Nope, I’m good. See ya.”

“See ya too. Tell yer Gram I got some new product fer her.”

“OK.”

Friendship is a powerful force. So is compassion. I’ve never been homeless and I’ve never been hungry for more than a couple days at a time. But I know some of the unwashed masses who cluster at our street corners and huddle in communities under freeways to escape danger. Many will never be anything but homeless and many are too fucking crazy to understand their lot.

But each and every one is a human being and deserving of whatever comfort they can find.

Manana, y’all.

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Diplomacy: It’s In The Dictionary, Mr. Romney

Saturday, July 28th, 2012

 

So. There’s an elephant in the room, folks, and it’s name is Mitt Romney. If you want to gain a keen insight as to how a wealthy, privileged, rich American asshole views the rest of the world, take a good gander at Herr Rommel. For months now, the Republican Presidential front runner has given we Americans that snotty-nosed rich prick attitude wherein he, and his ever so lovely wife, call us “you people”.

“You people don’t need any more of my financial or tax records,” and, “You people just don’t understand how business actually works,” or my personal favorite, “I just don’t care about you poor people.” Mitt Romney has been stomping around America and talking down his snooty nose at us as common people. Now, he’s taken his blue blooded act on the road.

When Gram was reading the paper this morning at breakfast, she came to the story of the Mittster telling London, and all of England, that, “You people don’t know how to run an Olympics.”

“What tha fuck is that silly asserholie doin’?” Gram asked the table full of gathered Johnsons. “A man wants ta be President cain’t be sayin’ silly shit like that.”

“He’s just speaking his mind, Gram,” said my mother, “the British can’t even keep their promise to protect our athletes from the Muslim terrorists. Somebody should be saying something.”

Gram gave Mother a look that was only a notch below the Evil Eye. “When are you gonna forgit yer a assholie fuckball again? You say some a tha stupidest shit I ever heard.”

“Well,” Mother started to answer, “I, ah, well I think these are quite tasty pancakes, Mooner. What did you say you did differently?”

“I added buckwheat today is your answer, Mother. ‘Now,’ should answer you, Gram.”

Lucidity is a transient concept at best and totally homeless when combined with dementia.

Some of my blogger buddies jump started my thoughts and gave me the idea of how to keep up with Mother as her memory worsens and she starts to wonder off.

“Hey, everyone, I had an idea how to keep track of Mother when she starts wandering off the Reservation. I’mma take her over to Dr. Mays and get him to plant one of those ID/GPS chips in her neck like I got for the dogs. Then we can track her on Google when she goes missing.” Some of my ideas are classic genius.

“Oh, fuck alla that Oedipus shit, Mooner. Put one a them shockie collars on her and lectrify tha fences,” was Gram’s better idea. “Hell, give me a clicker fer tha collar an I’ll keep up with her.”

My mother gasped and clutched her throat at the spot where chip and collar would meet. “Why I never! You people are treating me like an animal. How dare you!”

The vet’s office scheduled us for next Tuesday at 10 am and the electrician will be out to juice up the fences Wednesday. Then I’m off to Santa Fe Friday. It’ll just be the dogs, the fucking cat and me this trip. I can’t be worrying about mother wandering off in a strange town while I’m working. It’s hard enough for me to focus my ADHD-addled brain without trying to keep up with her.

Which brings me back to Mitt Romney. Let me try to say this with an economy of words when I say, “Mitt Romney is not Presidential. He can’t park his own ego long enough to let the engine cool before he says something really stupid. Strong leaders are required to be diplomatic and you, Herr Schmidt Rommel, are not diplomatic in any fashion of the word.”

If you can believe recent polls, America could possibly elect this effete and totally snobbish asshole to our Presidency.

Holy… Fucking… Shit!

Ugh, and manana, y’all.

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One Man’s Loss Is Another Man’s Mother; Lessons In The Key Of Remembering

Tuesday, July 24th, 2012

 

So. What a week. I have been working hard on all the many aspects of buying a home out of state and I have been dealing with my mother in ways not before with dealt. Not dealt with before? Having never before with being dealt, maybe.

OK, whatthefuck is it with the dangling participle dealie anyway? Wait, stop another minute because I’m not addressing danglies, but rather tag-on prepositions—another preposterous pompous and pretentious grammar rule. Why can’t I say, “… dealt with.” to end a sentence and simply be done with it? When leaving a preposition at the end of a sentence conveys the precise sentiments, why, inthefuck, must we restructure to create words that sound as if they came from a snooty-nosed seventh grade English teacher’s mouth?

I’ve done many real estate sales and purchases in my lifetime, as part of my life and my business. Daddy told me early and often that real estate is the only asset worth owning other than your own business. Having spent that lifetime watching Wall Street and the assholes who run it, I have become a true follower of Daddy’s words. But I’ve never owned real estate in New Mexico, so I’ve needed to pay carefuller attention to this Santa Fe house dealio.

And “Paying Attention” is not my middle name.

Having said that, I reviewed the last of the documents and will be proudly owning our new place over there on Monday, July 30. And please allow me to say this:

“Hoo-fucking-yah, y’all!!!”

Then, on Friday of next week I’ll be headed over to start working on the house to get it ready to furnish in late September. The old place needs a few repairs and creature comforts to make it comfy for me and the menagerie of Johnsons calling it “Home, sweet second home”. I’ll take the dogs and the fucking cat on this trip and maybe I’ll have Mother in tow.

Yea, I know, I said maybe Mother will be along for the ride. Fuck me running.

My mother is the “not with having dealt issue” previously debated grammatically therewith herein. I’ve never before said anything about it here to the bloggie out of respect to Mother, but my batshit bigoted and right-wing conservative Christian asshole mother has dementia. According to her doctor it is, “Non-Alzheimer, non-specific organic dementia—what we used to call ‘losing it’ in the old days. And it’s progressing rapidly, Mr. Johnson.”

Said another way, Mother is getting to where she can’t remember shit. And I mean shit as in specific shit and likewise, shit in general. When it first started she made me promise that I wouldn’t write and tell you about it, so I didn’t. But it’s gotten so bad lately that I asked her if I could tell you guys what’s going on and she forgot how pissed she is at me and OK’d it.

This thingie started maybe five years ago when Mother’s usually sharp wit became less sharp and more pointed. As she began to forget things she seemed to become angry more often and with more edginess. Instead of simply snapping at you she would snap and then comment on you as a human. After that trend progressed for a couple years, she started snapping and commenting on her disapprovals of us without just cause.

In the last year or so, she has progressed to become the angry right-wing conservative Christian bigoted asshole I write about so often here—a trend that seems to be a contagion of sorts all across America. Makes me wonder if it’s dementia that is making so many formerly decent people into conservative assholes.

Anyway, ever the silver lining sort of guy, I’m seeing Mother’s memory losses as an opportunity. I was laying in bed last night and thinking about the dramatic U-turn Mother made with letting me discuss her “little problem with something”, as she calls it, and I had what might be a brilliant idea. I was thinking to myself, I thought, Maybe I can reprogram Mother’s memory and return her into a decent human being. You know, treat her mind like Herr Schmidt Rommel’s Etch-A-Sketch, and return her to decency.

So, we were at breakfast this morning and Mother had the expression plastered on her face that I now recognize as the look she gets when she’s lost cognizant connections with her memory. “Here, Mother,” I told her as I passed the biscuits to her, “I made these with your favorite recipe, just for you.”

She gave me the just-mentioned expression and followed it with one of confusion, then one of delight. “Oh thank you, son, you are such a thoughtful boy.”

I then handed her a fruit jar filled with deep purple goodness. “And I know how you love the blackberry jam Sister and Anna make, why don’t you slather some of that on to make it perfect.”

Mother popped a biscuit open with her fork, coated the top half with the seedy jam and took a huge bite. “Mmmmmm, that is a little taste of Heaven, Mooner.”

She chewed and swallowed the bite and washed it down with a sip of coffee and her facial expressions began a slow transformation from delight into abject hate. Her face turned red and her eyes bulged out. “I hate biscuits and I refuse to eat food prepared by homo-sex-u-als. You people are all alike,” and she stormed away from the table.

My Gram was watching this unfold from her perch across from Mother and on my right. “If’fn ya can git her ta eat liver an’ onions an’ vote Democratic, Mooner, I’mma nomilate ya to the Noel Peach Pride.”

“Hells bells, Gram, I don’t need a Nobel Prize. I’ll be happy if she’ll simply accept the fact that her daughter is gay and her son’s a liberal.”

But I lied. I’m now starting to think of Mother as my Eliza Doolittle, and I’m fixing to reprogram me a true progressive thinker. That’s why I might take her over to Santa Fe for a couple weeks. Get her away from her asshole conservative touchstones and get her to thinking straight. I’ve a lot to do but I can always find time for a little community service.

Manana, y’all.

 

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An Eagle Almost Landed, Or, “Hello, Boy Scouts, Reality Calling”

Thursday, July 19th, 2012

 

So. I’m pissed. Major League, big time pissed. The Boy Scouts of America has continued to run any openly homosexual member or employee ceremoniously out their doors. That’s right, if you are openly gay, you can’t be affiliated with the Boy Scouts and they are more than happy to announce it to the entire fucking world. I’m so pissed about this that I have written to them, as follows:

 

Mr. Wayne M. Perry

President, Boy Scouts of America

1325 Walnut Hill Drive

Irving, Texas 75015

 

Dear Mr. Perry,

 

I am writing you as a former Boy Scout—a Life Scout who quit Boy Scouts with 23 merit badges and lacking only the completion of my community service project to become an eagle scout. The reason I quit is because my adult Scout Leader raped me at aquatics camp on the night of my thirteenth birthday. He raped me after spending several years grooming me for that night. It was only after decades of psychotherapy that I came to realize just how much harm was done to me by that man. I also now know I likely had not truly earned my ranks and merits. How many boys have become Eagle Scouts before their fourteenth birthday? I now understand that this man groomed me—he maneuvered and manipulated me to gain my trust and to get me to like him.

Then he raped me. The rape changed me in ways you will never know unless you have suffered likewise. What he did was hideous and unconscionable. Were he alive I would prosecute him.

Having said this, you might think that I support your anti-gay policies. But you would be dead wrong. You see, Mr. Perry, the man who raped me wasn’t an openly gay, mentally sound scout leader. He was a pedophile, an animal who rapes children while hiding behind the veneer of respectability. He was a married father and a Deacon of the same Baptist Church that sponsored our Troop. He spouted religious platitudes like a preacher and he worked closely with his scouts’ parents. He was upstanding and well thought of, he was above reproach.

And he was a child molester, a pedophile. A monster. He was a rapist and he was sanctioned by The Boy Scouts of America. Except for the pedophilia, he was your model leader, Mr. Perry, the kind of man you say you wish you had more of to lead young boys into adulthood.

That man is the sort of man you need to exclude from your organization, Mr. Perry, not proud openly gay men. It isn’t openly gay men raping children, sir, and it isn’t openly gay scouts turning their fellow scouts homosexual. It is rather the deviants in your midst who prey on young children. The rapists in your organization will not openly identify and mark themselves with a red “H” on their foreheads. No sir, Mr. Perry, your rapists are cloaked in capes adorned with the medals of Christian platitude and living “model” lives outside Scouting.

Use you head, sir, and stop reacting politically. It’s time you pull your head out of your ass, scrub it down and do something smart. Do the right thing and stop persecuting some of America’s finest men.

Me, I never thought that your organization was responsible for my getting raped by your fully sanctioned and authorized leader. I, maybe mistakenly, thought that you only had my best interest at heart. But I might be wrong, Mr. Perry. Maybe just like the Holy Roman Catholic Church, you have taken the road to punish the innocent rather than truly fix your problem with child rapists. Maybe you are no different from the Pope and you care more for your institution than you do for your charges.

Should you decide to change these stupid and useless policies against gay men, I applaud you, sir. Should you not, then please allow me to say, “Fuck you, asshole.”

 

Sincerely,

 

Mooner Johnson, Life Scout (retired)

 

Manana, y’all.

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Some Of My Best Friends Are Conservative; Bullshit And Other Lies

Thursday, July 12th, 2012

 

So. I’m sort of back into the grooves after my extended visit over to Santa Fe. I’ve had a knock-down drag-out with Mother, it’s hotter than a two-dollar pistol and more humid than a sauna, and SAC Ellen just called to say that she won’t be back to Austin until next weekend. Maybe.

Maybe. And maybe I’ll have some skin left on my pecker by then. It’s been three weeks since I’ve had any sort of multi-person sexing and I’ve just about gone through a 12-pack of Ivory bath-size soap bars. Why is it that I’m happy with actual sex a couple times a week yet, when deprived of actual sex, I masturbate six times a day?

Whatthefuck is up with that silliness? Maybe it has something to do with the relative levels of satisfaction each variety of sex provides. While I’m quite adept at bringing matters to a successful conclusion when placed in my own hands, I must admit that I’ll never hold a candle to the sexual pleasures provided by a woman.

Which reminds me. Today is comedian/actor/author Bill Cosby’s birthday, which reminds me of Mitt Romney’s visit to the NAACP yesterday. Cosby was the first black man to have a lead role in an American television series when he starred in I Spy. As I recall, the show started in 1965 and it had huge viewership and ratings all across America.

Except in NBC TV stations in Georgia, Alabama and Florida where bigotry and racism were the program directors. As recently as 19-fucking-65 America harbored that kind of racism. Which puts Herr Schmidt Rommel’s visit to Houston yesterday into sharp perspective for me.

In 1965, whenever a white person wanted to prove that he wasn’t a racist, he would say, “Why I’m not a racist, some of my best friends are black.” Recently the “I have a (fill-in-the-blank) as a friend” justification for bigotry has included gays, Muslims and Hispanics, and if the best you can say for yourself is to repeat that stupid mantra, you, dear friend, are a bigot.

For yesterday’s NCAAP meeting, Romney flew in a group of black Republicans to be his cheering section. Since I don’t know who all of them are I won’t call them Republican houseboys. But I will call them hacks. The candidate attended that meeting to get in the face of America’s major minority for the sake of his fan base, and he made inflammatory and denigrating statements to some of America’s finest people.

When the soirée was over, Romney bragged that he was cheered by the members of the NAACP and then bragged that he spoke with several anonymous black leaders who spoke badly of President Obama and said they would vote Republican.

Mitt Romney is a liar. And a bigot.

For starters, the only black folks he spoke with after his speech were his hired hack attendees and then he used the old “I have black friends” method to demonstrate that support.

Mitt Romney is a fucking bigoted liar. I just can’t get my head around the fact that he is the Republican nominee to be our President.

Ugh.

What do you call a man who will say anything to get what he wants? Among the several things that come to my mind, “Mitt Romney” is one. But how about you—what would you call such a man?

Manana, y’all.

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