Archive for the ‘Bigotry’ Category

Hair Triggers And Hair Brained Cops; Ordering A Number 4.

Sunday, August 28th, 2016

So. I was over to the Firehouse Sub shop on Cerrillos Road, Santa Fe’s busiest local business street. Cerrillos Road is filled not with fancy jewelry stores, $200-a-plate eateries or cowgirl-centric boutiques like the downtown tourist areas. Nopers, our Cerrillos Road has your tire stores, Wendy’s and Kohls. Almost to a store, the big national retailers are there on Cerrillos Road, and my Subaru dealership as well. It was because I was headed to see if there were any add-ons for my little WRX hotrod that I could install without voiding my quite comprehensive warranty that I landed at Firehouse Subs. Sandwich shop is next to Olive Garden in a building it shares with one of the big cell phone stores.

There were not additional modifications under warranty, and when making my way back towards La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe, a hot sub samich spoke to me. I parked, entered the store, cringed to the shouted, “Welcome to Firehouse,” and grabbed a place in line.

I hate to be greeted that way by anyfuckingbody. Say to me, and politely at that, “Hey, man, how’s it hanging,“ or, “Come on in,” or, “What tha fuck you doing here?” But don’t have a counter full of seventeen-year-olds yelling “Welcome!” at my ass. If the sammies weren’t so good I’d go to Jimmy John’s place every time.

So I ordered my Number 4 medium combo on white—fully engulfed—and filled the drink cup and sat. Fully engulfed means with everything on it. While I waited, four—I think or maybe more—State of New Mexico Troopers entered to stand in line. Which brings up another point.

We Americans enlisted the English language from the Brits as our official tongue, then fought a war with them to solidify that usage. So why do we say, “In line,” when they say, “On line.” OK, and they say, “Queue,” which, when I spell-checked, showed to also be a crockadile, another point in the altogether.

One of the State trooper guys was in the street clothes I associate with an investigator, one was dressed like a Major, and two were in Patrolman outfits, one of whom looked like a giant flaming asshole. Big guy with a buzz cut, muscles showing, and his pistol in a quick-draw holster—you know, a hard case with no strap to hold it in, and way too fucking much handle showing. As I sat glowering at this guy I noticed two young men staring at his holster, but with a different look than mine. While I was pissed, they seemed interested, like, “Maybe I could pull that cannon from Shithead’s hip and shoot him before he could shoot me.”

I came quite close to saying something, remembered that I have yet to be arrested here to Santa Fe, and ate my Number #4. I finished, cleared my table and walked out. I drove around the building to enter Vegas Verdes Street, accelerated towards the light and was forced to slam on my brakes to avoid hitting a shirtless man. Skinny white dude clutching baggy jeans with his left hand and holding what appeared to be a cell phone high in the air in his right, and running hell-bent-for-leather at what appeared to be his full clip.

My first thought was that he held the phone high as a counterbalance, keeping him from falling because he couldn’t let go of his pants. My second thought was, “Holy shit, there’s five cops and two kids from the phone store chasing that dude. Run dude, run!”

A giggle was forming inside my head when the big cop with the quick-draw holster whipped his gun from his hip right in front of my car. This man had a look-to-kill plastered on his angry face and was yelling something at the shirtless man, taking aim as he ran. My brain told me this quick-draw cop was going to shoot an unarmed man in the back.

“Don’t shoot,” I screamed at my windshield, and one of the other cops seemed to yell at the gunman to don’t shoot, because he lowered his weapon and didn’t shoot. Dude was caught maybe thirty yards past me, wrestled to the ground and manhandled into cuffs. I watched as knees were jammed into his back when he must have resisted. Right, he must have resisted? I was getting honked at so I needed to move along. I was a mile away when it dawned on me that I should go back. I did and it was all over.

I witnessed just how easy it is to be unarmed and shot in the back by a cop. I saw the heat on the faces of those officers as they lay chase to some dumb freak who wanted a free cell phone. Were they so pissed because the kid interrupted their Numbers 5, 8, 3, and a second number 5, or was it excitement at the possibility to get in a little target experience? Does one of them have stock in Sprint, looking to save a few dollars for the bottom line?

In reflections, I realize just how lucky I have been in my life. I’ve been in some pretty tense situations with cops and guns, but the worst injuries I ever had were bruises and tiny burn holes from Taser spikes. I’ve had cops who I knew without a doubt wanted to shoot me, yet they contained their egos, anger, emotional ties and personal maniacies, and did not shoot.

And like that dude yesterday, the running man, I’m mostly white. What if that kid was black or brown or wore a turban? How might things have gone? What if he had pointed the cell phone at the asshole cop?  What if I weren’t white? If my skin was ebony black, I’d likely be dead by now, shot or beaten by some bigoted Texas lawman.

I witnessed a man in a potential death scene, a situation one wrong move from death. Death comes too easy these days. Too many guns in the wrong hands. Bad cop hands. Too much anger fueled by too much hateful rhetoric. And all too often it’s the wrong people getting killed. Unarmed people in the wrong places with the wrong cops. But there was at least one good man in uniform that day, the man who called the gunman down, so you didn’t see this story on your evening news.

Now I know just how fast, and how easy, people get shot by cops. And even though it’s inappropriate for me to say at this point, let’s all Fuck Walmart!

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The Party Of Lincoln; Critical Thought For Dummies

Friday, July 29th, 2016

So. Today is a new day in my life. Today shall, and will, be a full day filled with personal reflections, familial considerations and in the end- decisions. The fulfilling of the filled fulls of this day are the culmination of a years-long mental pilgrimage from full enjoyment of the isolation afforded by refuge here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe—the walled compound within which the dogs and I can enjoy that special sort of nekid peace and reflective solitudes–and ending the journey feeling isolated by those same separations, having allowed said full enjoyments to be cycled, and recycled, through the fevered mind of an ADD-addled fuckbrain.
And, while these writings, so far, seem reflective of Old Abe’s Gettysburg addressings, it only seems seven and scores of years in reflection. Reflections. It would be plural and I’m guessing Old Abe popped into my head because we were over to the hardware store the other day and this nice lady was attempting to assist us with a paint purchase. “Does the color sky blue ice or blueberry shake better match?” I asked her.
I held a swatch of leftover fabric from the spare bedroom curtains to the color charts. The dogs spend much of their quiet time when I’m out of residence nesting on the bed and staring out the bedroom’s window. Because of their connection to the room, I try to defer to their wishes when decorating.
“Squirt here, she likes blueberry shake—says it picks up the color from the feathers in this guy’s tail,” I told the nice lady while pointing at a Blue Jay’s fat ass on the swatch. “Me, I’m thinking we should go with the Oriole blue rather than the Blue Jay, don’t you? I think the Oriole is one of the prettiest of all birds, don’t you? And Blue Jays are a menace, don’t you think?”
I took this sales training course years ago and was taught that it is smart to end questions or declaratory statements with what they called a “tie down”. Tie downs would be words that obtain tacit agreement from even an unwilling prospect, like “don’t you”, or “wouldn’t you agree”. Or “You’ll go to jail if you don’t”. Those sorts of dealios.
“Look, sir, we’ve been through this before, or don’t you remember?” The attractive woman advised, “Trust your dog’s judgement. Her taste seems far better than yours. Honest Abe.”
I was struck with both a flashback and likewise with wonderment if “don’t you remember” and “Honest Abe” were tie downs used therein.
“Honest Abe? Really, Honest Abe?” I said to her. “I haven’t heard that phrase since junior high school when Gloria Ledbetter used it on me when I had trouble taking “No” for an answer. Me, I thought we’d make a great pairing for the Spring Prom. Gloria- not so much.”
“No, no, no,” Gloria had told me, and I now told the paint lady.
“Honest, Gloria? You’re tall for a girl and I’m thinking you’re ready for some slow dancing.”
“Look, Mooner. I asked my mom and she told me you’re a bucket of trouble. Remember when you set the girl’s locker room on fire?”
“I did,” I reminisced to the impatient hardware store lady, “and I told Gloria it was an unfortunate accident. Wrong-place, wrong-time to be playing with cherry bombs. Was it my fault the trashcan spontaneously combusted?”
Gloria told me, “My mother said she’d put me in a nunnery before she’ll let me date Mooner Johnson. Honest Abe, that’s what she said.”
“But you’re Baptist, Gloria, we Baptists don’t have nunneries. And wasn’t Lincoln the guy who freed the slaves and saved our Union so that you and I can slow dance?”
The nice, attractive, foot tapping paint helper lady called for, “Assistance in Paint Department,” then asked me, she said, “Look, sir. We don’t want to ban you from the store, so why don’t you go now and come back for your paint at Noon.”
The three of us moved here not to get to, but, instead, to escape from. While New Mexico is The Land of Enchantments, for the dogs and this knuckleheaded loony, our adopted state offered us refuge from the harsh politics of Ted Cruz, Texas Governors Perry and Abbott and their ilk. Said another way, we didn’t move here because Santa Fe is so great, instead we came here to feel less oppressed by the political climate in Texas. Not that we don’t like it because we do.
OK, and I really needed to put a little space between mother and son.
In the four years since the move, we have realized that we are no different from the millions of refugees who have been either forced from their homes at gunpoint—like Palestinians from the West Bank—or those fleeing from violent, oppressive forces such as the refugees in flight from Syria. While the circumstances of our exodus are far less oppressive than of those unwilling travelers, the pulling desire to return to our homeland is, I’m thinking, just as strong.
Which reminds me. What is it about giving something up that makes it all the more attractive, inviting, desirable? Never has a woman been more enticing to me than when she divorces my ass. Just the knowing I’ll not know her mysteries again pegs my pecker meter to full stop.
And that reminds me that I have one thing to say to anyone who claims that our Presidential election is a choice of lesser evils—Clinton or Trump, the lesser of two evils. You folks remind me of Paulie Kraspar, a kid whose father was KKK and jailed for raping a black girl back to when we were in junior high.
We were studying WWII and Hitler’s atrocities when Paulie stood tall and told us with some rancor, “Well, FDR, that asshole, he was just as bad as Hitler. They were both evil.”
When quizzed by our quite confounded teacher as to the logic of his comparison, young Mr. Kraspar responded, and here I’ll attempt to put the words back in his mouth when I quote him, he said, “My daddy says FD-fuckin’-R was a womanizin’ drunk who put innocent Germans and Japs in prison just ta keep ‘em from talkin’.”
For some reason our Media have decided to pit twenty-four years of unproven allegations against Hilary against the known, proven lies and bankruptcies and failed ventures, racism, bigotry and treasonous behavior of Trump. False equivalences at their worst.
So, to you “lesser evil” dumbasses, please allow me to say, and with considerable gusto, “Either pull your heads out your asses, or: Fuck you and Walmart too!”

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Can You Tabu? The Scent Of Early Risings

Friday, July 15th, 2016

So. I’m up at 3:15 am, again, and it seems to be a new habitual. Before today, this time of awakening was for me, as said in Spanish, “Tiempo de perros.”  Most times when I’m up too early it is dog related. And for those of you wondering why I speak so often of my hounds I say, “You, sir, need to pay attention.”

This morning, however, it wasn’t the dogs who awakened me, it was my own fevered brain. True enough, the Squirt was doing her adorable snurffle-snuffle snore dealio, a complex cacophony of puppy sleeping noises that puts a smile on my face and a lump of love in my heart. But it wasn’t that or Yoda’s constantly severe halitosis that awakened me today. It was my own spinning brain waves that kept me wide awake.

My issue, according to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, is that I have a guilty conscience about something, with said whateverthefuck something remaining a mystery to me. The often insightful psycho therapist and former Mrs. Mooner Johnson seems to believe that my early risings are all connected to something about which I feel either embarrassment, or guilt. Because I feel guilty, ipso facto, I can’t sleep.

“It is proven medical science, Mr. Loony Bird. Most insomnia is either anxiety or guilt driven, and in your case, my money lays nine-to-two it’s guilt. You need to spend some time in self-reflection, Mooner. There has to be something you’ve done that’s laying heavily on your crazy mind—you obviously feel embarrassment or guilt over something. Lord knows you’re always doing something that embarrasses me.”

When my psycho therapist say shit like this I start to wonder which of us is the nutty one. “Have you lost your mind, Sammy? It’s gotta be five-to-two, worst case. I haven’t been embarrassed since back to junior high school when I slow danced with an actual girl not Gram or Sister the first time. Accidently dry-rubbed against the silk and taffeta prom gown of who’s her name, and received both pleasure and a slap. She had one of those corsage dealios that girls used to wear on their wrist and I can still see how the air caused the baby’s breath to blow off her wrist as her flat hand headed for my cheek.”

Enjoyed the thrills too much to be embarrassed in the moment even with the slap, but paid the price next day in Sunday school. Offended young lady had to tell Mrs. Browningwell the story with added allegations. True, I did get a boner, and true as well that I left it pinned to her front halfway between her belly button and soft, budding breasts. But I wasn’t moaning. I was counting my one-two-three-fours under my breath so’s not to step on her tootsies. That was the only way I ever danced through an entire song without tripping over everyone’s feet.”

Who’s her name was far shorter than was I, and I was humming my numbered steps with my mouth closed. In reflections, might have sounded like moaning to her virgin ear plastered to my chest, spray-fluffed hair in my face. Oh, and I just remembered that she wore Taboo perfume except wasn’t it spelled “Tabu”? God, rememberating the sights and smells of young first encounters is exhilarating. Remember the first time you sniffed a lover’s sex smells? Intoxicating.

For those of you questioning my grammatical choices, I purposely used  “who’s her name” rather than “what’s her name”, and speaking of dry rubbed, my Gram called me last night to complain about her sex life. OK, she actually called to see if I’d come visit and, as she put it when she told me, she said, “Git yer fuckin’ pig ta stay tha shit out tha garden.” But as always, my Gram’s conversations will hit sex talk at about the ninety-second mark, as in this conversation when she ran out of steam complaining about Rush Limbaugh the pig eating all her squash.

“… fuckin’ Rushie Limberhog ate summer squashies an’ tha Zukkies too. So, there’s this Texas student working down ta tha church—nuclur engineerin’ or sum such a major, an’ doin’ tha Lord’s work with tha kids fer Pastor Browningwell—an’ he says ta me, ‘Mz. Johnson, that’s a mighty nice car you drive.’ An’ afore I can git tha door open to hop him on in, fuckin’ Leticia grabs tha boy’s arm damn near out tha socket. Yanked tha poor kid hard enough ta snap his head off, what with him eyeballin’ the Fee-rarie an’ all.”

And that’s twice now that Mrs. Leticia Browningwell has bothered into a Johnson’s sexual activities in four paragraphs of this word swill. Maybe I can’t sleep because that old bag had so much influence on my life. She’d have boiled me in oil had we lived back in the days of such, and then fed me to the pigs. Told me just that this one time. Maybe that’s likewise why I own 400-plus pounds of piggy meat on the hoof.

Folks ask me why I’m an atheist and moments with Leticia come to mind. In my world, no actual God would allow her to influence so many young lives. Then, and again, no God as a deity exists in my world excepting for my own, quite personal God, a creature of my own divining.

I often wish for a Divine all-knowing, all-being God, as that would make it easier to live life. Using a third party with a God’s power can justify any action one might choose to make, as abdication of our bad deeds to the edicts of a cult grants a pardon to some. No guilty consciences when you can confess your sins to your God for absolutions.

“Dear God. I’m so sorry for being a greedy and bigoted racist lying fuckhead, and if You make me President I promise I’ll be better. Ah, er, well ah, might You also consider making this current bankruptcy go away? Amen. Oh, and the lawsuits.”

Fuck Walmart and Donald J. Trump as well.

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Condone, Condoned, Condoner; Conditioned Responses For Bigots

Thursday, June 9th, 2016

So. Having been absent from the pages herewith, hereat, or maybe even herein, I find myself in reflections as to why. Why have I not spewed, why have I not shared, why for fuck sakes, have I not communicated and unburdened my tortured soul? And, just for your grammatical edifications, “hereat” is too a word. If “whereat” can be a grammatically accepted word—if, in the greater scheme of Life, the generality of a specific location can have named validity in the form of “whereat”—then the very specificities of a specific location shall, likewise, have a proper name. That name is hereat. Take away the “w” and we know whereat we wonder that we are.
Think about it. Webster’s unabridged can sanction a word for a questioned attempt at specifying a location, yet cannot provide equal treatment for a known, specific spot on the map? Fuck Webster. Fuck Webster hereat, and whereat you may be.
For my part, I have no specific answer(s) as to my absence from these pages other than to say I have too little, yet too much to say. Maybe the answer is simple: I’m an ADHD-addled shitbrain. But, I have been busy with some personal shit, and I learned that someone close to me had a dangerous and painful firearm accident, and I do know with absolute certainty that I hate guns. I don’t care how smart, how well trained or how careful you think you are, when a gun goes off accidently, the shit hits the fan.
And when that shit happens with a gun, your fan ain’t big enough.
Maybe it’s because I’m overwhelmed with politics. Maybe the corporate ownership of our media has finally managed to finish its intended lobotomy of my pre-frontal lobe. Just the other day I saw a man in a red “Make America Great” hat make a sneering comment at a kid with rainbow hair and three pounds of metal stabbed into her head, and I let it go. Said nothing. I shook my head and walked to the deli section of Trader Joes to grab a package of their uncured ham. Tasty, clean pig meat at half the price of the same at Whole Foods.
I used to be in love with Whole Foods. It started in Austin and for years was a great place to shop. Helpful and enthusiastic workers who felt loved and respected by company management, fair prices for what you got. For years I felt that Whole Foods management actually cared about my and their employees’ welfare. Having learned that John Mackey is nothing but one more corporate asshole has turned me into a detractor. So, while fucking stuff, fuck John Mackey and Whole Foods.
And fuck bigots. Fuck Donald Trump and fuck anyone who supports him. Especially Piss Ant Pauline Ryan. “Donald Trump’s remarks are the very definition of racism, but I still support him.”
Really, Mr. Speaker? Really? Has anybody realized that second in succession to our country’s Presidency is a man with no actual backbone? People who claim to know him say Paulie is a “good man”. Riiight. Like all the good men in Germany back to the Thirties and Forties. “Oh, well, I know Herr Hitler is a racist, but he’s so good for Der Mutherland and so much better than the alternative.”
Condone. Condone is an interesting word, Mr. Ryan. “Condone: to approve by overlooking; to forgive; to tolerate; to accept by not rejecting; to make allowances for.”
The entire Republican party—all of those who do not condemn Donald Trump—have condoned his bigotry and racism. And when you approve or tolerate or make allowances for Evil, you are by definition, Evil your veryownself. The second in line to become President is, by his condoning of bigotry, a racist bigot.
“But he’s a good man, Mr. Johnson, a good, Christian family man.”
Really? Is that your definition of a good Christian family man? To any who say, “Yes,” I say, and with extreme emphasis, “Fuck you!” And me, as I have managed to condone bigotry in the fresh veggie aisle over to Trader Joes, “Fuck Me!”
How has it happened that we’ve gotten OK with all this bigotry and hateful public discourse? When did the entire country start accepting Southern racism by condoning it? How has it happened that America’s fall from its high perch as the beacon of freedom come so fast? Why is our mirrored reflection that of The Wizard of Oz? When did we become a brainless, heartless, cowardly bully? Did this happen quickly, as I see it, or have we always been?
Anyway, I’ve still too much, and too little, to say. But I can say with absolute certainty, “Fuck Walmart!”

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Is That A Clitorical Question Or Do You Just Want To Touch Me? Time Capsules Of The Infirm

Friday, April 15th, 2016

So. I’m sitting here this glorious morning waiting for the sun to get in just the right position for the dogs and I to sunbake. Our pine trees have grown so much that we have but two windows of opportunity each day. Me, I don’t like sitting in the sun, but the Squirt has been Jonesing for some sunbathing. It’s been overcast here to Santa Fe for a few days and my tiny dog who worships the Sun’s rays has been bitching.
“Let’s move to Arizona, shithead. These cold winters and dreary days are getting to me. Besides, the Sun’s heat helps ease the pain in my back. You don’t want me down in the back again, now do you?”
Squirt can be a persuasive little pest. She got paralyzed with pain a few weeks back, and I’ve not been the same since. She doesn’t know it but I’d do anything for her, including moving to Arizona. Really. Fucking Arizona.
“Stop your bitching, little lady. You couldn’t get me to move to Arizona with shackles and armed guards.”
Squirt looked me in the eye and said to me, she clearly elucidated, “You already heard that emergency vet tell us that cold will make my old bones hurt worse. We’ll see your posture when it gets to the point where you choose between moving us to a warmer place, or feeding me my bottle of pills. I won’t live with you wiping my ass.”
I long ago prepared a bottle of “Final Day” pills for each of us three. As a semi-packrat, I’ve never thrown any leftover medications away since I avoided the draft way back to the sixties. While I’ll not commit a Federal offense on the pages herein, I will say that I have distributed thirty-six giant “Yellow Jacket” amphetamine capsules into the death caches. One of our bottles—I can’t remember which—has a few Phenobarbitals from back to when I had sleeping problems in 1968. Taking enough speed to keep a trucker awake for a non-stop, cross-country haul can effect a person’s sleep patterns. All sorts of shit totaling either 549 or 627 total pills. The wide variance in those amounts of pills is due, likely, to the quantity of Carta Blanca consumed as we counted pills going into each of the three bottles.
Maybe I should pull the Phenobeenies. If memory serves, they were sort of like Quaaludes except for more powerful. Then, again, my memory hasn’t been serving me too well of recent.
“Why do you have a quart jar and we have those tiny pill bottles? I want to be absolutely certain I die when I take mine. I want a bigger bottle!”
“Looka here, Squirty girl, you weigh eleven pounds with a full belly. Me, well I’m approximately nineteen times your weight and have a system pre-disposed with tolerances to a few of these drugs. Don’t worry, I’mma make sure you get a lethal dose. When your time comes, the last thing I can deal with is a near miss.”
Talking about our Final Days pills has me realizing that all these medications are time capsules of my life. The smelly old Penicillin pills mark my loss of virginity, the speed my decision to flight rather than fight a war that was just plain wrong even though some of the best men I know chose to go. There’s Phenergan from when Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson had a bout with nausea that wouldn’t stop, pain meds from our family’s tooth issues, antibiotics of every sort for every infection three kids, ten wives, four dogs and I ever had.
Which reminds me. The state of our American Republican Party is hilarious. Establishment Republitards are so freaked about the Trumpster that they are supporting Teddy Cruz. Self-same Teddy who could be murdered in plain sight on the Senate floor and no witness would come forward to aid in the killer’s ID. Sister Lindsey Graham must have had a near terminal case of the vapors when he found himself a Cruz surrogate the first time.
And saying that reminds me of a recent Squatlo posting. Seems his Tennessee General Assholembly has passed a born-gender bathroom law akin to too many other states. You know the laws—born a boy, use the Boy’s Room. Those laws. Me, having spent way too much time thinking about the application of such laws, I had had a discussion with the Squirt the night before Squattie posted his story about the Vol State’s legislature. Having already pre-thought the issue I posted a comment, repeated herewith. Hereafter, maybe. OK, maybe herein.
I had seen a report on TV regarding this subject of requiring a person to use the bathroom of the gender on their birth certificate, and the justifications used to support these laws spurs me to restate my thoughts from Squat’s place. The following—while not a word-for-word recount—is a mostly reprint of what I said from over there. Proper referencing is a founding principle of intergrital writing, and I’ll go with “hereafter” as referenced herein, above.
OK, so I know this man. Who was formerly a woman, who is three inches shorter than my six-four, and who works out over to my gym maybe twenty hours a week. I got a free gym membership with my Medicare Part B coinsurance, and I like to work out a few times a week. Keeping my bones healthy is a way to fight any recurrence of the cancer I seem to have licked, and lifting weights builds healthy bones.
Did get into a heated discussion over to the gym with this asshole who was bitching about TV coverage of Black History Month, and all the stories and programs about mistreatment of Native Americans. Shitwad was going on and on and on and on about why isn’t there a white history month. Kept it up to my break point.
“I’ve got some ideas for your White History Month,” I told him. “First, let’s do a week of programs on the slave trade. Make it a cradle-to-grave dealie. Start with the slavers over to Africa stealing people, the ship voyages with humans packed like cattle and dying standing up, the auction sales, then life on the plantation.”
“Follow that with the last hundred-sixty years of white racial bigotry—the KKK, George Wallace and the modern Republican Party. Third week can be how whites came to America and stole the Natives’ lands and took advantage of their naiveté. Tell the stories of slaughtering their people for sport—forcing them to take white man’s religions. And let’s not forget about when the whites gave the Native people blankets known to be infected with disease, intentionally infecting them. Spend the last week on the state of the White in today’s America. Look at how white people are in their final days as the controlling majority and what the future holds. Talk about a future of bigotry against whites.”
Asshole. Anyway, this now a guy at the gym is a big, muscle-bound sumbitch with a full beard, basso profundo voice, and who likely had a donkey dick manufactured from whatever it is they make penises from when they do those surgeries. Guy’s pretty proud of his testosterone-enhanced physique, so I’m guessing when the doctor asked, “Now, tell me sir, which of these penis models would you prefer?” this now a man said, “Don’t you have anything bigger? I plan to be a six-one muscle machine and I need a penis to match.”
Me, if I was getting vaginalized I don’t know what I’d want as far as all the specifics go. Do I want a small, tight jobbie that most all the guys would like, do I want one of those sleek, low-slung jobbies or do I prefer a big camel toe model for when I wear my Lycra workout pants? Much as I like camel toes, I’d likely choose the roast beef model.
But I can say, and without any hesitations, that I’d want a clitoris the size of a basketball player’s thumb. Fat, rubbery job—one that needed a table-spoon of lube to preparate for manipulations. Me, I’d be playing with that sucker all day long, play with it everyfuckingwhere. Hell, when I changed my name, “Female Orgasm” would be my middle name.
I’d be sitting at the poker table and the dealer would ask me, he’d say, “It’s your action, Mz. Johnson. Uh, Mz. Johnson, the action is on you. Moonette, Earth to Moonette, are you with us?” and I’d be all, “Ah, ah, ah, ah…”
Do the members of Tennessee’s Genital Assemblage seriously think the fine Baptist ladies of The Smoky Mountain State want that born a woman but now a man pissing and primping in the Girls Room over to Tennessee University? Or my female conversion hanging out in the Boys locker room showing the little ones how to please a lady?
“OK, gentlemen. The first lesson you need to learn is the quite simple fact that most of a woman’s pleasure resides in this thing here. Billy, you look like you want go first…”
Jesus we humans can be dumb. So let’s all Fuck Walmart!

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Reflections On Judge Scalia; Lou Diamond Phillips Plays God

Monday, February 15th, 2016

So. Please allow me to say, in advance, that I was a little stoned. OK, and in the desire to properly elucidate realities to you, dear readers, allow me to say that I was considerably more than a little stoned. I was shitfaced.

Six-Carta-Blanca-beers-two-joints-and-a-full-dropper-of-Gram’s-mushroom-juice stoned. That kind of stoned. Still functioning, meaning I was awake, could walk and carry on a conversation, yet so mellowed-out that I could converse with Ted Cruz without turning him into fodder for the compost pile. This high was quite mellow.

The pot was a medicinal variety called “Rainbow Kush” or “Orange Sherbet Kush”, or maybe it was “Bush is a Kush”; the mushroom juice was from a tincture bottle just arrived from Austin that my tincturating grandmother had named, “Santi Fe ain’t got no air, Mooner, this here’s gonna Oxycontinate yer ass all over tha place.” As La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe sits at 7,292 feet above sea level, Gram’s desire to increase my oxygenations was admirable.

The beer was from Susan’s Liquor Store, the only dependable local source for my beloved CB.

We had just learned of Judge Scalia’s death and adjourned to the back yard for celebrations and reflections. Awash with the peace and joy that can only come from good news and a multi-dimensional high, the dogs and I were sitting out back in the early eve, wondering the outcome/replacement from Scalia’s death, and enjoying the end of a 63-degree day.

Sixty-three fucking degrees. Last week the highs were in the mid-twenties with winds that made the air so sharp it would cut your face, and three days later we’re thirty-degrees over normal.

OK, as that sounds like a bitch, allow me to say I love this weather and we three were basking like old dogs in a sunny patch on a parlor rug. That sixth beer was on the table between the two wrought iron chairs, the Squirt was in my lap, Yoda in the second chair, and all three of us were pointed at the back drive-through gate that looks out onto the alley behind the house.

There’s a three-inch gap between the bottom of the gate and the top of the concrete drive, and several evenings this week—about this time—the Squirt thinks she saw something stick its nose under the gate.

“Too dark to tell for sure, but I think it’s that wolf dog from over on Quapaw Street,” Squirt told me. “Dangerous looking sort.”

The goat dog did his slit-throat, “Phwouf-phwouf-pwhouf,” bit, and the Squirt turned to me to say, she tells me, “Dumbass over there says it a coyote, and he wants to rip its face off.”

As Yoda is the least fearsome animal on the entire planet, Squirt and I laughed about his fearlessness in the face of a fearsome force, and it dawned on me that Yoda has never actually growled.

“Tell him to growl, sweetie. Let’s see if he even knows how.”

She did, and Yoda screwed this cartoonish snarl onto his face and went, “Mmmrrrll.”

We asked that he repeat his snarling growl, which he did, and I realized he had growled before. “That’s the sound he makes when I move him out of my arm pit to turn over in bed. I always thought it was a lovie noise. That little shit is growling at me because my fucking arm is asleep and I need to recirculate it.” She and I laughed once more. Yoda growled at us, again.

Anyway, I drank and the puppies lapped—me from the bottle, they from the mayonnaise lid that makes a great portable beer trough for ten-pound doggies—and we settled in for the approaching dark. I kind of started snoozing when the Squirt nudged my chin with her cool nose. She whispered, “Wake up shithead. There’s something at the gate.”

I tried to wake, then focus. Sure enough, there was something at the back gate. “Everybody quiet. Let’s creep up on it.”

We crept. Stealthily; slowly; quietly.

There was a jangling of keys, the sound of the lock slipping out of chain and the chain slipping through its metal eyelets. A hand slipped between the gate halves and Lou Diamond Phillips stepped into the backyard.

“The three of you couldn’t sneak up on a dead man, Mooner. Fetch another beer and some of those sweet bean tamales from your fridge while I lock this gate. You’ve coyotes prowling your neighborhood.”

I fetched, and upon my return from the kitchen found my God sitting in Yoda’s chair with the goat dog settled in his lap, and the Squirt still sniffing at the gap beneath the gate. I set fresh beers and tamales on the table and sat.

“Nice to see you, Sir. Been awhile.” I paused for a response, got none, and asked Him, I asked God, “Uh, not that I’m ungrateful or anything, but I was hoping you’d visit as that actress Mary-Louise Parker. We watched the final episode of Season Four of Weeds, and that scene in her bathtub… I mean, I like Lou Diamond Phillips and all, but, well, you know…”

I never realized LDP was almost as big as I am. They film around here for the TV series Longmire and I’ve seen him about. He plays a Native American bar owner with certain instincts. He’s handsome and all that, but he’s no Mary-Louise Parker.

“Forget your pecker for once and focus on your reflections of Justice Scalia. Do you realize that your first thought was, ‘Thank God?’ Don’t you be thanking me for another man’s demise, shithead. You might not have liked him, but he wasn’t a bad man. He was misdirected and biased. But he was steadfast in his beliefs and practiced as he preached. And he was one of Justice Ginsberg’s best buddies. You can’t admire her without admiring her friends.”

“Is it OK if I say I’m glad he’s no longer on the bench?”

God pierced my eyes with Lou Diamond Phillips’ steeliest stare. “Don’t mince words, Mooner. You’ll get the SCOTUS you want. Don’t revel in another man’s death. Period.”

Before I could respond, He was gone, along with all the tamales and both fresh beers. I figured His next visit lacked both food and drink and I already had a serious case of sweet bean tamale farts. And I figured He was right. Mayhaps I should not feel elation at what I got at the cost of another’s loss. That demeans me, makes me akin to the kind of person I despise.

I already have enough despicable traits.

So, fuck Walmart!

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The Power Of Prayer, Or, Please Don’t Boil My Rabbit

Sunday, December 27th, 2015

So. Here we all are the day after Xmas sitting happy, sassy and overstuffed with holiday good cheer. At least those of us fortunate to have money for food and gifts, the safety required for peaceful enjoyments, and the freedom from oppression to have honest expressions, are happily sitting. For the several billion of us humans without the money, safety and freedom needed to enjoy a happy holiday season, today is simply one more day of misery, or maybe simply drudgery.

For my part, I’ve been watching too much TV whereon people keep thanking God for every sort of thing. Things great and small, important or silly, good and not so very good. I’ve been especially impressed with the American Christians whom I’ve witnessed thanking their God. I was looking for this one soft-core porn movie and passed by the Pat Robertson channel and paused long enough to get the gist of old Patrick’s message.

“The all-knowing, all-powerful God of Christ makes everything happen that ever happens on this, his divinely-created Earth. Be grateful for all He does for you.”

If I could remember the name of that movie I might have missed Pat’s message.  It’s the one with Kim Whatshername. The crazy one who was married to Alec Baldwin. And have any of you guys ever been tangled into a love affair with a person like that—gorgeous, sexy as all get-out, and as looney as three-peckered Billy goat with a belly full of Viagra?

I had this one wife—the one I never write about out of fear for my life—who was so fucking crazy that she would hide in my closet, and. Well. Ah. Like I said, she was sexy as all get-out.

Anyway, just this morning as the Squirt and I were finishing our cuppa-Joe, we saw this one woman from over to Birmingham, in the Alabalamaba, describe her elation at having been spared from the tornado that ripped though there Xmas day. She told the TV camera, she said, “God is responsible for all things and I’m so grateful He spared me, and mine. Roll Tide!”

“Don’t start, shithead,” Squirt advised me, “that lady’s got a lot on her mind. Not her fault God decided to kill somebody else and spare her. She’ll worry about the less fortunate after she finishes celebrating a football win and her survival.”

“Alright, little lady, for starters if she’s an actual Christian lady she’d be way more concerned for the souls of the killed and injured and lives devastated than she is for her own family as they sit, safe-and-sound. And the fact that she’s a fan of Alabalama double-downs her insensitivities, if you ask me,” I told her.

“OK, maybe that should be ‘doubles-down’. Or ‘doubled-downers’.”

“Yea,” she admonished me, “but why don’t you give her the benefit of just a little doubt? Didn’t you notice they interviewed her in front of a Walmart store?”

How had I missed that? I never miss a chance to say Fuck Walmart, so I said, “Fuck Walmart, and that’s a big called strike three, little lady. That woman’s an ignorant-Christian-Walmart-shopping-Alabobbaloola-rooting-brain-dead…”

The Squirt barked at me. “Jesus, Mooner, give it a fucking break already. Don’t you ever get tired of ranting about religious people?”

I do get tired of it, really tired of it. But we must stand up to the face of hypocrisy, bigotry, and ignorance in the name of faceless Gods.

“I am tired of it, Squirty girl, but the stilted beliefs of religious extremists are dangerous. If that woman had said, ‘God is responsible for all things so I want to thank him for sparing me and mine, and likewise give Him praise for killing them fourteen folks a couple blocks over, and for creating a hundred million dollars of damage just in time to ruin this holiday for ten thousand…’ You know, if her God is responsible for everything, thank Him for the fumble as well as the touchdown.”

Nine and a Half Weeks. That’s the movie, and Kim Bassinger is the formerly sexy actress married to a Baldwin.

So, once and again, Fuck Walmart!




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Critical Thoughts Of The Insane; Car Deals To Match

Wednesday, December 16th, 2015

So. I had hoped to be posting the results in the “Mooner promises to either fully support or do his best to destroy a major auto manufacturing company” contest by today, but—and alas—the results are still very much in limbo. As would be predictable in cases wherein serious money is involved, “integrity” is a tough commodity to own. And, as the car bidness is a tough one to locate integrity in the first place, the discovery of said integrity can be a long voyage. Just know that as with Walmart, I am anything if a steadfast keeper of promises.

Fuck Walmart.

Which reminds me. I think I have had another original thought. OK, stop laughing as I’m serious. Interesting thing about this original thought is that it wasn’t a long cogitated theorem based upon massive amounts of research, careful evaluations, and charts and graphs and shit—the typical methodologies of my ADHD-addled brains—it was, rather, an instantaneous response from my primitive, childish and still addled brain functions.

It came as they oft do, whilst sitting at a poker table. I was down to the ABQ and not at my home casino, because that casino has a giant bad beat jackpot and I wanted to see if I could score a part thereof. For those with no functional poker knowledge, a bad beat jackpot is a pot of money paid out when a person holding a seriously good hand gets beaten with that holding. I’ve got four threes and you’ve got four tens, then I’ve had a seriously good hand that was “bad beat”. Bad beat jackpots are typically paid 40% to the loser of the hand, 20% to the winner, and the remaining 40% to the other players at the table.

As the bad beat jackpot where I played was maxed-out at $100,000, the person with a bad beat hand would get $40,000 for his woes. Table shares for the remaining seven players at the table would be $40,000 divided by seven, or more than $5,700. Reason enough to drive an hour to play cards.

So. I’m sitting at my table down to Albuquerque, playing conservatively waiting for the right cards to maybe hit a bad beat, and not enjoying myself in the least,  when two of the typically several strongly conservatively religious players sitting at any poker table in the world starting mouthing off about, and here I’ll quote the one asshole, “Trump’s right. We don’t need any Muslims in America. All Muslims are terrorists.”

One thing leads to another and the next thing I know they’re discussing the merits of Christianity versus Muslimity as it relates to terrorist acts in America. Muslimanity. Muslimisn, perhaps. Shitheads are carefully laying out the evil ways of the Muslims, what with all that Sharia Law business and those raghead’s hatred of other Gods. Me, I gave them ample time to carefully lay out the details of what monsters all Muslims are before stating clearly, “You boys must be telling us what’s wrong with Christianity. Change the word “Sharia” to “Bible” and “Muslim” to “Christian” and we’ve got us a winner.”

Looks of confusion, angry stares and then, “Oh, you’re that atheist, aren’t you?”

“Card-carrying and dyed in the fucking wool, sir.”

We played cards for another hour or so, the entire time the one guy giving me stern looks while obviously straining his brain with how to deal with the atheist among them. He did that deal where a person really wants to ask you a question but keeps balking the effort. He would look at me expectantly, asking with his expression, “Please ask me what I want,” but I ignored him.

As expected, he finally couldn’t stand it any longer and he asked me, he said, “I’ve never understood how a man can be an atheist. You’ve got to believe in God. Why are you an atheist?”

My answer was, I think, an original thought and an instant response from the roiling swill inside my skull. “Well, sir, I was raised in a strict Baptist family and was made to follow, and strictly so, the edicts of the Bible. You read the Bible, don’t you sir? The Bible tells me, and repeatedly so if I must say, that I shall not worship false Gods. [Two, three, four] So I don’t.”

[Two, three, four, five, six, seven…] The one man is likely still thinking upon my answer with a dumbfounded look on his face, dumbfounded the keyword to his logicicalzations. But count of eight brought a snicker from the dealer, and a sly smile from the man sitting directly across from me. The one guy still not getting it says to me, he says, “That doesn’t make any sense. Are all atheists dumb? Uh, ah, I don’t mean dumb, I mean, uh, well, uh difficult?”

I started to tell this shithead that some of the most famous atheists are of genius IQ and great accomplishments, but decided instead to let him live his life in the darkened closet of his bigotries. I’m practicing tolerance this holiday season in an attempt to be a bigger man. That’s why I refuse to watch any TV. Every time I hear some conservative asshole spout hate I lose the desire to be better.

Anyway, I’ve a 10:30 appointment with the car people to, supposedly, negotiate a final solution to my auto issues. Stay tuned for more.

And please, Fuck Walmart!



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Girl Fights Are Sexy; Liver Talk For The Uninformed

Wednesday, August 5th, 2015

So.  At least for now, “The Great Since the Weather is so Amazing Let’s All Visit Mooner over to Santa Fe Festival” is over.  OK, better said would be to tell you that the last of the most recent spate of visitors here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe has disembarked—re-embarked, perhaps—and headed away to someplace not La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe.  Since I got back from the WSOP I have had visitors end-to-end.  Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson has a pair of sisters—each of whom I adore, yet in much differing ways—and each of them has friends and families, and…

“Please tell me nobody else is coming,” the Squirt said to me yesterday when I walked back into the house after a final delivery to the airport.  “I’m so sick of company I could puke.”

And she did.

“Jesus Christ, little lady, whatinthefuck have you been eating?”

I examined the loose pile of partially digested banana mush, corn nuts, baby lettuce greens and granola bar blended with wheat grass juice that lay strewn on my newly-finished wood floor.  “Goddammit, Aunt Lulu.”

Like Mother, Aunt Lulu feeds the dogs when I’m not looking, in spite of my many protestations that they not.  Ever tried to clean French Country Truffled Pate with cornichon pickles from a hand woven rug?  Anybody know how to get a dog to clean up its own mess other than to have her eat it again, and puke it all over the fucking place?


I would consider trading my dogs over for a pair of cats, but I’d end up lonely with a pair of fucking cats.  I actually like cats when contact is kept to maybe 90-seconds at a time, and I’ve never met a cat who talked back the way the Squirt does.  I love that little brown puppy—and she can be good company and great comfort, occasionally—but the back-talking is quite trying on my tattered nerves.

“Don’t you even get all up in my ass about my upset stomach, shithead.  You’re the one invited all those women to stay and feed me rich food.  And you need to get ready for a special treat.  Aunt Lulu fed the goat dog half a liverwurst sandwich on Saturday and he hasn’t had a shit since.”

“Jesus Christ,” said by me, again, and this time in defeat.  “I need a vacation.”

Which reminds me.  Is it just me or does it seem like conservative old white men are losing their grip on American politics and societal influences?   Are there more of we anti-‘Namers still breathing than those who happily shipped Baby Boomers over to Asia to die for absolutely nothing?  This summer’s Republican voter population is like a herd of shipwrecked rats—climbing all over each other and fighting for the last available dry plank as their ship prepares to take that incredible plunge to the depths of a cold, cold sea.

I find it interesting how different kinds of people deal with pending disasters in such dichotomous ways.  Always have.  In grade school, the nicer boys and most girls handled disputes and crises in gentle ways.  Attempts to compromise, offers to give something in return to get pressure relief, and sometimes total acquiescence are typical ways those kids deal with defeat.  How many times have you heard—or said—to another as a child, “OK, you win.”

Then there are those other kids—the ones who are bullies or self-absorbed or spoiled, or simply greedy, bigoted assholes.  They lose anything and they want to fight or bring some other harm, or they call you names or they threaten with promises to tell on you or have somebody else come to “get you”.  Or, they wait for you to turn your back.

Think about whomever it is who would like to see Donald Trump as our president.  Look at the stands taken by Trump and try to imagine what kind of human would support those stands as taken by The Donald.

Me, I see a dying breed of angry, selfish old white men who have seen the future and the future is brown, culturally and religiously diverse, and mostly female.  And like rats, I see them ready to eat their own to save themselves.  I see their attempts to, “Bring Christianity back to America,” as the last desperate death troughs of a dying breed.  And that reminds me of something else.

Rhonda Rousey is hot.  I’m just saying.

Fuck Walmart!



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WSOP News; Pope Francis Bushwhacks Little Jebbie

Friday, July 3rd, 2015

So.  I’m back from a visit to the World Series of Poker (WSOP) out to Las Vegas.  I played in the Super Seniors event, my plan to achieve some sort of notoriety in the poker world.  I planned to be among the youngest in the tournament in an effort to have more stamina than most others, I planned to play my best, focused game, and I planned to make it to the money.  What I did not plan was to have Mr. Dan Harrington placed to my immediate right at the three-hour twelve-minute mark.

For those of you unfamiliar with Dan, he won the Main Event in 1995, won a World Poker Tour event, is in the Poker Hall of Fame, and has written seven of the best books on poker ever written.  In fact, in preparation for playing in the WSOP, I ordered his latest book on playing tournaments such as the one I played.  Due to a snafu in Amazon’s delivery systems, the book arrived only two days before I left for Vegas.

“I bought your latest book to study for this event,” I told Dan soon after he was seated, and I added, “it came late and I only finished something over half of it.”

Dan, he and I were on a first name basis by then, said to me, he said with a grin, “Missing that last half is going to be a problem for you.”

I went card dead about then, and Dan Harrington demonstrated the power of his written words for the next six-and-a-half hours as he brutalized my dwindling stack of chips.  In a final move of desperation, with a quite small remaining stack of chips, I moved all-in with a suited King-Ten, just behind Dan’s minimum raise.  They were suited Spades, and possibly the suit influenced my move.

“Bad timing, Mooner,” he said somewhat sadly, and he flipped over the two red Aces.

That’s the best of my poker stories as I was knocked out by Dan Harrington at about number 390 of the original 1,533 entrants.  I played pretty well and only made one known mistake over ten hours of play.  And I made my final stand against a world class player, and very classy man.

Oh, and the other interesting thing that happened was at a cash game there to the Rio Casino where the WSOP is played.  I’m sitting in the five seat—that’s immediately facing the dealer across the table in a nine-handed cash game—and a new dealer sat down.  Tables are ten-handed for tournaments yet nine players sit to play cash.  They change dealers every thirty minutes as a rule, and this new dealer was a trim woman of Asian heritage.  After a couple of hands, she began pitching cards at me as if she were attempting to cut carrots—like those card tricksters do.  All the while this woman has the look of a feral dog in her eyes, piercing looks focused on me that made everyone at the table uncomfortable.

My cards are bouncing off my chips, the side of the table, and she would fire them at my hands, mostly at my left hand—the one with the fly tattoo.  As I had said nothing and not entered any pots since she sat down, I was perplexed.  I usually can quickly determine why a woman is pissed at me, but not this time.

“Have I said or done anything to upset you?” I inquired.

Getting no answer except the continued stare and card tossings, I said, I said, “Either tell me what I did and maybe I’ll apologize and you’ll quit being a bitch to me, or call the Floor Manager and we’ll let him arbitrate our issue.”

She dealt another hand, and when she threw the sharp-edged cards at my chest she said, “You Devil!”

“You Devil!” as the first hit my belly, and “You Devil!” when the second hit my shirt pocket and bounced back onto the table face up.  It was the King of Spades, the self and same card that helped end my tournament run.

“Must be that silly tattoo on your hand, sir,” one of the other players said.

“Some Asian cultures have quirky superstitions,” from another.

Me, I simply folded the hand and grabbed my chips and moved on—actions by me which I think might show some modicum of personal growth.  Historically, that would have been a time whereat I’d likely ended tasered and jailed, or at least banned from the casino.  I don’t cotton to rudeness or bigotry either one, and I’m quick to take a stand.

Maybe it was the calming karma of the Spanish Bottle Fly tattoo that helped me find the capacity to walk away rather than involve myself in an exercise to insure that rude behavior be punished.  I felt good about walking away for maybe a half-hour, and then I got pissed at myself.  I got to thinking that the woman’s superstition was religious-based and if I’m to stand against religious prejudice as a matter of principle, then Consistency must be my middle name.

Then again, maybe it was the simple fact that the King of Spades landed face up and that was an affecting aspect effecting my actions, and that reminds me. My Gram left Santa Fe with her young college boy early the day before I headed to Vegas.  We shipped her wrecked Italian sports car to Austin on a flatbed truck, and I dropped off the sex partners at the airport.

“I luv ya, ya little shitbird,” Gram told me with a sloppy kiss and a bony hug.  “An’ go see yer crazy fuckin’ mother, Mooner.  She ain’t well.”

Mother isn’t well.  She fell several times and then caught pneumonia while I was gone.  I’m planning a trip to San Antonio to be with Mother while Sister and Anna the Amazon take a little time off from Mother’s care.  It’ll be the first time I see her since the wedding, and the first time Sister and her wife will be a legitimate married couple wherever they choose to vacation.

And that reminds me of something else.  Jeb Bush responded to the Pope’s positions on the environment and income inequality by saying this:  “…I don’t go to mass for economic information or political policy…”

Oh, really?  You don’t go to mass for political policies?  What about taking a religious stand on abortion because your precious Popie says so?  Same-sex marriage?  Birth control?  Why do you segregate the Pope’s positions on economics and pollution from those he takes on birth control and personal sex partnering?

The Religious Right might have finally been boxed into the corner they have been painting for centuries.  Might Pope Francis be the one to shine Devine light, and a final gallon of bright pink paint, on their hypocrisies?

Fuck Walmart!

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An Open Letter To Christians; Somebody Please Explain This To Me

Friday, December 19th, 2014

So.  I’m packing to leave for the Oregon coast and will be gone until after the first.  I want to wish everyone a fantastic holiday season and especially Bob and Cindy over to Squatlo Rant.  Those two have taken on the raising of a young girl and need all the best wishes I can give.  I was feeling all full of myself for doing something nice for another person the other day, then I thought of the gift of love they have given their niece.  Put my small act of kindness onto perspectives.

Anyway, as a perk to the Medicare Part B coverage I purchased to supplement my Medicare, I got a free membership to a fitness club.  Needing to get my ass into better shape for the cancer treatments on the close horizon, I’ve been going to the gym five days weekly for the last month.  When I was sitting on one of machines whereupon you push down with both hands and make the backs of your arms quiver, I was watching CNN on a TV facing me.  What I saw was one of the Christian talking heads on a show telling about how normalizing relations with Cuba is an un-Christian like thing to do.  Silly shitball scolded the Pope for “…meddling…” in America’s business.  Me, I thought he should have said, “…not Christ-like,” but as I gave up my Baptist Christianity years ago, I might be a touch out-of-touch with modern Christian linguistics.

Maybe it wasn’t CNN, but I’ve seen this asshole before and he always seems to have found a way to bastardize the teachings of his blessed Savior into the twisted wreckage that has become today’s right wing Christian hate.  Hearing this exactly one week before the celebrated day of his Savior’s birth, I’ve decided to write an open letter to all Christians.  Here is an open forum for you to share your faithful beliefs with a bunch of us heathens.  I encourage any and all Christians to respond.  Please respond.


Dear Christians;

In one week you will celebrate the birth of your God and Savior, Jesus Christ of Nazareth.  Your dogma holds the purported teachings of this Christ man, as memorialized in the King James Version of your Holy Bible, as words of absolute truth—words that shall guide you in the living of your life.  You likewise claim that His words are to be taken literally—no translation required.

            Careful reading of all those memorialized words attributed to Jesus demonstrate him as a man/God of great compassion—the son of a God living a full life without ever hating, or berating kindness, or seeking egregious wealth.  Your Jesus washed the feet of indigents, kissed and held Lepers in his arms, cursed the money changers for their greed, and turned his cheek to another man’s attack.  Your Jesus never lifted His hand in a fist, and He placed all the poor masses of His time ahead of the moneyed few in every way.

            Your Jesus, if what you say is true, would have had the power to rule the world.  He’d have had the God-given authority to impose his will on every human and animal and plant on this planet.  Hell, He could have moved mountains if it pleased Him.  Yet, with all that power and authority, your Jesus chose to live a pauper’s life, a life lived spreading glad tidings of comfort and joy.  Your Jesus never once acted to use his strength or power or knowledge to make a personal gain.

            Now here we are, some two-thousand years after His death, you silly sumbitches have managed to mangle, mismanage and misinterpret His words so terribly that I think your precious Jesus would be ashamed of you.  Think Jesus would approve of the Koch brothers political activities?  Think Jesus would support men who place themselves above other men due to race or sexual orientations?  Ask yourself this before you spout off about the president’s recent administrative edicts:  Would Jesus condone any sort of torture?  Would Jesus turn away the hungry and abused Hispanic masses at His doorstep?  Would Jesus welcome doing business with China and shun Cuba?  Would Jesus ask you to unburden the rich by taxing the poor?

            If all a person did was watch Fox News to learn about what modern day “Christians” believe, they could compare the stated values as seen there to the words in the Bible.  This comparison would cause a reasonable non-Christian person to say, “What the fuck?”

            Me, I’m now asking you guys, “What the fuck?  What happened to Christ’s words over the last couple thousand years?”

            You don’t believe in evolution, so it can’t be that Christianity has evolved from love to hate.  For those of us on the outside, it appears that it might be a literal “false prophets” scenario, one of those “Beware of false prophets who come to you dressed in a lambs clothing, yet are ravenous wolves at heart.”

            If memory serves, that’s from your Saint Matthew’s book of the Bible, and I likely messed the specific words a little bit.  It has been fifty years since I was a Royal Ambassador to Christ over to the Eastridge Baptist Church.  What my RA leader told us was that there would be men who represented themselves to be speakers for/prophets of Jesus, each of whom would be charlatans.  These people would seek personal wealth and power by transforming Christ’s messages, bending His words to suit their needs.

            That leader called them “flim-flam men,” the first time I’d heard the term.  As examples, he mentioned the “faith healers” of those times.  But I’m rambling.

            Let me conclude by asking any Christian out there to produce the tangible evidence in the words of Jesus Christ to justify any of the following:

  1. Turning children away from our borders.
  2. Accepting China and rejecting Cuba. They are, after all, both “C” words just like Christ.
  3. Denying universal health care.
  4. Enforcing your will on a/another woman’s body.
  5. Racism.
  6. Bigotry.
  7. Torture.  Please, this one really gets me.

If you can produce words from Jesus that support some of this shit, maybe some of the rest of us can find a way to seek common ground—maybe you might convince us that mistreating other humans for personal gain is a good thing. I leave Sunday really early and will print any responses you make before I leave.  After Sunday, it will take me until the first to get back.  But I will print responses without edit, saving threats.  Jesus wouldn’t like you to make threats.

Please have a happy, Walmart-free holiday.

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

Thursday, September 11th, 2014

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

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Watermelon Man Two, The Sequel; Some Things wash Off, Some Don’t

Saturday, July 26th, 2014
  1. I’m freshly arrived home to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe after eight days in Las Vegas where I tended to my wayward sister’s pending death.  For those of you familiar with a cancer death, my sister Tammy was “fish breathing” at ten-second intervals when I said my last good-bye in the middle of the night.  For those of you not yet acquainted with fish breathing—you lucky sonsabitches—breathing like a fish out of water is a near final stage of life for a cancer patient.  There is no visible remainder of the human who occupied the space alien-like being lying flat on the white sheets of the hospice bed, just an organic recycling machine that starts Life’s ashes-to-ashes decomposition by consuming itself in a quite mechanical fashion.

I find myself with far too much to say about these last ten days and far too few words to say them.  As a man lacking filters under usual circumstances, at my sister’s wishes I am forced to filter my thoughts like the Micronite filter on the Kent Cigarettes that enticed my sister to start smoking.  It was advertisements for the fancy Kent filters that convinced Tammy it was safe to begin smoking all those years ago, and it was the lies in those filters that has killed her.  Fifty-nine years old and killed by a business lie.

If corporations are people, why can’t we prosecute them for killing other people?

Which reminds me.  I didn’t have enough clean undies to pack for this trip, so I stopped and bought two packages of new drawers to take with.  One package contained two white pairs and one black, and the other had two blacks and a gray.  I have always preferred white underwear, but I figured whatthefuck, maybe some handsome woman wished to leave fond memories of Mooner Johnson in Las Vegas—the dashing Mooner Johnson who wore fancy, black underwear and knew how to pleasure a Midwest school marm.  I packed the new undies in my small second bag and drove to the tiny Santa Fe Municipal Airport.

The first sign that black undies might not be my style came to me when my bags were strip searched by Security before boarding.  The nice TSA agent—a woman of maybe thirty years, skin the color of milk chocolate and a radiant smile—said to me as she emptied my bag and set the new drawers on the stainless counter , she said, “Not your color, sir.  Navy blue… Maybe, but not black.”  After repacking my bags she sent me off with a giggle, “Maybe those black garments can be what you leave in Vegas.”

I love a woman with a sense of humor and almost offered to take her with me.  But the reason for the trip reentered my mind.  The word “sad” has become almost a mantra for me over the last weeks.  “How are you?”  “Sad.”  What’s up?”  “Sad.”

My trip was planned to arrive ahead of Mother.  I wanted Tammy moved from ICU at the hospital into the hospice care unit so that my sister would at least be more comfortable in her final days.  Having our mother coming to pay last respects was discomforting to my sister.  We had long discussions about how things should and would go once our lone remaining parental unit showed to Sin City, and we developed a safe word for use when Tammy wanted to end conversation.

“Just say ‘I’m tired,’” I told her.  “Your safe word can be I’m tired.”

“That’s two words, dumbass, three if you don’t contract them,” Tammy said with a smile.  “Fast as I’m losing it I’ll be lucky to remember the “I’m” part.”

Did I mention that it’s hot in Las Vegas?  It is, and each night I would visit Tammy a last time for that day, retreat to my hotel and change into walking clothes, and take a brisk walk up-and-down the Strip.  I got an Ambien from Mother as I wasn’t sleeping well on Monday—and knowing I had a half hour before feeling the effects—took the little sleeping pill and headed out for a walk.  An hour-long, hot and sweaty walk.  Sweat your balls off sort of walk.

I arrived back at my room all sweaty and tired and sleepy, forgot to turn the thermostat down but turned on the TV and sat back on the bed at 11:36 pm.  At least I think that’s what the clock said.  I awoke at 6:16 am with my tee shirt, shorts and underwear still sweat-glued to my body and itching like I had the crabs.  Had the crabs this one time.  Caught them from a chair at the La Quinta Inn over to Phoenix maybe twenty-five years ago.  I’m fresh out the shower and thinking about what to do next, so I grabbed the Phoenix Magazine and sat on the chair in my room.  Felt grit on my bare ass, so I stood and brushed what I thought was sand from the chair and re-sat.  Twern’t no sand, twas the crabbies.

Anyway, whoever says that you awake from a nice night of sleeping pill sleep feeling all refreshed and shit is a liar, a giant fucking liar.  Not only did I itch like a sumbitch, but my mouth felt like Motley Crew had partied in it back in the eighties and I felt as dingy as Victoria Jackson.  I struggled out of bed and padded to the bathroom to take a shower and try to get fully awake.  I pried the tiny cake of bath soap from its fancy cardboard box, and yes I did indeed do without my Ivory, turned on the water and climbed into the shower.  I stood with my back to the meager spray with eyes closed for a minute or two, hands against the back wall to brace myself.  Didn’t want to fall over.

After those few minutes, I opened my eyes and tried to get them to fully focus.  I first looked at my feet but they were too far away, so I next looked at my pecker and balls.  As all the men know, when you are hot for a long time, your pecker and balls grow in much the same way as they shrink when they get really cold.  With my foggy brain, I looked down at my heat-swelled package and as it slowly came into focus, I saw that not only was it swollen, it was black.

“Holy shit, my pecker is big and it’s black!” I almost yelled.  “There is a God and She’s turning me into a black man starting with my pecker and balls!”

I was quite excited and had started to think about what it might feel like to be a black man.  Excitement lasted until the tiny soap cake produced enough lather to wash the black off and I realized that it was the unwashed black underwear that turned me black, and not the hand of my God.  Also caused me to wonder if I could handle all that yang of a big black pecker’s yin.  I know I’ve got thick skin but I do wonder if I could handle that kind of prejudice, what with my getting such a late start.  Too bad cancer won’t wash off.

Anyway, and again at that, I’m headed off to the casino to work.  Johnson’s the name and poker’s my game.  So, fuck Walmart and bigots too!

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Garlic Farts And Bigots; What A Choice

Thursday, May 1st, 2014

So.  How many ADHD brain-addled fuckballs does it take to poster a story to a bloggie?  From the evidence herein contained, the clear answer is, “At least one more than you, shithead.”

Not a complaint, mind you, but I’m way busy with my work and trying to keep far too many balls in the air, and doing so in the face of strong oppositions.  I guess some folks don’t like you messing with their balls, an actual life situation that would be a welcome respite for truly yours.

And don’t even start on me with your silly “it’s ‘Yours truly’ dumbass” bullshit.  You, dear reader, spend the same 45-minutes in careful thoughts as I did pondering as to whether “yours truly” or “truly yours” is more accurate when making the express statement previously made, herein, above, in the specific contexts as those thoughts weighed by me when I was in said quandary in real time, and then tell me I’m wrong.

And whyinthefuck isn’t it “truely”, with the “e” left inside?

Which reminds me that I’ve been having these really interesting dreams lately.  In one recent dream I decided to adopt this busload of school children I found abandoned on the side of the road that runs from Cimarron, NM, through the back mountains to Eagle Nest.  I have traveled that road recently for work and saw a bus load of kids parked on the side of the road near a spot where you can get to the river and trout fish.  I dream wondered what they were doing stopped, where they were fishing or taking a pee break, or whatever, and now I have another question.

Why is it “traveled” and not “travelled”?  This shit is pissing me off.  Evil goat fucking grammar shitwads.

The kids were a rainbow of colors and spoke as many languages as they bore hues.  In the dream, the kids debated having me as their father and decided that they’d rather stay orphaned and wandering endlessly through the mountains looking for places to make pee stops.

“You look deranged, Mister.  We’ll keep on trucking.”

I also had a dream—the one that has stimulated me to get up at 3 am on a work day to write to you—about which I’m finding myself inarticulate.  I can’t seem to find enough of the right words to use to express my sentiments with any adequacy.  Let me lay it out for you by telling you the basics of the dream.

So, I’m sleeping with me spooning the Squirt as she lay with her back against my chest and her adorable head under my chin, and Yoda was spooning me with his one leg draped over my neck and his snout draped over that paw.  We’d had a take-out salad from Joe’s Diner—this with-chicken affair garnished with six pounds of fried garlic on top.  The garlic had made its way through our systems and into our skin and breath before bedtime, and in sleep our combined odoriferous emissions were peeling lacquer from the viga-beamed ceiling, one of several architectural features of the master bedroom that are New Mexico trademarks.

Having said that, I find myself required to address viga beams.  A viga is a natural log beam used as ceiling and roof framing here to New Mexico.  The exposed beams are usually covered with a tongue-and-groove planking that serves as ceiling on the inside, and roof decking on the topside.  The resultant wooden features are considered to be one of Santa Fe’s charms.

Sleeping soundly with draped-dog warmth, I felt the subtle movements of the mattress made when a person, or a fucking dog, attempts to mount the bed and slither under the covers.  The presence moved carefully from the bed’s foot to a position behind me where a second person would sleep on my king size mattress.  The newbie settled, fussed with the covers—an action that normally pisses me off—sighed deeply, and started snoring.

It was, at first, a light snore.  It was the sweet sound of a new lover after a sweat-drenched hour of first-time sex.  “Been awhile since I heard that sound,” I said, dream aloud, to myself and whomever it was lying next to me.

“It will be quite a while longer, Sonny Boy, if you don’t find some time for yourself.”

The throaty sound of Sharon Stone’s Basic Instinct voice added, “You need a vacation, asshole.”

Dream-realizing it was my God who had slipped in beside me for another late-night counselling session, I whipped over and sat up to face Her.  Said actions caused both dogs to jump-start, and begin barking at God.

“It’s OK, kiddies, it’s only God come to fuck with me some more.”

This visit, God looked like Raquel Welch in Myra Breckinridge, and she was dressed in the nurse’s outfit from the movie.

“Uh, hi, God,” I dream stammered, “please don’t tell me you’re here to peg me, ma’am.  I’m not that young anymore, and I’m unsure my heart could handle the stress.  Uh,” and here I stuttered some more, “uh, uh, ah. Um…  OK, you sound just like a sassy Sharon Stone but look like RW when she played that man eater in Myra Breckinridge.  What’s up, Ma’am?”

God kissed my open mouth with Raquel Welch’s lush lips.  As a young man, I had often wondered what it would feel like to kiss those lips.  I’d fanaticized the soft, sweet taste in my youth.  As a dreaming old man, this not so chaste kiss did not disappoint.

“You’ve been working quite a lot and I thought I’d pay a visit to remind you to have a little fun.  You need to have a little fun, Mooner.”

I dream thought a minute.  “OK, Ma’am, how about you pull those covers down and show me your breasts.  The most fun I can think to have right this instant would start with my head nestled between Raquel Welch’s breasts.”

I awoke suckling the rubber nose of Yoda’s stuffed bunny rabbit.  Sad to say that my garlic mouth tasted worse than a month-old dog toy, but “Truth and the American Way” is my middle name, and foolish behavior my modus operandi.

“Fuck it, kids, I’m getting up.  You two might as well stay in bed because I’m not feeding you at three in the morning.”

I unsettled and sat on the edge of the mattress dressing to a growl from the goat dog and Squirt’s, “Eat shit and die.”  I paddled in here and started writing and now find that I will be late for my 6:30 am work start.

But before I go, I want to say one thing.  I want to say that racism is alive and well in America.  I want to say that somehow, some way, we have allowed bigotry to re-infest and re-infect our civilization to the same epidemic levels experienced in the 1950’s.  We need to stop this near-pandemic disease before it ruins us.  Big Money is fueling divisiveness and using it to pit common men against common men, women against women.

Take a stand against prejudice before it’s too late, and:

Fuck Walmart!!!

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Happy Holidays; An Xmas Story

Sunday, December 22nd, 2013


So. It seems that I have become one of those missing-in-action blog posters about whom my friends bitch—a once prolific writer of obnoxious drivel posting daily entries into cyberspace now posting monthly at best. Having just mistyped “cyberspace” as “cyber space”, I’ve been informed that cyber isn’t an actual word yet, and alas, cyberspace is.

OK, whatinthefuck is that all about? How can a nonexistent entity not exist yet have space? How can nothing occupy space? Other than in situations like Rick Perry or Sarah Palin’s brains, wherein skull vaults contain empty emptinesses.

Which reminds me. My across-the-street neighbor—a most interesting woman born in Holland and Americanized for the last forty years—invited us over to a dinner party last night. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson is in town for a visit, so when I say, “…invited us…,” I mean the brain doctor and first Mrs. Mooner Johnson joined me for the party, not the dogs. The dogs are pissed to be left at home alone when Agnes, said and same neighbor, has a party.

“Look, shithead,” the Squirt said, “Agnes has the most interesting friends, and the goat dog needs some socializing with a refined cultural element. Take us with.”

“No, little lady,” I told my tiny brown puppy. “Things will be too crowded and you’ll be under foot.”

“Fuck you, asshole. You’ll pay for this one.”

Am I the only parent who finds themselves revisiting the quality of their parenting skills at constant intervals? I raised three well adjusted, interesting, honest and productive kids as a much younger man, and yet, with the experience and maturity of an older man, the net results of my efforts to properly raise this miniature dog have resulted in the Squirt.

I was asking Dr. Sam earlier this morning, I asked, “Why is the Squirt so fucking headstrong, demanding and why does she stick to her principles like Gorilla Glue? She is the most exasperating person in my life.” I was taking advantage of my lovely ex wife’s visit by attempting to sneak a little free psycho therapy action into coffee time.

She answered, “For starters, buster, I just punched the clock and I’m now charging for out-of-town, weekend, holiday, emergency and crisis rates. Those rates are charged by-the-word at $25-per word. After I tell you that you have somehow managed to parent a formerly sweet young dog into a mirror image of yourself, know that if I stop now, you’re bill for this morning’s session has already cost you $1,775.00”

I thought for a moment. “Jesus Christ, Sammie, you’re charging me for prepositions and pricing contractions as two words! You are such a bitch.”

“And you, my dear ex husband, are a nut case. My free diagnosis of the day.”

Anyway, and before my ADHD drives this train into a gorge, we went to the party last night and had a ball. Everyone in attendance not named Mooner Johnson was an interesting and spiritual person and an actual artist producing incredible art, or an interesting, spiritual and renowned psycho therapist. The entire roomful of us thought Rick Perry is a brainless sack of shit, and when I said, “Fuck Walmart!” the room cheered.

Which reminds me. Dr. Sam I. Am is crazy about this private label Chardonnay wine from Costco. Since Costco is the polar opposite of Walmart—treating employees with respect and dignity while profiting still mightily—I was happy to visit Costco for a case of the wine when I was in the ABQ. I’ve agreed to help write and supervise the implementation of a five-year business plan for my buddy who owns the roofing company, and I’m in New Mexico’s largest city often.

Costco was crowded with holiday shoppers, and after bumping and bustling through the store to get the case of wine and industrial-sized buckets of red pepper flakes, smoked paprika, and olive oil, I went to check out. The shortest line had six overly-filled baskets waiting and I took my place at the rear. There were two, or more, persons with each basket, save-and-except the one immediately in front of mine. That immense and spilling-over cart was unattended. I looked for its keeper and finding none, moved it ahead of me as the line shortened. Nosy bastard that I am, I spent my time waiting in line searching the store around me and guessing who, and where, the cart user might be.

OK, I was also thinking about the five-year business plan, wondering what item from my Costco shopping list I had forgotten, trying—unsuccessfully—to not look at the ample bosom spilling from the holiday sweater on the lovely lady in the line next to me, and likely spurred by the ample bosom, was wondering if I was clever enough to talk the good doctor into joining me in an evening of sack time. For those of you interested in my sex life, the answer is, as it always is, “No, shithead, your ex wife is far too well adjusted to sex it up with the likes of you.”

I was now at the point where I had to either push the abandoned cart aside and start putting my own basket’s contents on the black rubber conveyor belt for pricing, or wait and piss-off the now seven carts-worth of shoppers behind me. Just as I had grabbed the cart’s handle with both hands to lift it aside, a short, plump Catholic woman walked up and said to me, “Oh, thank you, sir.” She started putting her items on the black rubber belt and added, she said, “And Merry Christmas.”

You might wonder how I knew she was Catholic, right? For starters, she had maybe seven crosses hanging from chains around her neck, I saw the edges of a wear-worn Bible poking from the giant purse she’d left in the basket, and pinned to the breast of her sweater was one of those little buttons that show a pair of tiny feet. With the personal experience and knowledge that that particular button is a favored demonstration of a violent Catholic strain of anti-abortion fervor, I pegged the lady as Catholic.

“Happy Holidays,” I responded, full of holiday cheer and proud that I hadn’t pushed the nice lady’s cart aside.

“Merry Christmas,” she said, and again.

Thinking she hadn’t heard my first response, I responded with a somewhat louder and quite more cheery, “Happy Holidays!”

Wait. Would I have spoken more cheery, or would it be more accurate to have said my louder voice was cheery more? As accuracy and crystal clear communications are my life’s goals, me, I’m going with Cheery more.

“Merry Christmas!” she said, and again, this time through gritted teeth and with not a small level of menace.

Oh, now I get it. This crazy bitch is worried that America is killing her sacred holiday.

“And a Happy Holidays to you and yours,” I said as delightfully as I could say it.

“I saaa-i-ud Merr-ry Christ-mas.” Christmas was said as two words with a heavy emphasis on “Christ”. Her eyes had turned feral, like in a horror movie when the Devil posses to scare you into pissing your pants.

“Happy Holidays,” brightly said by me, and merrily so. It has been many months since I have enjoyed the special pleasure it is to poke and prod Catholic Anti-abortion Protest lady into spitting at and slapping my ruggedly handsome face. I do miss those times and felt this the perfect chance to push another silly Catholic woman off her kibble.

“How dare you blaspheme my sweet Saviour’s birthday!” she snarled. “He!!!” shouted now, “is the only reason you have a holiday and I will not let you disgrace His name.”

I was winding up my favorite three words for an occasion such as that when the Costco clerk managed to pry the angry woman away.

“Fuck your Jesus.” I whispered my anti-Fuckhead Christian mantra to myself in true holiday spirit. I always emphasize the “your” part to distinguish the various Jesuses apart. Some Jesuses are loving and accepting while others must be total fuckbrains, and often the lines blur for me.

After a fantastic party and great time, Sammie and I walked back to Casita Johnson de Santa Fe and opened the door to a frightful sight. The entire living room was covered in the shredded remains of a week’s worth of newspapers. Two piles of dog shit had been deposited on the laces of my snow boots that sit by the door, and everything that formerly sat on top of the coffee table was strewn amidst the shredded paper.

“Happy fucking Holidays, Mooner.” It was the Squirt. She and Yoda were sitting on the rug that sits half in the dining room and half in the kitchen. They were wearing the jingle bell collars that are my Xmas decorations. “Fix us some eggnog and light the fire, Bwana. Lets get in the spirit.”

I love my puppies, New Mexico and good friends. Happy Holiday, y’all.

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Frumpy Old Man Commits Fraud; Donald Trump Caught

Monday, August 26th, 2013


So. I remember, and it seems like a couple years ago, when I first saw ads for “Trump University”. It appears our boy Donald “Ain’t No Such-A Thing as Too Much Hairspray” Trump was advertising to teach poor folks how to get rich, and quick. Charged the suckers as much as $35,000 for seminars to give them his secrets. I remember that I was wondering how much gall it took to charge $35,000 to tell people that they need to be born rich and then limit their losses on daddy’s inherited fortune, when Mother brought it up at the breakfast table.

“Did you hear that Mr. Trump is giving a seminar here in Austin next week? I was disappointed when he fired NeNe from the Celebrity Apprentice show, but isn’t it nice of him to share his knowledge and good fortune with the unfortunate.”

There was a pause—one of those “everyone stops eating at the same time to listen to Sally’s fake orgasm dealios”—and I figured I’d take the first shot at my right-wing Christian conservative mother’s silly-assed comments. “OK, Mother, I don’t even know where to start with that load of horse shit,” I began. “For starters, how can you have the least bit of interest in a man who is paying to sponsor the slur campaign against the President with that “Birther” bullshit? How can you support that sort of racist behavior?”

My mother took a sip of her hot tea, daintily wiped her lips with her napkin like a proper lady, and took the slow, painful breath of air that has become the prelude to a lecture on her martyred life. “My mother told me not to marry your father, son, but I didn’t listen. I could have married into a sophisticated family from Coastal Virginia, but your father, God rest his heathen soul, hypnotized me with those damned Johnson eyes. I guess it’s God’s will that I’m burdened with teaching my own family about family values. Mister Trump is trying his hardest to find the proof we need to get that Muslim out of the White House.”

It was at that point that steam started spewing from Gram’s nostrils. Her mouth was full of this spinach and smoked pork fritatta I’d made with the Gouda cheese that Sac Ellen had brought me from California. The creamy cheese made the oven baked scrambled eggies chewy and quite tasty.

“Wath tha futh yoth thayinth, Smothr?” Gram managed from her egg-packed maw. “I’mmath slith yerth throth swith thisth spoonth.”

My mother still lacked the good sense to keep some of her shitty ideas to herself even after decades of living under the protection of the Johnson family roof. Her husband—my daddy and Gram’s only child—was a solid man. An honest, hardworking, loving and an afflicted ADHD-addled fuckbrain much as yours truly. Mother can start Gram’s motor on any number of topics, but when she speaks poorly of Daddy, the “slit your throat with a spoon” thoughts fill my grandmother’s head.

“Mr. Trump is an amazing, Christian man. He helps all those talented young women with college scholarships in his pageants, he generates millions of dollars of donations to wonderful charities with his Apprentice show, and he fosters good will and truth in politics by funding the investigations to impeach this Muslim foreigner you people elected President. Why just the other week it was discovered that Obama was married to another gay man and murdered him so he could have a political career,” Mother went on. “How my own family could vote for evil over family values is beyond my ability to comprehend.”

“And how you can be so totally fucking racist and bigoted is completely beyond my ability to want to accept. Are you absolutely certain that you’re my mother? Are you sure that I wasn’t Daddy’s son from a girlfriend or something? I know he was my father, but how can you be my mother?”

I expected a different response, but did so in error. “It’s a good thing that I believe in a merciful God, son. I know that my Hell on Earth is His plan for my salvation. Living with this family will earn me a spot close to God’s right hand when He finally takes me home.”

Now that she’s demented and not living under the Johnson family roof, Mother’s martyrdom hasn’t waned as you’d expect. It’s intensified. I played poker down to the ABQ all day Saturday, so I’d missed all the latest news. Like the news that the State Attorney of New York has filed a fraud lawsuit against Hairbag Trump for $45 million. I was just finishing the paper where I read that the State of New York has solid evidence that Trump University lived up to its name and had bilked millions from the suckers with trumped-up claims. My phone rang.


Me: “Hello, Mother. How’s it hanging, baby?”

Mother: “Where are you, Mooner?”

Me: “Still in Santa Fe and hunting for a giant black pecker to see if I might be homosexual. Just like the last 288 times you’ve asked.”

Mother: “You need to be careful what you say, young man. God will strike you down for even thinking about sodomy. Now shut up and listen. I need a favor.”

Me: “I wasn’t planning on sticking the giant black pecker up my ass, Mother, I was planning to… What do you mean you need a favor?”

Mother: “I need you to go into my bedroom there at the ranch and open my safe. Get out all my jewelry and sell it. Bring me the money. Right now!”

Me: “OK, for starters, I’m in Santa Fe, not Austin, and furthermore, you don’t need to be selling anything. You’ve got plenty of money to live on and most of that jewelry isn’t yours to sell—it’s family stuff that you will pass down.”

Mother: “Why are you in Santa Fe? Did you divorce Roshandra? I knew that wouldn’t last.”

Me: “Mother, Roshandra and I divorced years ago and there’s been five more since. Now tell me why you want cash so urgently.”

Mother: “I don’t have to tell you a thing. It’s my money and my problem.”

Me: “OK, how much do you need?

Mother: “$45 million dollars”
Me: “Huh? Have you lost what’s left of your feeble mind? What inthefuck could you possibly want with $45 million dol… You’ve got to be kidding. Are you planning to pay Donald Fucking Trump’s fraud fines? Really?”

Mother: “Don’t you curse at me, you heathen. God will strike you down.”


Right after that Sister called to warn me to expect Mother’s call. Seems that she and Anna had been to see our shared womb holder Saturday and took her to lunch. Sister told me that when they arrived at the hostess desk to get a table, Mother said to the young girl, “We need a quiet table in the back, and don’t give us a homo-sex-u-al waiter. My system is weak and I can’t risk catching the infection.”

She also told me of the plan our batty old mother hatched to save Donald Trump’s good name and reputation. “She’s getting worse, Mooner. You need to come down and pay her a visit.”

“I’d rather send her the $45 million. How much can you loan me, sis?”

“It isn’t funny, asshole. If you come down I’ll let you kiss Anna on the lips.”

Anna—Sister’s wife and my ex-wife number three—has the ripe natural lips of that former model and actress, Brooke Shields. Many’s the times I’ve been slugged in the arm for moving in on those lips in my sister’s presence. Sister punched me so hard this one time I thought I would lose the use of my left arm.

OK, let’s stop for a grammar lesson. That next-to-last sentence of the previous paragraph has multiples of grammatical pitfalls contained therein. First, what is the contraction for “many was”? Second, might should the phrase be “many were”? And third, why do we say, “Many was the time,” when there were many having had time? OK, many were having had times, unless the many were having had the same time.

It should be, “Many were the times,” right?

I told my sister, I said, “Only way I’m coming down for the torture that is a visit to Mother’s place is if I get full lips, a little tongue action, and a quick squeeze—a two-handed squeeze.”

“You’ll come down for nothing but the knowledge that you’ve done the right thing, buster. And do it before the end of September. She’s slipping, Mooner, and it scares me. I’m still trying to make my peace with her and I‘m worried her mind will go before she gives in.”

I can’t imagine what it must be like to be gay and have your gayness hated by a parent. I know what it’s like to be hated by a parent for my simple existence, but I think gay hatred is much more venomous. My sister has tried to gain Mother’s acceptance her entire life. She needs it.

Me, I need a cold Carta Blanca beer. Manana, or so, y’all.


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What Happens When It’s Been Three Weeks? This Silly Shit!

Saturday, August 3rd, 2013


So. How y’all been? Me, I’ve been busy. Plain and simple statement, made simply and plainly. I’m not bitching or whining, just stating the facts, Ma’am. That busy-ness is why I’ve been missing in action for a couple weeks.

Not that I couldn’t whine should I be the type. But I’m not wired to complain unless I’m unhappy about something in my life, and it isn’t my life I’m unhappy about. It’s the lives of the right-wing Christian conservative shitheads—and their attempts to force their religious dogma down our throats—that’s totally and completely stuck right on up my craw.

Asswipe right-wing racist Christian greedy and narrow-minded chicken fuckers.

Which reminds me. My buddy Bob, over to the Squatlo Rant, ran a video of a man—the husband of a woman who was carrying a terribly damaged fetus—who walked his wife into a clinic to the screams and vitriolic “you’re a murderer” tirades of two anti-abortion protesters. This man—a man who was enduring the terrible human condition of knowing that the baby he was so excited to father was already doomed to die as a fetus in its mother’s womb—had been forced to deliver his pregnant wife through a labyrinth of evil-spirited old hags spewing their toxic swill.

Please go over to Squatlo Rant and check out this amazing man’s response to his plight. Take four minutes from your life to see how a decent, strong man handles those maniacs. Watch his calm, measured words. Watch him debate against evil intent with reason and pure logic. His love for his wife and destined-to-be still-born offspring will tear streak your eyes.

And, if you are me, as you see and hear the protesters’ responses, your anger will surface at realizing that truth and logic and personal freedom are meaningless realities to religious zealots. When I watched that video on my lunch break yesterday, I got so pissed that I decided to unpack my old anti-anti-abortion protest sign and find myself some anti-abortion protesters. I was pissed enough to take the afternoon off and put myself even farther behind at work.

See, while I appreciated that incredible man’s reasoned logic and basic parental love-based emotions, I happen to have the experience required to understand that truth and reasoned logic have no place in the life of Christian zealots. The only thing they understand is that there is not someone with beliefs opposite theirs who feels more strongly they do they. They so strongly believe that they have the firmest convictions, when they meet a giant flaming asshole like me—they either shit their pants and run, or they become violent.

My anti-anti-abortion protest program is a simple one. First, go down to your local Fast Signs or Rapid Signs or Signs-While-You-Wait store and have them make you a sturdy, two-sided placard. I like the corrugated plastic type like they use on real estate signs, and I always get the extra thick. It costs a little more, but lasts way longer in the face of a bunch of shitholes trying to tear it up.

Oh, wait. Did I tell you that I bought some earrings from Ali McGraw? Did I? She was a volunteer at Santa Fe’s International Market, and she manned this booth selling Ethiopian jewelry. Wait, maybe it was Nigerian jewelry—stuff confiscated from INTERNET thieves who bilk dumbass Americans with those silly letters about deposed monarchs. Whateverthefuck, Ms. McGraw was manning a booth and I was walking the dogs, attempting to walk-off a serious after-a-lesbian-dream hangover.

I have been getting these hangovers ever since I married a lesbian—ex-wife number three—and had her fall in love with my equally-lesbian but already out-of-the-closet sister, Sister. While hurt and heart broken by the entire dealio, I found a highly-evolved personal perception of the homosexual conditions, as well as a highly-refined level of lust for lesbians.

My psycho therapist—ex-wife number one—has long held the position that my lesbian lust is nothing but my typical over-the-top response to a “you most want what you can’t have” situation. But me, I know that’s not it at all. I know that I like strong women and some of the strongest are lesbian in nature. Lesbian of nature, maybe.

My first lesbian crush was Martina Navratilova. OK, stop. My first crush after Anna the Amazon crushed my heart and married my sister, was the fabulous tennis star. While my buddies all lusted after Chrissy Everett as she “Uhned” and sweated to chase the powerful strokes of my Eastern European diva, me?—I was hang-tongued over the simple grace and focus and machine-like beauty of Tina.

I called her Tina. Still do. That chiseled body and strong-featured face. I’m in my forties, and I’ve got a poster of Tina Navratilova hanging on my closet door. My feelings were quite hurt when ex-wife number seven made me take it down. Wait, maybe it was number eight. Or was it six?

Anyway, I was walking around up to Museum Hill at the International Festival with the dogs in tow and a powerful post-lesbian dream hangover.

OK, stop once more. I just realized that in fewer than three pages of print, I’ve struck the hyphenator key fifty-one times. Fifty-two if you count typing the word “fifty-one”, and two more just in the telling you that I’d typed it so many fucking times. That’s not an ADHD thingie, that’s the simple precision of my word-smithing. The ADHD influences lie in the fact that I’ve now written almost a thousand words and said absolutely nothing.

Maybe I should try to focus and try to tie all of this ADHD-addled word swill together somehow. OK, I had a dream about Tina. She was planning to make a sports comeback and I was her manager. Like many sports stars who had past-their-primed in their sports-of-stardom, my Tina wanted to stage a prize fight. Box her way back into the limelight.

“Look, Tina—sweetheart,” I advised in my best sports manager voice, “you know and I know—hell, the entire fucking world knows—that you’ve got bigger balls than Sean Hannity. But what’s the point? You kick that little pussy’s ass and you’ll look like a bully. Why don’t you fight Rush Limbaugh instead?”

Tina grabbed me by my shirt collar, twisted it tight against my neck and said to me, she dream-said, “Look, asshole. I’ve already asked you to stop with the male analogies. I don’t have any balls at all, and neither does Sean Hannity. Say I’m tougher or stronger or smarter than him, but drop your fascination with your fucking balls.”

She had a dream point. “Oh,” she’d added with a finger pointed at my nose, “that includes that ‘How’s it hanging, baby,’ bullshit as well. All that’s hanging now are my tits and it pisses me off.”

I’ve seen an actual recent photo of my Tina, and I don’t think she’s got saggy anythings, but in this one dream we were suddenly standing together on the boxing ring apron as the announcer was making his pre-fight speech. “And in this corrrr-neeeerrrrr, from the world of tennnn-issss, The Fore-Hand Assassin… Martinaaaaaaaa… Nav-roooo… Ti-loooooooooooooooo-vaaaaaaaaa!”

Anyway, as I was saying, I was walking the dogs up to Museum Hill at the Festival, and I was distractedly viewing the booths on the one side of the aisles while reliving the dream kiss Tina had planted full on my lips after she KO’d that pompous little Hannity prick.

“Hey, shithead, pull it together. Ali McGraw sighting at your 11 O’clock.”

It was the Squirt. “Whaaa?” I responded as I tried to drag my head out of the dream. “Ali McGraw what?”

“Over there, dumbass, on the left. That booth with the striped canopy,” the adorable lump of brown fur and strong will told me. “Get your shit together and let’s go get us a date with Ms. Destiny.”

With that, Squirt started dragging both me and the goat dog to the booth where Ali-fucking-McGraw sat. I’ve spent months practicing my opening lines to be spoken to the Goddess, Ali McGraw. For months I’ve stood in front of my mirrors perfecting every word, each facial pose, the tenor of my voice, the tilt of my head. All in preparation for my first face-to-face encounter with Ali McGraw.

I was ready. We approached… Ten yards away—she’s finishing with the sale of a beaded necklace to a lady wearing the chic-cowgirl look of Santa Fe’s wealthy visitors. Five yards—Ali turns away from my approach and reaches for a glass. The previous night’s rain has beaded the glass with moisture that clings to her long, lithe fingers in much the same way I’d cling to any of her parts, given the chance.

One yard and closing. The glass is at her lips, my tongue is out to touch both glass and lips, her eyes close and she sips, and swallows. Half-a-yard and closing still. Here I am, in the place I’ve dreampt of being for ten long months. I’m less than three feet from Ali McGraw. I’m primed and ready to fire off my well-practiced, highly-intelligent lines.

I cock my head sixteen degrees to the right to give her my best side, plant a gigantic smile on my face, take a deep breath… And just as she lowers the glass, I bump the table in front of her—hard—and that bumps her chair, which shakes her arm, which then spills water down her chin and into her lap.

“Oh, fuck a duck!” I muttered, maybe a mutter.

“Ooo,” whispers Ms. McGraw, raising a slender hand to brush water spilled on her chin.

I watch the water removal operation with embarrassment tinged with a surge of electrified loins. “Say something to her, asshole,” Squirt is chiding. “This is your big moment.”

My lips were locked in the same silly smile I plastered a million times in the mirror and the words were in my mind. I stared at the beautiful Ali McGraw for what seemed a minute as she now looked back into my eyes. Speak, Mooner, speak! This is your big chance!!!

“How’s it hanging, baby?”

I bought a pair of very expensive earrings for no one in particular, took the paper receipt from the cool-to-the-touch, lithe fingers of Ali McGraw, and slinked away from the booth, towed by the dogs.

“You…” the Squirt muttered, “are a mess. A total fucking mess.”

Which brings me back to my point. Print a personal slogan on each side of your dense, corrugated plastic sign. My personal favorite sign says, “A Woman’s Right To Choose Is Sacred!” and the reverse says, “I’m An Abortion And I’m OK!”

Take your sign down to the Planed Parenthood parking lot and join the protesting. Stand among them and raise your voice to one notch above theirs. “A woman’s right to choose is SACRED!!!”

“I’m an abortion and I’m OK!”

No matter what they say to you, stick to your script. No discussion, no other responses. Don’t try to reason. They yell at you, “You’re a Godless baby killer,” you yell louder, “A woman’s right to choose is sacred!”

They scream at you, “You’ll burn in Hell, Mooner Johnson! I hope God burns you slowly on low heat!!!” and you yell back, “I’m an abortion and I’m OK!”

OK, if they call you Mooner Johnson, you have a special problem, but you catch my drift.

Maybe I can start something here. Maybe some of you will join me in this cause. I’m tired of these attacks on women and humanity—all of them. Let’s make our voices in opposition even louder than theirs.

Fuck right-wing extremist Christians, and Fuck Walmart too!!!

Manana (or sometime after manana), y’all.


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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. “Bitch.”

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, maybe stoned, and was certainly under the influence of my grandmother’s mushroom tincture. 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 darkend 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 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 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 the need 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.


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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