Archive for the ‘BlogCon2011’ Category

Thinking Of Q; Reflections On A Year Ago

Tuesday, November 13th, 2012

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear President Obama:

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

Sincerely (and I mean it),

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

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

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

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

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

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

One year ago today. Wow.

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

Print Friendly

Hurt Feelings; Let’s Go Fishing

Thursday, April 19th, 2012

 

So. My feelings are hurt. If you have been wondering why I haven’t posted since last Friday, it’s because my feelings got hurt. For the first ever time since I started this silly fucking website, I have plastered a posting that has gone without a single comment. I got all pissy and decided I wouldn’t post anything again until after I got at least one comment on the last posting. I’ve waited six days and still no comment.

For some stupid reason, this has hurt my feelings.

I’ve been really busy as well, but that has never stopped me from writing to you at any time before. And my feelings are incredibly difficult to hurt. If you have ADHD, you live with Gram and my mother, and you screw up as often as I do, having sensitive feelings would lead to serious contemplations of the afterlife. I’m told that long-suffering individuals have delicate sensibilities, and there is nothing delicate or sensible about me.

Since starting MoonerJohnson.com almost two years ago, I have pasted well over 500 entries herein, and every single one of them received at least one comment, until this last one. Some of the comments I didn’t post due to the nastiness contained therein, but all prior postings had comments. I’m trying to determine where these dumb, hurt feelings came from.

I’ve never felt that getting comments was important to me. I’ve never needed an “Atta boy” or even a “Good job, son” to be happy with myself. Pats on the back are wasted on me because I always look for the flattery behind them. Daddy was of the Old School and he taught me to keep a fine ear alerted to flattery. “You need to learn the difference between a square compliment and when someone’s blowing hot air up your skirt, son,” my father would often advise me. “Most times you can’t tell the difference, and most times it’s your hairy ass getting a windy kiss.”

Daddy always gave me good advice, and I have tried to take it. Then again, I did inherit my ADHD from him same as he had from Granddaddy. Sometimes the life lessons he taught me got mangled in the tangled and jumbled confusion between two ADHD-addled male brains.

There was this one time we were driving up to Amarillo to visit family when the muffler gasket broke on the car. The noise was deafening for the hundred miles we were required to drive before finding a mechanic shop to make a repair. When we stopped and were overcharged for the simple repair, Daddy said to me, he said, “I should’a checked that before we left—I knew it was ready to make trouble.” Then he said what I now think was meant to be, “Oh, well, like they always say, a stitch in time saves nine.” You know that old saying about preventative maintenance, right? Who knows whatinthefuck he actually said, because by the time I put the lesson to practice, I managed to destroy its intent.

When we got back home a week or so later and working the cattle, I had a chance to repeat the old saying back at my father. We had a heifer, a longhorn cow, that we were getting ready to breed to a longhorn bull. Back then the big-horned bovine were an oddity and somewhat rare. Having a quality fertile cow was of considerable value, and our cow had quality and was quite fertile. When we found her in the pasture, our old Hereford bull was on her back and deep into the short hairs.

“Goddammit!” Daddy yelled at the top of his voice. “I knew we should have put her in a pen by herself before we left for Amarillo.”

I watched the old bull enjoy himself for a few seconds and thought of Daddy’s advice about the muffler. I told him, I said, “Well you know what they always say, Daddy. A stick in the hiney takes the dime.”

My father looked at me like I’d lost my mind. He said, “You’re a damned strange kid, Mooner,” shook his head in bewilderment, and walked off to leave me with my thoughts.

I miss my father.

Anyway, I’m starting to think that my hurt feelings are coming from two places. First, once I started getting comments I got used to them—even started to read them and enjoy them. Once I got involved with the comments, I made friends with some of the commentators. So, I guess that my feelings are hurt because my friends have abandoned me—tossed me away like a snot-filled tissue.

Then again, maybe they are as busy as I am and are simply too preoccupied to fuck with my nonsense. Either way, I’m taking a break from all these wedding plans to take all the kids fishing. I’ve got the worms dug, a dozen pulled pork sandwiches in the p-nick basket and the Carta Blanca beer on ice. I’m hitching the wagon loaded with the basket and cooler onto Rick Perry. He needs to practice walking with a heavy dress and long train, so I thought having the ostrich pull the wagon down to the dock would work for that. Maybe I’ll let the dogs and the fucking cat ride to add extra ballast to the wagon.

Maybe someone will comment here, on this posting. Maybe somebody gives a shit and will get back to me. Either way, fuck it. I’ll still be back manana, y’all.

Print Friendly

Mel’s Adventures In Chicago; Songs In The Key Of Integrity

Sunday, February 19th, 2012

 

So. Today I’m posting the second story in my Guest Host Series. This one is by Melanie, the food writer who found the buttermilk cake recipe for me. Mel has been down in her back, down with kidney stones and she’s been getting down with some pain pills. Under normal circumstances I think it unlikely that she would write something for me to print. But I have always found that a stoned woman can be persuaded to step out of her comfort zone and into the madness. Here is Melanie’s story titled:

 

Adventures in Chicago

 

When Mooner put the call out for guest posts, I thought it would be really cool to do something. His requirement? “Write about something other than food, Mel.” Well, OK. I had to think about it. I mean, I have some stories to tell, but which one. And which one would there be no way possible I could parlay into a recipe somehow. Then it hit me.

I have long had a theory that the fall of our modern “civilization” started with the advent of the talk show. It started with Phil Donahue. The topics discussed were shocking at the time, but pretty tame now if you think about it. After Morton Downey , Jr. and Jerry Springer got in the game, it would never be the same again. There were many that came after. They all served the same purpose – to sensationalize things that are better left behind closed doors. Essentially, everything was out there and fair game. At first we were shocked, but then after a while it was just another slut or baby daddy story involving several members a trailer park from somewhere in America who were all sleeping with one another, who had to be swearing because all we heard were bleeps, and they really liked to beat the shit out of one another.

I was but a young, innocent soul in high school when all this was going on in the late 80’s and early 90’s. I still can’t decide if the talk shows or the series of events I am about to share with you were what lead to my unraveling and eventual cynical view of the world. Everything I knew changed after this long weekend trip to Chi-Town, and my life hasn’t been the same since.

 

That’s my school..back in the day…

I was in choir when I was in high school. It was kind of a big deal at my school – we weren’t pelted with missiles during performances and there was a huge cross section of the student body in the choirs (plural…there were so many in the program that multiple choirs were necessary). We had awesome concerts – several a year. I myself had my share of duets and solos. It was a great time and I actually learned a great deal. My junior year of high school we actually sang in Carnegie Hall over Thanksgiving weekend. Yep. That big. The choir that went to New York that year and then to Chicago the following year was the A Capella Choir. Not everyone got in – you had to prove yourself to the director of the program. The A Capella Choir was primarily juniors and seniors with the occasional sophomore – but they were only boys. There was an over abundance of girls in choir, so there was no way any of us were breaking in earlier…also, we really had to be good. If not, we were destined to spend an eternity in Girls Choir ringing bells and wearing shitty robes that were worn out. I felt pretty good about myself for making it there.

 

This is the choir…sorry folks, but I was absent that day. You won’t find me in the picture!

Ok, ok…I feel like Mooner, getting off on a tangent somewhere in southeast Michigan. So, senior year we went to Chicago to have a session with some big time choir director at Northwestern University. I could not tell you his name now, but he was a very nice man. We spent a couple of hours with him and the rest of the time, with the exception of the required dinners and shows we saw at night, we were pretty much left to our own devices. There were 65 high school juniors and seniors. There were 4 adult chaperones – the choir director, her daughter and two moms. If there were more adults there I do not remember them. Why? Well, what in the hell do you think we were all doing with that free time and a floor full of hotel rooms to ourselves? We got shitfaced! I think maybe 11 people didn’t drink. Maybe. I sure as hell did. I was with my friends and we were pretty tame in comparison to the other shenanigans going on all around. It was a roaming party. There were certain rooms were a few people would hang, and others would stop by to see what they had to drink. We were the beer/Southern Comfort room. I don’t know why. That is just what we got out hands on. The big party room, I never actually made it to…it was on the other side of the floor, and I could never remember the room number, and it was all the way on the other side of the floor (see, some things never change…if its too far away, I probably don’t need it. And in this case, I was soooooo right!!). Party room got its booze from a kid we will call Willy. His brother lived in Chicago and did his little brother a solid and spend a couple hundred bucks on whatever they wanted. They got enough to fill a big old aluminum garbage can with a jungle juice concoction. It lasted them most of the weekend. Willy, like the rest of us, had three other students staying in his room. So, there were those four guys, plus three girls, some of whom where dating boys from that room. They were the fixtures. One of the wanderers (who came to the room I was a fixture in) was a girl we shall call Cherie. She had kind of a “reputation” if you know what I mean. I didn’t know if it was true, but after that weekend I had an idea.

So, Miss Cherie, the wanderer, was trying her bestest to whore it up while away from home – the family was a bunch of Bible thumpers. I am pretty sure she spent no time sober the entire time we were gone. She was drinking and smoking and hitting on everything with a dick. Since she was known for being kinda skanky, everyone was saying no. She finally stumbled her way to the Party Room, and started grinding on Willy (whatever, total hearsay…I know…but, since the details from everyone I heard it there were the same I kinda gotta believe them), and he was one raging hormone ready to go. He, from what I understand, did refuse her at first as he was busy playing poker (the card game…he wasn’t poking any other her…) and she started crawling on the floor (which she did when she stopped by the room I was hanging in) moaning, “Somebody fuck me!” Well, Willy’s willy heard this and he did. She was on the floor on the far side of the room under the window and he was bouncing all over her, doing as she asked. From what I understand, the other guys were cheering him on, because oh yeah, there were 7 or 8 other people in the room (important later). News of these developments spread through the entire hotel within about five seconds. I hear some old booze hound was looking for her after Willy finished.

 

Well, booze hound was in for a disappointment. Cherie, was escorted back to her room and proceeded to pass right out. And I take back what I said about her being drunk the whole time. She must have had a wicked hangover Sunday morning as we boarded the bus to come home. Her hangover was made worse as she claimed to “not remember anything” about the night before. Convenient. No worries. Leave it to some teenagers to help her “remember”. The whole six hour ride home, Cherie was asked over and over again, “Who’s in me?” By Monday morning the rest of the school knew. By Tuesday morning she couldn’t take it anymore. She went to one of the guidance counselors and relayed what had been going on, but that she didn’t remember anything happening like what everyone was saying. Sorry, but it wasn’t Vegas, baby. What happens in Chicago, doesn’t stay in Chicago. It follows you back to high school.

The counselor did not keep things confidential. She went to the principal. At that time a list of all the students on the trip were made. The list of kids they didn’t think did anything were called to see “Mr. Right” and the kids they thought were wasted the whole time, “Mr. Wrong”. We had a concert that Friday night and of the 65 of us, there were 23 performing. Willy was not among them. He was expelled. Cherie too was absent. She never came back to school (Willy was quite popular and she was getting threats or something like that.) and she was allowed the “graduate” in January. Bitch. I made it to the performance. Monday morning while sitting in AP English, my teacher (who HATED the choir director) looked at me with a smug grin and said, “Mel, you’re up.” I was called to speak with Mr. Right. Now since I had already told my parents what happened, and the one week suspension wasn’t counting against anyone, I wasn’t going to lie to him. I took my suspension like a champ. Side note, my AP English teacher seemed to have a new found respect for me upon my return to school. In total, all but about 20 kids were suspended. Remember I said only 11 weren’t drinking. Yep, there were some liars. We made the fucking paper. It was a long article too. I was surprised they didn’t publish the names of all of us that were suspended.

So, like I said, many things changed right then. My father, who is the biggest alcoholic I have ever met, decided to be a total hypocrite and ground me. This, after years of hearing stories of all the trouble he got into when my age, made me sick. My mom was proud of me for telling the truth. I am sure she was kind of pissed too, but at least I didn’t lie about it. My choir director and many other teachers also appreciated the honesty on the parts of the students that were suspended but had never been in trouble before (like me…and there were several of us). And then there were the members of the choir who were very judgmental. Many relationships were never the same.

So did that cloud my view on the world after? Perhaps. Within a few months my parents separated and we moved away from my father. That is one relationship not even worth saving. But that is another story for another day. I finished high school and here I am today. I guess I have just been walking down memory lane recently because my twenty year reunion is coming up. Not sure if I’ll make it or not. I will just have to see where life has me at that point.

Hope you got a laugh or two out of this! [Finis]

 

Thanks, Mel. I love stories about doing the right thing. It’s a pretty day here, so I’m taking the animals out to the fishing dock for some cold beer and left-over BBQ from last night.

Manana, y’all.

Print Friendly

Quincy Is First Guest Host; Thank-Q For Common Sense Is Here

Thursday, February 16th, 2012

 

So. Quincy, of Thank, Q For Common Sense, is a proud and thoughtful man. Quincy is a model for the man you want your daughter to marry. Q is a man I’m proud to call friend, and a friend to whom I look for sound judgments. I have been bugging the ever-loving-shit out of him to be a guest host here, and he has finally relented.

I know he held his nose when he hit the “Send” button on his email server to deliver the contents for this guest post. When his wife asked him, “Honey, are you sure your reputation can handle the association with Mooner Johnson?” and then said resignedly, “OK, Quincy, it’s your reputation,” I’m certain that Quincy’s mind was on a higher plane; I know that he hopes to inject some rational thought into the cesspool that is this bloggie.

But me, I don’t really give a shit how Quincy justified sinking to my level, I’m just glad he did. So it is now my great pleasure to provide you with something you never get here—Common Sense. Please welcome Quincy and his post titled:

 

Stop Choosing Emotions Over Common Sense

“First of all, I’m honored to grace the pages of MoonerJohnson.com. This blog is simply pure entertainment. It’s “Blazing Saddles” meets “Seinfeld” with the hilarity and creativity of the writing. I some times wonder what even makes a man think some of the things that are printed here, but then I come to the only conclusion: it’s just the mind of Mooner. Well, I want to thank [him] for the opportunity to be immortalized within the walls of his humble, cyber abode.

When I first started my blog, it was called “Thank, Q for Common Sense” for a reason. I felt the desire to inject some “common sense” into the blogging world. Although people are welcomed to blog about whatever they would like, I thought there were too many blogs that lacked perspective. So many blogs seemed as if they were based on what the writer felt from the heart instead of from the brain.

I didn’t want to do that. I wanted my blog to be strictly based on logic and perspective because that’s how I try to live my life. Because of that, it gets frustrating to come across people who don’t have the same concept. I wish people would stop choosing emotions over common sense. Just because you like something or someone doesn’t mean that you should defend that idea/person at all costs.

I remember when the Chris Brown / Rihanna incident happened how so many people on Twitter were coming to his defense. “Well, we don’t know what Rihanna said to him that pissed him off.”

“Everyone deserves a second chance.”

“Leave Chris Brown alone.”

Really? So, simply because you like the guy (or you’re a fan), he isn’t guilty of anything? R. Kelly. Charlie Sheen. Lindsay Lohan. I can go on-and-on. These people have been accused of some heinous acts yet they’re even more popular than ever. Why? Because you like their music or they make you laugh in a sitcom or movie. Ummmm, okay.

Well, I think that’s what’s wrong with this country. We use our emotions to make decisons (which wind up being irrational). Everything offends us because we’re too emotional. It doesn’t matter if it’s a true statement or not because common sense isn’t factored into the equation. If it hurts our feelings, then we lash out. We’ll even lash out over something that has nothing to do with us. Twitter blew up a couple of days ago from people defending Whitney Houston’s substance abuse problem after her death. People who didn’t even know her were pissed off at just the mere thought that someone who was in rehab as recently as last year was speculated to have overdosed… because they like her music. I even had someone on Facebook get mad at me for not Liking her “We Love Whitney” fan page. I told her respectfully that I didn’t want to join the page which resulted in her Unliking my fan page.

Wow. Because I don’t feel the same way you do about a person, I’m of no use to you any more, huh? So be it.

People, I’m tired. I’m tired of being the person who tries to put myself in other people’s shoes to understand their point. I’m tired of stating a fact only to have it offend someone because it applies to them or someone they know. I’m tired of being the voice of reason in an unpopular situation.

Psych! No, I’m not. LOL! That stuff doesn’t affect me at all. In fact, that’s actually what drives my blog. The more ignorance I encounter, the more posts I type. I shall continue with my message because some things just need to be said. I will “blog ’til I fall” and hope that I can just get one person to stop and think. You don’t have to agree with me, but at least consider things from someone else’s perspective.

This country used to be mentally tough. What happened?”

 

This is Mooner again. See what I mean—isn’t that the logic you want your daughter to wake up to every morning? Don’t we all have one of those emotional dealies he spoke of in our life?

Thank you, Quincy, for being my first ever guest hoster—Thank-Q, Thank-Q, Thank-Q. Me, I’m grabbing an icy-cold Carta Blanca beer and joining Streaker Jones on the patio to smoke a dube. I think I need to reflect on why I still dream of a three-way with Marilyn Monroe and Anna Nicole Smith.

Manana, y’all.

 

 

Print Friendly

Fuck Armageddon; Rick Perry Too

Tuesday, November 22nd, 2011

 

So. I feel like I’ve been whining and bitching too much, so I might stop. Nobody wants to hear any more of my silly complaints anyway. Like Gram said at breakfast this morning when she said, “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner? Yer problems ain’t mine and ya need ta redo my eggies onna count as ya cooked all tha life out the yellers.”

As do I, my prickly old grandmother likes her eggs just barely over-easy. Turn the sunny yolks pasty and they’re garbage to me. Actually they make pig fodder as Rush Limbaugh likes eggs cooked any whichaway. Which reminds me of the breakfast that BJ cooked for me the morning I left Tennessee to head back home from BlogCon2011.

Sausage, bacon and ham—all three of the porcine varieties—biscuits, and three perfectly-cooked eggies. I remember using my fork to scrape the last of the yolks that had almost dried on my plate. The leftovers were made into pork-stuffed sammies enjoyed by me all the way back to Texas. I spent but a short time with Bill but it was time enough to make a very close friend.

I gave Gram’s over-cooked eggs to my pet pig and went to the friggie to get several more. I dropped the container to the floor and broke them all. “Oh fuck a duck,” was the best I could get out, not a complaint mind you, but an simple explanation of the circumstance.

“You ain’t got no time fer romance, Mooner. Git yer ass to tha neighbor’s an fetch me some more eggies. An get tha turkey from him while yer at it.” We get our eggs from the man next door, and Gram gets a touch cranky without her daily dose. We also buy all of our cooking birds from the same family and he raised a special turkey for us. Great big fucker and mean as my Grandmother. And as stupid as Rick Perry. The Texas governor and not my pet ostrich.

Maybe I should hire a cook to take a few of the pressures off of my back. Cooking for this bunch of family Johnsons and attendant visitors can be taxing.

Maybe I should drown my grandmother and eliminate most of the pressures.

I’m having a book launch party on January the 12th and I’m looking to sponsor a charitable organization while at it. You know, charge a little extra for books sold there and give the profits to the charity. I’m having lunch with the charity of my choice today so they can determine if I’m appropriate for their mission.

Riiiiight.

Maybe I’ll meet some nice people and the lunch won’t be a total waste of efforts. Until there’s a charity based upon the need of ADHD sufferers the inappropriate actions of a their quite befuddled and crazed members, whatinthefuck organization is going to find me appropriate?

But today—I simply don’t give a rotten Republican’ rat’s smelly ass. Fuck problems and fuck all the fuckers that cause them. I’m thinking that the right-wing Christian wackos have finally managed to bring about their sacred fucking Armageddon and I simply refuse to spend the last days in a bad mood.

The fucking Christians have fucked the political scene into such a mess that I think the end of days is nigh upon us. I hope that I’m wrong and their “my way or the highway” method of government is a temporary aberration, and sanity and human kindness and sensibility will soon return to America’s governments.

But just in case, I’m enjoying what time is left. I’m smiling and drinking Carta Blanca beer, eating whateverthefuck I want, and getting myself all the sex I can stand.

So… fuck Armageddon, and the horse he rides in on. Manana, y’all. Oh, yea. And please buy my book. It will help me stay in a good mood.

Print Friendly

ATwit&Twat Vs T-Fucking-Mobile; The Loser’s Bracket

Monday, November 21st, 2011

 

So. I’ve been home from BlogCon2011 for your basic week and I haven’t gotten a single fucking thing fully completed. This would include—but not be limited to—writing all the stories about my trip, preparing for the holidays, down-winding from the trip, getting some serious sexing, training the animals to behave themselves to my level of desired correctness, and catching up on my psycho therapy sessions.

I’m certain that a sane man would be able to tell you which of the aforementioned unfinished tasks would provide the most frustrations but I can’t even focus enough to determine which bothers me most. OK, having said that, a sane man would neither have that many pieces of unfinished business nor would he allow several of those items to even approach the category titleed “unfinished”[.]

Add to that the fact that my main webber page is out of date, I still don’t have a Bloggie Roller linkster to my book, and I’ve spent so much time with my Ivory soap that last night—in the throws of self-inflicted passions—I proposed to the freshly unwrapped bar of 99-and-44-one-hundredths-percent pure love clenched in my left hand. To provide you some clarity, my pecker was clenched in my right hand at that particular moment of passion. OK, in actuality I had neither Ivory soap bar nor pecker clenched, as I self-love with the same tender endearment as I would a woman.

Today, I need to do all of my T-giving food shopping and get home before one pm because the Amazon guys are calling me to discuss the trailer advertisement for my book. The first thing we’ll be discussing is why they call it a trailer as this doesn’t follow anything. Nobody who sees the trailer will have already read the book and at thirty-seconds of length, whatinthefuck can they say that will get a person’s interest anyway.

It’s like when I was up to Murfreesboro, Tennessee with BJ last week watching football on TV. Bill’s got this nifty dealie on his cable system called NFL Red Zone. At least I think it’s called NFL Red Zone. They flip between games to show every score and scoring opportunity when a team gets to the opposition’s twenty yard-line. Should that have been twenty-yard line, or maybe twenty-yard-line?

Not only did they switch between games, and quickly at that, they would often have multiple games on screen in separate boxes. BJ told me it took awhile to be able to grasp the visuals without confusion. I found myself right to home immediately. From now on, when someone asks me to describe a little bit about how my ADHD-addled brain works, I’ll tell them to turn on the NFL Red Zone, increase the volume to 85% and then invite the family to all speak to you at the same time.

I found NFL Red Zone to be relaxing.

There was a commercial break on TV, and BJ was telling me that commercials can be problematic for him. He thinks about the first commercial and it’s message after the second commercial starts, and people are always interrupting his thoughts when they comment on the second commercial before that one is even finished. I can’t even imagine how a person can focus their attentions through an entire thirty-second advertisement for T-fucking-Mobile, much less how that concentration can remain locked when the next ad is for Hooters.

But as I’ve said before, BJ is one of those rare people who possess extraordinary focus and intelligence. And I hate T-fucking-Mobile. That’s my current cell phone carrier, a contract Gnat negotiated when I got pissed at ATwit&Twat, our last asswipe phone operating system. ATwit&Twat had all of these hidden charges that pissed me off, and T-fucking-Mobile is even worse. I don’t do texting, and I won’t do texting. Fuck texting and texters alike.

Leave me a fucking voice message asshole, or leave me the fuck alone. I am not impressed that you send me a message when you should be doing something else. I don’t give a shit if you’re in a meeting and you need to pee or if you’re driving down the interstate and traffic is terrible. Anything you want to say to me by text is something I don’t want to know.

I… don’t… give… a… rat’s.. fucking… ass!

But guess what. Even though I have no capability to send texts on my T-fucking-Mobile phone plan, people can still send me texts. And when I get the message notice on my phone and accidentally open a text, those mother fuckers at T-fucking-Mobile charge me fifty-cents!

Asshole right-wing Republican rat fucker shitwad T-fucking-Mobile.

That is one of the reasons I cuss so much. Take those last six paragraphs and remove any words you think are cuss words. Then replace the fucks and shits with your own words and see what you have. Convince me that you can replace my cusses and express my intentions with precision.

If I ever get the book ad trailer finished I’ll try to post it here. Meantime, go the the linkster for the book and look at the sales stuff sans trailer. Click to:

http://www.amazon.com/Full-Rising-Mooner-Inappropriate-World/dp/1456339869/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1319551191&sr=1-1

Ugh. I need to find a better marketing tool than simply giving you a linkster and then begging you to buy the fucking book.

Which reminds me. Would somebody go over there to Amazon and do a review for me. I don’t care if you’ve read it and I don’t care if you say anything bad or good about it. It just hurts my feelings that nobody has said anything and that temps me to start writing my own reviews.

“I found Full Rising Mooner to be the biggest waste of money and time since they sold tickets on the Titanic,” or, “Full Rising Mooner is the best read of the fucking year,” would make two great reviews. Actually the only thing funnier than nobody reviewing the book would be if nobody bought it.

I’m cracking a Carta Blanca beer before I go shopping. Manana, y’all.

     
Print Friendly

Thank-Q, Quincy; I Got Your Yang Right Here

Saturday, November 19th, 2011

 

So. When last we left off, I had blown a big chip stack with the second nut flush because I sometimes make seriously stupid decisions, and I was headed to Jackson, Mississippi to meet Quincy, the Thank Q who sits perched over there =} on my Bloggie Roller. And first, maybe I should have said, “When we last left off,” and also I wonder why I cannot spell the word Mississippi without singing the song.

As a child sufferer of the dreaded ADHD, and a quite significant case at that, howinthefuck did I manage to so completely learn that silly song? It took me until the fourth grade to be able to say the alphabet all the way through without a digression—with the Alphabet Song or without—so why did the Mississippi Song resonate with my addled brain? I need to call Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson to see if maybe I’ve discovered something significant, an ADHD breakthrough if you will.

Maybe it’s the repetitive letter dealie matched with the catchy tune that assisted my overworked mental capacities in absorbing and retaining the information. Maybe it might also have been the simple fact that it was funny to me. Funny shit always manages to hold my attentions far better than anything not funny.

Which brings up two points. The first is that when I was at Murfreesboro with the guys up there, they would keep me on track by reminding me of where I was before the fritz hit. Every time I would wander off the mental tracks, and each time I got that vacant-eyed stare on my face, they’d remind me of where the tracks got jumped. I’m thinking that I could hire a special assistant, one who has acute abilities of concentration, and pay them to keep me on track.

Maybe a young Oriental woman with shiny-black bowl-cut bangs and onyx eyes, like the Reckmonster. I’d have her wear Michigan tee shirts and make her learn their fight song. We’d go everywhere together.

The second point is now lost on me, which reminds me that I was telling you about meeting Quincy. I pulled into Jackson around 3 pm and checked into the hotel next to The Bulldog Pub, my meeting place with the Q-man. I had left the casino early, and without a shower, so I took a shower before walking next door to meet Quincy. On the sink counter top were the typical mini containers of shampoo and conditioner and shit, one of which said, “Quince” in big, and quite bold letters.

“Fate,” I said aloud to myself. “This is a good start to my visit.”

OK, and now I remember what the second thing was. I have been re-reminded that I cuss a lot and possibly way too fucking much. “Your cursing will drive people away from your writings, Mooner,” was Mother’s words at breakfast this morning.

Then she said, “But maybe that’s a good thing.”

My sainted and heavily-martyred mother needs a child who heaps shit onto her heavy-hearted soul. Mooner Johnson, shit heaper for the stars, to the rescue. Shit Heaper is my middle name and Martyr Management is my game.

And I just had a glimmer of genius thought because Quincy and I are complete opposites when it comes to cussing. Curse words are part and parcel to my speech and thought patterns—adjectives, verbs, adverbs, nouns and pronouns and every such grammatical invective—is used by me commonly and constantly. For me, if a cuss word says it best then fucking say it. Always.

Not the same with Q. Quincy is, as I said before, the most wholesome man I know. And not that sanctimoniously silly and fake wholesomeness exhibited by right-wing Christian fuckwads. This man’s wholesome comes from his upbringing and his conscious choices. He’s likely the perfect yin to my yang.

OK, stop the presses. Yin is a light, feminine word by definition and yang is dark and masculine. While I’m not a white white man, I’m certainly masculine. Quincy is a black man and a manly black man at that. He’s wholesome but not sissified, and he’s not fussy in the least.

Oh Christ on crutches, I’ve digressed the shit out of all of us and wasted what little time I had to write this silly shit. SAC Ellen and I are headed to a house warming party for two of our friends, Amy and Valerie. They are two of my favorite people and I haven’t known them for very long. I’ve got to dress and grab a bottle of red wine to take with us, so I need to check out.

So, please buy my stupid book—now available as a paperback and on Kindle as well. Manana, y’all.

Print Friendly

Feeble Attempt At Thanks; Practice For The Holiday

Wednesday, November 16th, 2011

 

So. I’m a full day in recovery and I’ve managed to only take backward steps. My favorite puppy still harbors resentment that I played the coffee can game with BJ’s dog Ruger; the fucking cat shredded my favorite ash gray knitted shirt; my Mother keeps saying; “I raised you better than that,” and “What will I tell my friends at church?”; I get a stiffie whenever I hear the words pork, pig, hog, sausage, ribs, pulled, bun, vinegar or sauce; my Gram is still “dating” the same college kid as when I left; and I’ve got a stack of paperwork to do out to Mooner’s Compost Plant.

All I want to do is write about everything that happened on my trip to BlogCon2011, but all I seem to be able to do is mend fences and make amends. Stories of my life.

But here’s the deal. I had as good a time as ever I have on this trip. Wait. Maybe I should have said “…as I have ever had…”[?]

Howeverthefuck I might should have said it, I had a remarkably good time. I need to leave to go take care of some business soon, but I insist on telling you a few things:

  1. Quincy was the first of my blogger buddies I met and I have this to say about the Q-man. He might be the most wholesome, well-balance man I have ever met. He has peaceful eyes, a bright smile and the calmness possessed only by men who are certain they know who they are. Thanks, again, for buying dinner at the Bulldog, Q, and thanks for trusting that I was mostly harmless.
  2. Next I met BJ, from Dumb Perignon. He met me at the McDonalds near his home in Murfreesboro and likely just before my arrest. I had gone inside to pee and wash the ride off my face, and when I finished I went outside. And stood beside the kiddie play area to watch the children throw French fries at each other. BJ drove up just as I noticed the manager standing at the window punching three numbers into his cell phone. As for BJ himself, I reserve conversation for a later date other than to say that we became fast friends before we got to the first BBQ joint we visited on the way to his house.
  3. Then Bob from Squatlo—he came over to BJ’s to eat BBQ and drink beer with us. Bob is as nice and smart as you would think from reading his stuff. He talks more than Gram’s best buddy the P-cubed, but just like Penelope Paxton-Parades, he’s got interesting shit to say. His sweet and oh-so-dangerous wife, Cindy, has learned to raise her hand like a school girl about once an hour so that she can hear the sound of her own voice. His pork BBQ made in the spicy vinegar method was KILLER, and I ate three full sandwiches and two halvsies on Friday night at the big wing-ding. Bob is one of the good ones.
  4. I met Michelle, the Reckmonster and my future twelfth wife, on Friday night. My heart is still up-ticking and my sides ache still from laughing at her stories. This woman can move through dialects in mid-word, and she can rip a story like a seasoned comedian. The big heart you see from reading her bloggie is bigger in person. I’m proud to say that I didn’t get slapped a single time for any untoward actions.

 

Never before have I taken a cross-country trip to spend time with people I have never met, and never have I had such a great time. Seriously. I did have several “Ah-ha” moments, each as I was peeing in the sink. The first was over to Bob’s when we were watching our two UT football teams getting the snot kicked out of them.

Each time I walked into his bathroom I had to move this giant bottle of mouthwash on the floor to close the door. We were drinking icy-cold Carta Blanca beer, or at least I was, and in copious quantities at that. I was in the bathroom for maybe the tenth time when it hit me like a sack of curing salt. I laughed my ass off at myself and almost peed on Bob’s mirror when it dawned on me that the mouthwash was a door stopper, and that Cindy was following behind me to put it back in place each time I returned to my seat.

But I must go now as my first stop of the day is for a psycho therapy appointment—the first in over a week. I hope I can remember how to do therapy. Manana, y’all.

Oh, yea. Go to:

http://www.amazon.com/Full-Rising-Mooner-Inappropriate-World/dp/1456339869/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1319551191&sr=1-1

and buy my fucking book. Thanks.

Print Friendly

BlogCon2011 Big Success; Must Recover

Tuesday, November 15th, 2011

 

So. I arrived back to the ranch last night after driving straight through from Murfreesboro, Tennessee. I want to tell you all about the entire trip but I’ve got too much jet lag, and too many chores. Everyone was waiting up for me and met me at the back door as I arrived. Everybody except Mother and the Squirt raced to hug me as I got out of the car, and pinned me to the door frame.

By the time I got myself unhinged and standing in my full upright and locked position, I had dog slobber and ostrich tears staining me from head to toe, Rush Limbaugh the pig had his snout rammed up my ass like he was looking for truffles, and my Gram had locked her bony hand around my wrist and was tugging me down to whisper in my ear. Honor the the cat took one whiff of me and started hissing and spitting.

Gram chased the others away and told me, “You done screwed tha poochie, Mooner. Mother’s got her deli-cat feelers all hurt ta beat tha fuckin’ band, that Don Legacy feller’s done escaped out the basement, and yer little dog’s all pissed about something I got no thoughts about. Tread sharply.”

Huh? “Oh, you mean tread lightly, Gram.”

“Who gives a shit, Mooner. You jist watch yersef cause Mother’s got a shoe in ‘er hand.”

My mother often whacked my ass with an old rubber-soled sandal when I was a kid. You have all seen the cheap shoes from old Mexico. A good whacking will leave little crenelated tread marks on your ass. If memory serves me, sandals made from the old Firestone Passenger tires left the most painful marks.

I crossed the gravel to where Mother stood with Squirt. I kissed Mother on the cheek and reached down to pat my little dog’s head. Mother’s back had stiffened as I approached and the fucking dog snarled and snapped at my hand.

“What in the hell is wrong with the two of you?” I asked.

Mother’s answer was to spin on her heal and head inside. Squirt said, “Ek ruik ‘n hond reuk, shithead. Huelo a perfume de la fucking dog.”

“Oh, you smell another dog. I didn’t adopt anyone else, sweetie pie, that’s just BJ’s dog Ruger.”

My sweet puppy looked me up and down several times and then huffed. “You’re still an asshole.”

It’s good to be missed.

OK, look. In the coming days I will tell you all about my remarkable trip. BJ and Squatty and Reckmonster and Q were the best ever hosts and the wives were most tolerant. We had some huge times and made great memories that I want to share with you.

But that rotten fucker Don Legacy has escaped. For the life of me I don’t understand how imaginary people can “escape”[,] but he’s been missing for a week and I think we best corral him before something terrible happens.

I’d drink a Carta Blanca beer but I need to detoxify first. And I’ll need an auger to take a bowel movement. All I ate while gone was pork and pork side orders. Maybe that explains why Rush Limbaugh won’t leave me alone. Pork is his favorite.

Manana, y’all.

Print Friendly