Archive for the ‘Camel Toe’ Category

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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Do The Clothes Make The Dog? Camel Toe En Francais

Sunday, December 7th, 2014

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She was the French wife, right?”

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

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

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

“I wanna see!” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck Walmart!

 

 

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Strike Three, Take Second Base- A Life Story In Four Parts

Sunday, February 23rd, 2014

 

So. It’s another glorious day here to Enchantedland and I’m headed to a funeral. A friend’s husband has died after a protracted illness, and the services are to be held at the big Baptist church over to Old Pecos Trail. I have sworn to stay out of churches save, and except, for funerals and weddings, so I will not be in violation of my promise to myself when I enter the doors of the church.

I have long known that the friend and her husband were quite large charismatic Christians—not Baptists by the way—and I have understood that their Christianity was the linchpin that held their lives together, and bytheway once more, why don’t we spell linchpin “lynchpin”? In spite of their beliefs, I like these two people. I’ve long understood their positions on abortion and gay rights and the rest of the bigoted modern Christian dogmas, but they don’t try to push their shit my way. They always have allowed me to have my beliefs without the confrontational judgments so many Born Agains practice.

Knowing the depth of their beliefs, I’m guessing that they pray for my heathen soul. Often.

Whatever happened to “Judge not lest ye be judged”? Why aren’t more Christians acting like this couple’s model? I think it’s because their religions have been hijacked by charlatans and politicians. And why do I seem surprised, a rhetorical question if ever was one.

Assholes throughout the continuum of human history have stolen the mantle of righteous causes and used the believers as cannon fodder for their societal invasions. Using Biblical drama, ever since Cain killed Abel—setting the precedent for assholes through the millennia—a never ending chain of power steals has marred the human conditions, and destroyed civilizations.

OK, stop. Maybe using Cain and Abel was a touch dramatic and not at all to my point. Maybe I’ll reuse Cain’s striking down of his bro when I write about the Stand Your Ground Laws.

Anyway, today it seems that the false religious assholes are stealing actual believers and turning them into zealots at a rate that rivals a vicious computer virus. Here in America, right-wing Christian zealots are stealing state governments and legislating away some human rights that I, at least I, thought to be stone pillars of our semi-democracy.

Which reminds me. I just had new, modern windows installed all around La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. The original windows installed over the seventy years it took to build this place into its current format, were, I’m told, purchased from the demolition deaths of other, older structures or, more than occasionally stolen from construction sites around the state. The net results of that materials acquisition plan was a drafty and daffy old stucco living space which, as one designer describes it, “This place is as schizophrenic as my grandmother.”

I was required to install new windows of size and heights to meet modern building code, and that has opened several rooms to additional light and views. As I sit writing you, my office view has expanded from a corner of the roof, a small section of the big Ponderosa pine tree, telephone pole, mountaintops and patch of sky, to all of that plus a panoramic vista of the tidy and interesting back yard. I can now swivel my chair to the right and gain purchase of the entirety of my veggie garden—I can now watch the dogs to insure they stay the fuck out.

And that reminds me of just how delicate life becomes as the light at the end of our tunnels grows broader, brighter. I’m at that age where my friends and acquaintances are dying at a remarkable rate. I’ve once again become my parents twenty years ago. This marks the third time I’ve encountered a twenty-years parental catch-up. The first was when I finally felt I was an adult and deserved to be treated as one. The second was when my kids were adults and I felt it was OK for you to call me “Sir”.

Each of those first two catchings-up were good things to me—events of human growth to be desired. I especially remember the pride, and joy, at realizing that I actually was the man my daddy wanted me to be. I likewise remember same when watching my own spawn demonstrating the maturities of their adultdom.

But this time it’s quite different. I don’t know why as this next-to-final catch-up is the most expected of all so far. As a child, it wasn’t thought by any adult that I was destined to ever reach adult maturities, in fact it was anticipated by many that I would not. It was thought that I would either never reach the age of maturity or that I would piss somebody off enough to put the end of days on me.

For reaching those milestones I was proud and joyous. And having my own children mature was likewise surprising to not a few.

“Mooner Johnson should not be allowed to father children. His species needs to end here.” So said was the edict of Mrs. Leticia Browningwell. That old battle ax was my teacher and Baptist preacher’s wife rolled into one gigantic pain in the ass. But I’ve fooled them all. I’ve managed to pass through the first three of life’s stages and I’m still nuts.

OK, let’s stop and regroup. I see life’s stages simply, like a baseball game wherein there are four bases to touch: first base is reached when attaining adult maturity; second base is seeing your own kids mature; third base is when people close to you are dying; and fourth base is when your own body has begun its final decay. If we’re lucky in life, four each, twenty-year base paths.

And that re-reminds me that first I discover that I’m the old man who stinky farts and now this. Next thing I’ll find my scrotum dragging against my knees and my pecker playing sleepy turtle.

Ugh, but I’m a maudlin sumbitch this morning. Fuck Walmart!

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A Horse Trade Story- Take A Pair Of Camel Toes For Your Dogs?

Sunday, February 17th, 2013

 

So. Let me begin today’s Sunday morning services with a disclaimer. What you are about to read is not a complaint, neither is it a case of a shithead writer whining about his life. My life is a good one in spite of its many travails, and I’m your basic happy clam when viewing my life from a global perspective.

Which reminds me. Travails—according to the dictionary—are excessively difficult trips or work efforts, or, childbirth experiences. Me, I think it’s unfair that I can compare my life’s tough times to that of when a woman births a baby. I’ve bore witness to three childbirths, and I will tell you that nothing in my life would compare to that.

OK, except for maybe getting raped by my Boy Scout Leader as a kid. Or maybe that one time when I fell into a prickly pear cactus. Or there was the time I went skinny dipping and sat on a hidden fire ant mound.

Or, sweet Jesus, that time my mother zipped-up my preschool pecker into the rusty steel jaws of the zipper in an old pair of Daddy’s work-worn overalls. Terrible stories one and all, but true. And available for reading should you lose your mind and choose to click over there =====>>> to my bloggie roller and buy my stupid fucking book, Full Rising Mooner.

Isn’t it interesting as to how perspectives effect a person’s viewing of any event? OK, and let’s take another anecdotal break to evaluate whether perspectives can also affect a person’s viewing of an event. Since entering psycho therapy sessions routinely some thirty-some years ago, I have been keenly aware that effects and affects are somewhat dichotomous nouns that are almost joined-at-the-hip. I’m way too fucking busy with my life to present the treatise I’ve entitled “Stop Effecting My Affects- Can’t You See I’m Crazy?”.

And don’t even start to correct me by saying to me, “Mooner, dumbass, you don’t ‘entitle’ a scholarly paper, you ‘title’ it.”

Fuck you. I carefully choose my words even when I’m forced to invent them, and that reminds me of the dream I had night-before-last, and that reminds me to say, “Fuck you,” to those grammar snarks writing to bitch about my use of hyphens. Eat-shit-and-die.

I loved saying that when I was a kid. Get into an argument and run out of pithy or cogent output? Just say, “Eat shit and die!”

Anyway, Friday night I took the dogs with me for dinner. It was still in the forties with no wind, and the Squirt had been craving tater tots from the Sonic. We piled unto the GTO for the three-block drive to our neighborhood Sonic, and piddled our way to our parking spot located in front of the door where the roller skating wait staff exit with the food.

We drive and eat in the car instead of walk and sit at the picnic tables because the goat dog will eat anything off the ground that is food, resembles food, or has been within 100-feet of actual food. We park where we can see each tray of food delivered so that Yoda can at least eyeball all the foodstuffs he’s missing.

“Order six totties and tell them extra crunchy, shithead,” the Squirt impressed on me. She calls them “totties” and she likes them fried to make the same crunch as her dry kibbles.

She was standing in my lap while reading the lighted menu, and the goat dog was on the dashboard, nose pushed against the windscreen. His eyes followed each tray of food as it left the door, and his wet snozzola left snotty contrails on the glass. The sticky lines closely resembled the criss-crossing Etch-A-Sketch flip-flops of Mitt Romney’s policy positions, and me—I love the way the British say “windscreen” for a windshield.

“And tell them I want a hot dog, cut the onions, cut the mustard, extra chili, double-extra cheese, and one teaspoon of sweet relish—not one bit more. And tell them I want them to boil the wiener first and then grill it black.”

The little bundle of brown fur and wonderment surveyed the menu with fervor. “And get me an extra-large cherry lime with extra cherries.”

Yoda’s menu selections are more difficult to translate. He “phoopfs” and “pharphs” at everything from the kitchen, so I only order things that he tries to jump through the windscreen after.

When he knocked himself silly in his attempt to get at a tray loaded with Frito Pie and onion rings, Squirt said to me, she said, “Looks like we need to get the Beano out, Bwana Mooner. Shithead is eating some gassy dinner tonight.”

I, of course, forgot to dose the goat dog with the anti-gas medicine, and that reminds me to tell you about the fucking cat. Honor has taken to Santa Fe living as if our new hometown were the Garden of Eden. I buy a whole fish for dinner at least once each week, and leave the carcass with head still attached out back for her. She’ll return home, come inside to shed some fur, sharpen her claws on the quilt hanging on the back of the couch, knead pinpricks on my chest as she nuzzles my face in thanks for the fish carcass, usually puke a fur ball filled with feathers and mouse bones, and head outside to eat the fish.

I’ve never before had a cat, but I don’t know what all the fuss is about.

Which brings me to my original thought. The dry weather here somehow manufactures dust balls. I can mop and vacuum one minute and next minute my clean floors are littered with dust balls again. Fascinating.

And the dust balls and Yoda’s gas somehow stimulated a camel toe dream about which I no longer have time to describe to you. As a tease, I’ll tell you that in the dream I decided to give the dogs up for adoption and this couple wearing tight Lycra bicycle shorts wanted to adopt them.

Now I have to go. I promised Sister that I would try to find a friend of hers who lives here but has no phone. I love adventures, so, manana, y’all.

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Holy Mole’; Mooner Mucks-Up Whole Enchilada

Saturday, February 9th, 2013

 

So. I find myself in an interesting quandary this beautiful winter morning in the Land of Enchantment. After an absence from these pages for +/- two weeks with no outlet for my ADHD-swirling thoughts, I’ve much to say and little motivation for saying it. And having said that (“it”), why is it that I was required to use the word “it” when describing what it is about which I lack motivations?

What makes the word “it” so fucking wonderful that it can encompass any quantity from negative infinity to positive infinity? How can it be possible for me to use that simple two-letter word to be so precise as to describe a single sub-atomic particle, such as a quirk, and, yet, likewise say “it” when speaking of the entire fucking universe?

It, as a word, has always had me flummoxed. Who gave it so much power and scope? Where did its notions spring from?

OK, from where did its magnitudes spring?

Me, I was one of the very few who felt that Wild Bill Clinton spoke his answer with great precision when he said, “It depends upon what your definition of the word ‘is’ is.” I understood precisely what the President meant when he said it. It was clear to me that he might have done it, but its limits and scopes were what made it one thing under one definition, yet—upon application of one of the many different definitions of is—might mean something completely disconnected and discomforting when it (“is”) is viewed from divergent perspectives.

It and is. Words of power and confusion. Powerfully confusing words that seem to be inexplicably joined at the hip.

Ugh. Do this as an exercise to better understand what it is I’m attempting to say. Write a 200-word third party essay describing any complete event as it happens in real time. Take a few minutes to attempt to do so without using the words “it” or “is” in said 200 words without committing any grammatical fouls as you go.

Write a 200-word third party descriptive something that lacks it or is—the reading of which doesn’t make me want to slit my own throat—and I’ll send you an autographed copy of my fucking book.

Which reminds me. I was at the bookstore when I was back to Austin just to pop in and see if my book was selling there. I went to the Local Authors section where it was located, and found instead a Mexican food cookbook by the chef at one of my least favorite Austin eateries. When I managed to get the manager’s attention, I asked her, I said, “What the fuck is this? You gave my shelf space to this hack? Have you ever tried to eat this asshole’s enchiladas without getting a case of the fire squirts?”

“Lower your voice, Mr. Johnson. This is a bookstore, for Pete’s sake.” The nice lady was looking at me with a Second Grade teacher’s expression.

I grabbed the cookbook and fanned through the pages to find a recipe for guacamole and cabrito enchiladas with mole’ sauce. “Look here at this,” I demanded of the nice lady manager—Mary, I think was her name. “Even the kids at Taco Bell’s drive-in windows are smart enough to tell you that you never fucking pair avocado with mole’ sauce. It tastes like shit and it’ll give you the burny-ass fire squirts!”

“I said settle down, Mooner. I moved you to the Humorous Political Fiction section when you vacated Austin for Santa Fe. Coincidentally, you’re on the shelf right next to Governor Perry’s latest.”

I was too busy ripping the guacamole and goat enchiladas with mole’ sauce pages from the shelved cookbooks for my brain to register Mary’s words. I picked up the paper sheets I’d removed and placed them in the recycling bin and marched to my car with the firm knowledge that I, Butcher Einstein “Mooner” Johnson, had struck a blow for Mexican food lovers worldwide.

“Chicken shit asshole fancy-pants right-wing Mexican food subversive fuckballs!” I announced to the crowd that gathered at the door as I left. “Mexican food is traditional!” I said. “Tra-fucking-di-tion-al!”

It was in the GTO leaving the bookstore when I decided to cook a goat and serve it with guacamole. It was from there whence I decided to head over to the Sprouts to take advantage of their special on avocados.

Anyway, I really don’t feel like writing, I feel like walking the dogs. Maybe Allie McGraw is out this morning.

So, write me your essays and I’ll see y’all manana.

 

PS-  For those of you expecting mention of a camel toe…  Stay tuned!

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Are You Smuggling Dead Fish Or Is Your Cat In Heat?; Rick Santorum Quits

Wednesday, April 11th, 2012

 

So. I’m flummoxed, and dear god how I love that word. Since I’m more than bewildered, way passed confused, and said simply, as I’m dumbfounded and baffled to the max, I am, therefore, flummoxed. Since I have a limited vocabulary of words whose meanings I truly understand, there are few words I can use that are as fully descriptive as the word flummoxed.

I mean, OK, I’ve got the words shit and fucked and asshole and republican down pat as far as knowing precisely all their meanings and literations. And don’t even start on me that literation isn’t a word. A literation is, “The iteration of a word when you don’t mean the simple repetition of said word but, rather, you are speaking to that word’s unique combination of meanings that allow it to be used repeatedly in the same sentence without being repetitive, and boring.” [Id.- Mooner’s Dictionary of New American Words]

Perfect example: “The ignorant shit, Rick Santorum, shit all over women yesterday when he made a shitty comment regarding a woman’s right to make decisions about her own body and shit.”

To belabor my point, try this: “The ignorant fuck, Rick Santorum, fucked all over women yesterday when he made a fuckheaded comment regarding a woman’s right to make decisions about her own body, and other fucked up stuff.”

See—literations.

I could go on and on and on with other examples but I’m too flummoxed to give a shit. If you haven’t gotten my point on that one, you’re a right-wing conservative christian fuckball and, as I said, I don’t really give a shit. And speaking of the pompous asshole, Rick Santorum, he is why I’m flummoxed. Specifically, his not winning the GOP Presidential bid to become their next candidate has me flummoxed.

And holy shit is my ADHD on fire this morning. Have you guys ever been around a female cat in heat? Hey-sus-fucking-christimino but that is an annoying trick Mother Nature pulled on us. I was awakened last nigh at 2:31 in the am by my fucking cat, Honor. I’m all asleep and dreaming about having three-way sex with Joan Rivers and the Queen of England. Under normal circumstances, I would find both of those ladies somewhat out of my price range.

But with SAC Ellen out of town twenty-eight of every thirty days, my dreamscapes have become more widely populated. Now I’m getting the message that dreamscapes isn’t a word. Bite my ass Microsoft Word.

In this dream last night I was in a field of fresh mowed hay. It was sweet alfalfa and it smelled of chlorophyll and retsin as I lay on my back in a soft pillow of grass. I had Joanie at my right side and Her Highness on my right. Each was snuggled up and both were naked as Jaybirds. I want to say that if my dream is accurate, the Queen has got herself quite a rack. And Joan’s skin is remarkable.

Anyway, the three of us were deciding how they were going to divvy-up their individual slices of Mooner when the rank odor of spoiled fish ass invaded. The terrible stink was followed by the Queen screeching like a banshee and Joanie trying to rub her ass in my face.

I awoke with a start and was startled to find the fucking cat was standing on my chest, and rubbing her swollen little kitty poontanger in my face. The sound she was making reminded me of what the lamenting of those Sirens of ancient Greece must have sounded like.

I’ve washed and scrubbed and shaved my face six times and I’ve still got the smell in my nose. At breakfast this morning, I asked the table what I can do to stop that cat madness. Other than, “Drown her,” the best ideas were to simply wait it out. This freshening event must have been what spurred Honor’s desire for a mate. I likely should have seen this coming.

I did see Rick Santoria’s dropping out of the race coming, but I’m flummoxed none the less. My flummoxing comes at Ricky’s hands. While I have always felt the Herr Schmidt Rommel would be the republican nominee, I have always wondered if the republicans were really that stupid.

He is, they are, and I’m flummoxed. Do enough Americans hate our President so much that they would vote for a two-faced, lying, job killing chickenshit asshole instead? Are there that many people who will ignore the fact that Obama has done a remarkable job in getting America’s ship righted, and focus on the stupid, fake issues? Are there enough women in America to vote this particular republican into office?

I keep asking myself these questions. I keep hoping the answers to all are, “No fucking way!”

Then I see a 350-pound woman wearing a leotard and belly shirt over to the hardware store. There are rolls of fat pinched above her waste by the tight fabric of the pants, and her camel toe has double chins. The belly shirt—a tight, white cotton tee-style shirt with a deep V neckline—says, “Nobama in 2012—No Mo Monkey Business.”

I was with Streaker Jones or I might have done something stupid myself.

“Let ‘er be, Mooner. She won’t unnerstand.”

Streaker Jones is right. And the answers to my questions is, “Oh, man, I hope not.”

Anyway, I’m headed to the cheese store to get some Limburger. I’m going to wipe a little smudge on my upper lip and hope it cancels out the smell of horny cat’s ass. Manana, y’all.

 

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K, K, And K Kardashian’s Kamel Toes Displayed; The Commentor Formerly Known As Theo Returns

Tuesday, January 24th, 2012

 

So. I’m headed off to South Austin this foggy morn to give more books away in coffee shops. I’ve taped the Author’s Request disclaimers into some books, signed them to: “Whomever you are”[,] and then penned my John Henry at the bottom. I’ve got a handful of books ready to go, and I’m going as soon as I finish this writing. To catch a glimpse of what book I herein speak to, click over there to my Bloggie Roller ====}}}} and you’ll find a video book trailer, Clarion four-of-five stars review, and Amazon sites for a paper-paged book and Kindle, both.

And maybe I’ve got a handfuls of book, each book with a John Hancock, and I might should have said, “To catch a glimpse of what book I speak of herein…”

I’m somewhat scattered, smothered, covered and extra-crispy with ADHD-fueled brainwaves. As my longtime readers know, I am visited by recurring-themed camel toe dreams on a routine basis. At least once each week the female dromedaries pay visit to my sleepy time. I get frequent overnight stays from actresses and political figures and even Queens and shit. For as long as I’ve had these dreams, I’ve never encountered pseudo celebrities. I’ve never had a visit from the Kardashian sisters.

Until last night.

I’ve been happy to lay claim to the fact that those three apparent nitwits and their nitwittier mother have been off the radar screen of my subconscious dream brain. I don’t have anything against them as I love pretty dumb women just as much as smart women and women without great physical beauty. I don’t have anything against them, I simply don’t want to waste valuable focus on them.

If you have ADD, you know how valuable a little focus can be. We sufferers like to make our focus count.

This dream likely grew from seeds planted at dinner last night. Gram cruised down to College Station over the weekend and returned with her Ferrari packed with Aggies. Freddie, a space science major from the Philippines, is a talky little fucker that even the Squirt can’t understand. When I asked what the cute little chatterbox said this one time, she said, “Oh for shit sakes, Mooner. I can’t tell if he’s speaking Tag A Log or Bikal. You need to call the Reckmonster on this one.”

Squirt went on to tell me that for starters there are over 7,000 individual islands in the Philippines and that there are sixteen different MAJOR languages spoken there. “Then,” Squirt told me, “you have all the different dialects. Like the Bikal has Bikal Central and dozens of regional Bikal slangs. It’s a fucking linguist’s nightmare!”

The second young man my randy old grandmother brought home was Dave, a pimply-faced eighteen-tear-old bovine husbandry ag student who is not to be confused with Mr. Dave. Mr. Dave, the giant-peckered older gentleman of Johnson Manor, is on an extended visit over to the house of P-cubed. Mr. Dave has managed to quench thirsts around here for now, so the ladies of my house loaned him out to Penelope Paxton-Parades—Gram’s best buddy.

Anyway, we’re sitting at the dinner table last night when the subject of booties came up. Sister and her wife Anna the Amazon were here, and Dave couldn’t keep his eyes off Anna, my ex-wife and my lesbian sister’s wife now. Gram was editing his watching of Anna’s ass and grew tired of it. She gave Dave the Evil Eye and said to him, she said, “What ya lookin’ at, sonny boy? I thought ya said ya was all tuckered out.”

Dave grimaced but held his back straight. I admired his spine in the face of the Evil Eye. “I’m worn right on down to the bone, Mrs. Johnson. But Anna looks like Khloe Kardashian except with Kim K’s bootie and that beautiful blond hair. Is that your real hair color Ms. Johnson-Johnson-Johnson?”

Now Sister’s face started the twitch towards an Evil Eye, but Dave saved his own bacon before I could intervene. “I don’t mean any disrespect, Ms. Sister, it’s just that your wife and you both look like famous people. I, simply said, like Khloe Kardashian’s looks better than Demi Moore’s.”

If you would buy my fucking book and read it, you would understand the full width and breadth of calamity Dave avoided with his further explanations. And why nobody asked young Dave what he was doing with my bony old grandmother if he liked his women plump is a second answer you’ll find should you read the book. But I’ll not give additional enlightenment for free at this time. What I will do is tell you that sometime after 3:00 am last night, I had a celebrity camel toe dream. OK, a pseudo celebrity camel toe dream.

In this dream I was sitting at a coffee shop in South Austin looking over the crowd to determine who to approach for a book giveaway. I guess I was in a South Austin coffee shop because I had already planned today’s visits. I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see who it was, but was forced to turn and look up. Waaaay up. It was Khloe, Kim and Kourtney K., and Khloe was in the lead.

“We want a free book, Mister,” they all three said in unison. Their unified voices were a chorus of estrogen and sex and youth. “We’ll show you our booties if you give us a book.”

“Well, ladies,” I explained, “I like butts, and a lot of like at that, but your booties are not what will attract my affections, it’s your camel toes. I’m Mooner Johnson, and I’m a pocket meat man.”

They all three giggled in unison and invited to to join them in the private room at the coffee shop. I didn’t know coffee shops had private rooms but this one does. I followed them back and admired the three world famous and world class booties every step of the way. Nothing, and I mean nothing, can beat the look of a well-groomed camel toe as it does the pocket rumba when its keeper is strolling towards me. But have to admit that this trio of asses gave cause to reconsider.

“OK, ladies,” I said as the tuxedoed attendant pulled the curtains shut behind us and I sat in a deep-cushioned chair. “Show me what you’ve got.”

I’ve got an observation for you guys. I think I can now say with a reasonable certainty that, “Big bootie in the back—robust camel toe leading the way.”

I was squeezing and tugging as I inspected the girls’ worthiness as recipients of free books. Then it dawned on me that these three young women gross more annual income that Guatemala.

“I’m sorry, ladies” I told them. “These appear to be world-class tootsies. If all I get is a peek and a squeeze, you’ll need to pay for books.”

Kim says to me, she says, “Oh, Mr. Johnson, I thought you’d ne-ver ask.”

Me, I’m dream-thinking what it was, specifically, that I asked when Kim hiked her already-hiked short, sequined dress over her waist and hooked her thumbs in the edge of the deep maroon-colored thong she wore. “Close your eyes, Mr. Johnson, and open them when I say ‘When'[.]”

I squeezed my eyes tight and might have started shaking. My mind started running through all the previous times I have been waiting for a woman’s panties to fall. Each and every one of those times I opened my eyes to a different wonderment. I tried to find a prior visage that I felt would match this one and came up empty.

I heard the rustling sound that tight ladies undies make as they are removed over two legs, slowly. I heard a deep intake of breath and then felt its hot, humid air as it was slowly released towards my face. The “shoosh” of air stood the hairs on my neck into bristles. The cushion of my seat depressed on either side of my head, and I sensed rather than felt soft fuzz approaching my face.

To my self I thought, “Do I stick my tongue out- yes or no?” I answered to myself, “No, not on the first date.”

Just at the moment I felt the feather-light contact of fine hairs on my chin, I heard, “When!”

I jerked awake with Honor laying across my face with her belly parked my mouth. “Shit, Honor, you managed to ruin my best camel toe dream in months.” Actually, it sounded like, “Thith,”

Fucking cats. Would somebody please remind me why I even have a fucking cat?

Good thing I have first date rules in my dreams. Manana, y’all.

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Twitterly Dee, Twitterly Dumb; Sex Confounds

Thursday, January 5th, 2012

 

So. I think I finally have the Twitter Follower mystery solved. Finally. This dealie has been buggerating the ever loving shit out of me for months.

What’s been driving me nuts is how people sign up to follow me and then quickly disappear. Some silly shitball finds something they like about my stuff and takes the time, and puts the effort in as required to click the Follow button. Then in less than a week, they click the Unfollow button.

I’ll have dozens of Follower adds per week and the same numbers of Unfollowers. Defollowers, maybe. It can go up and down by hundreds per week.

OK, stop. For those of you who couldn’t give a shit about my Twitter problems, I have inserted this, *******Reenter Here*******, down there a few hundred words in the future. Escape all this Twitter talk. I would if I was (were?) you.

In the eighteen months I’ve had a twitter account, I have had more than 4,000 individual clickers to Follow @MoonerJohnson on Twitter, yet my effective average number of Followers remains pegged at plus-or-minus thirty. It has been driving me bonkers what with all the adds and subtracts.

I have examined this problem from a hundred different angles in an attempt to get a fix on what is happening. Today I thought I would contact some of the people who added, then retracted, from following me and did so quickly. You’re going to be interested in their responses.

OK, let’s back up a frame or two. “Why, Mooner,” you might ask, “do you even use Twitter? You hardly ever tweet.”

“Good question,” my stock answer begins, and finishes with, “I use Twitter to verify that I have properly added a posting to the bloggie.”

I have my webber set up to when I post a story to the bloggie, it automatically goes out as a Twitter tweet. Since I’m such a moron computerly, I can then go to Twitter and see if the posting posted and click the tweet and go to the actual posting as it appears on my webber. It’s like a backup edit program. Any other benefits I derive from Twitter are those of an accidental tourist. Which means that all of the followers I have and ever have had have been accidents.

Like blind boars, my Twitter followers trip over me somehow. My webber and bloggie expert, Dustin, asked me if I wanted him to add the tagger dealies for Twitter and Facebook and all that crap when he was working on stuff last week. I agreed but only if I could figure this shit out. So I told him to add the taggers and I started researching shit.

Here’s what I found. Indeed, most people stumble upon me on Twitter in the same ways as on the regular webber. They Google “camel toes” or “Fuck Rick Perry” or “is the Pope the Queen’s twin” or other stuff that might be on my site. With Twitter, it’s the hash tags or whatever you call that shit, or they follow because someone else on Twitter refers them to me.

Those are the reasons I was given by those Follow-Unfollowers. When asked why they left so quickly, the usual answer was, “I had no idea how________ you/your site is.”

You can fill in the blanks. Most heard answers were how: nasty, sacrilegious, inappropriate, evil, much you curse, liberal, homosexual, stupid your site is.

Most of the rest told me that they only followed me to get me to follow them—like a popularity contest. Seems many folks get their rocks off by having huge numbers of Followers. Even if they have nothing in common with me—we share no interests or ideas—they still want me listed as a Follower. They have no plans to read any fucking thing I post, and I wouldn’t read about how they just got home from work if there was a fucking gun stuck in my ear.

These Followers will Unfollow me when I don’t follow them quickly. I follow a few Tweetsters, but not many, and I read much of what they tweet.

******* Reenter Here*******

Anyway. That mystery is now solved. Which reminds me of something.

I was in my morning psycho therapy session this am, and the subject of sex came up. Surprise. While I have ten ex-wives, I have only had sex with one of them after we divorced. That would be Roshandra Washington-Johnson, my ex number five and an ebony beauty. If you’ve ever seen Roshandra down to the Austin City Council Chambers, you have a crystal clear understanding of why that is.

When Roshandra makes a booty call, brother, you answer the door!

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson is not only my therapist but also the first of my exes. She asked this morning why it is that I have never tried to have sex with her in all of these years since our divorce. Since I’m a man, I thought of this question as a request for action. But alas, it was a quest for information.

“I’m doing a study on unusual sexual patterning in men with multiple marriage histories,” she told me. “You would be a prime prospect to put in my Petri dish.”

Have you ever tasted agar? You know, that gelatinous goo scientists use in their Petri dishes. It’s a seaweed extract and tastes like that time I got really drunk down to Nuevo Laredo and woke up with a spider monkey’s foot in my mouth. The monkey was wearing a little vest in the colors of the Mexican flag and its toenails were painted bright red.

Streaker Jones and I went down there to meet some Mexican mushroom growers and they had this monkey that played a miniature accordion. He was dressed in the aforementioned vest, pantaloons and had an organ grinder monkey’s hat perched on top of his head. I remember waking up, spitting the monkey’s foot out of my mouth and wondering what happened to the rest of his clothes.

I don’t care much for monkeys and I really don’t care for the taste of monkey feet. I do like the taste of SAC Ellen’s toes though. She has these perfect little piggies, and my ADHD just grabbed controls of the train.

The answer to Sammie’s question eludes me. I have no idea why I stopped sexing eight of my nine ex-wives. Anna the Amazon is my third ex-wife and now is married to my sister, and I know why she’s off limits. Sister would kick my ass if I didn’t manage to maintain that border.

The remaining eight present a sex mystery for me. I would have sex with the lot of them if I was unattached and they were available and willing, I think. But I have been around each of them at one time or another wherein we were both unentangled romantically, and nothing happened sexually.

I hate when Dr. Sam I. Am does this shit to me. I think she intentionally poses this sort of question at me to fuck with my head. Psycho analysts tend to do that shit, and it pisses me off.

I’d love to attend one of Sammie’s sessions with her head shrinker. I should call him. I’ve got a few questions he can ask her that would really stir shit up.

Which reminds me. Remember when I told you that Yoda and I have been marking our territory by peeing along the border of our property? That’s the mainstay of my program to get the little Chihuahua and Whippet mixed puppy to stop crapping inside the house. He and the Squirt saw a program on the Animal Channel about canines and their pack mentality.

Marking territory is an important aspect of a dog’s sense of security and self worth. So we’ve been peeing all around the 3,000 acres here to the ranch for the last month. We finished yesterday afternoon as we arrived back at the fishing dock. We started there and moved clockwise, ending with the last hundred yards to the dock’s left.

We finished and sat on the dock drinking a Carta Blanca beer and thinking about our good job done, when a stray dog came out of the brush brakes on the dock’s right side. She was a beagle, named Zoe, and she was way lost from down to San Marcos. Yoda and I debated about whether or not we should sex the bitch, a usual requirement of the pack when a female dog invades the pack’s territory. Yoda felt she was a little old for his tastes and I’m in a committed relationship, so we called her owner and he came to get her last evening with her virtues intact.

This morning, Yoda and I are headed out to touch-up our territorial markings, starting at the fishing dock and moving clockwise. I wonder what it is about peeing outside that so wonderful. Me, I love to take a leak anywhere that doesn’t require me to waste water in my urine’s disposal.

But peeing in the Great Outdoors is the cat’s Pjs. Maybe one of you guys has an idea. So consider a purchase of my silly book, and I’ll see you manana, y’all.

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Queen Lizzie La Queefa- Another Camel Toe Dream; Mooner’s Review Good

Thursday, December 8th, 2011

 

So. Ugh says it best for me this morning. Ugh, again, and with gusto. I should be very happy about all things Mooner Johnson, but I find myself in an Ughly mood. Normal folks will likely look at me and shake their heads as they walk as far away from me as possible, and quickly walking at that.

But I’m not normal—except in penis size, number of human organs and male appetites—so I’m in an Ughly mood.

The sources of my Ughly mood are thus, and such. Number one, my first what you would call “Third-party, professional book review” came in yesterday, and it turned out to be way, way better than I expected or deserved, either one. I got four of five stars, and the reviewer made honest criticisms as well as pointing out good stuff. I know I have bias on this dealie, but it seemed fair and balanced to me.

I went to Clarion’s website because I wanted to check the voracity of their reviews. After reading it, my crazy brain started worrying that every Clarion review was four or five stars and that my pride would have been quite false. What I discovered is that no, most of Clarion’s reviews are far less than four stars and, in fact, the vast majority have no stars at all. The starless nature of a review, I discovered with further investigations, comes from the author’s request to not publish the stars with the review.

Since I’m assuming that most authors would want four or five-stars of award to be published, I choose to think that most of those un-starred reviews are at least less than four-stars jobbies. OK, wait. That last sentence should have said “not-starred” along with “…at least fewer than four-stars”[.]

Net results- I’m a very happy and proud camper that my book was well received by Clarion, and this should enough to brighten even the darkest of moods. But, alas, not so.

See, I have been wanting to tell you the heart-wrenching story of Rick Perry’s request for a sex change operation since before I left for Floriduh last week. My pet ostrich has deep emotional needs that are consuming my full measure of empathy. Yet my own emotional needs have been placed, by me, ahead of his. And will be done so again today. Squirt says that’s because I’m an asshole.

Once more, I am placing my needs ahead of those needs of my family and loved ones. Maybe I am an asshole.

It’s a wonder I don’t have trouble maintaining relationships, and let me admit it here, and freely too, I am an asshole.

I know that ignoring Ricky’s needs is a sure sign of my bad parenting. I get that. But my giant bird’s desire to be a woman will still be there long after my memory of last night’s dream is just so many dead brain cells, said dream the main topic herein. I will say that I called my vet—Doctor May over to Crossings Animal Clinic—and he might still be laughing.

Mother told me that she thinks I’m foolish to even consider paying for the numerous operations required to turn a bird man into a woman. Actually, what she said was, “Oh, for God’s sweet sakes, Mooner. How can you even consider a purposeful action that is forbidden in the Bible? It’s bad enough when a mother bears a child who accidentally becomes a homosexual child. But to do it on purpose…”

At that point my mother stopped talking and got this horrified look to her face. “Mooner Einstein Johnson! You WILL NOT write about this on that blasphemous trashy website of yours!!!”

Deep, gasping and heaving of maternal unit’s martyred lungs followed by a series of “Uh’s and ah’s” and then, “Oh, sweet Jesus in heaven. How can I ever look Pastor Browningwell in the face again?”

“Who gives a shit?” thought but unspoken by me.

Anyway, the main subject of today’s postings deal neither with the prejudice of my pride of having authored a four-stars novel containing over four-hundred pages, nor shall we dwell upon the deeply emotional needs of Rick Perry. Nope, today we’re talking about camel toes and specifically, last night’s camel toe dream.

I’m certain what prompted this particular camel toe dream was my having checked the “top searches” dealie on my website’s Amin page yesterday. As usual, the top five ways people, and likely the searchbots that frequent my place, find me is by typing something containing the words “camel toe”[.] Chelsea Handler’s camel toe, Sarah Palin and Queen Elizabeth’s camel toes, Dr. Marcus Bachmann’s camel toe, and so on.

People from all around the globe come to my place every day, and in droves, to catch the camel toe action here to Loonyland. And they have to be disappointed since I’m too stupid to even be able to post a fucking picture of my favorite vaginal tootsies. Those people come back repeatedly and they never comment. But many stay and read page after page of my shit.

I think they steal my trashy prose and then republish it as their own. I’m guessing that what I write here is far more interesting when translated into Estonian. Or fucking Hindi. Have you ever seen written Hindi?

So, as I lay down to go to sleep last night, my head was full of pride for my Clarion review, and my heart was full of empathetic concern for my birdie. OK, and my bloodstream was full of something approaching a dozen Carta Blancas drunk during the day, six long drags of Streaker Jones’ newest ganga hybrid, and a triple dosing of Gram’s celebratory potion she calls “Put tha kids ta bed, baby, we’s gonna party”[.]

My bed has a wintertime covering of sheets—Egyptian of cotton origins and 600 thread counts of middle names—and a goose down comforter that sits six-inches tall when fluffed full of air. The sheets are for me, as I sleep nekid and with just the sheets year-round, and the comforter is for the animals. The sleeping arrangements change somewhat as Summer’s heat shifts to a Winter freeze.

Everybody jumps up onto the bed before me at bedtime and the dogs jump and skitter around like kids on a playground while the fucking cat sits in the middle of my pillow keeping watch. When it’s just sheets on the bed, Squirt and Yoda slip and slide around the big bed, almost skating on the sleek, slick cotton covers. With the comforter in place, it’s more like two bunny rabbits frolicking in fresh snowdrifts. They hop and bounce through the thick down piles as they chase each other around.

While this frivolity unfolds, I’m brushing my teeth and shoving my night guard into my mouth. I’ll finish and head to bed and I always say, “OK, rug rats, line ’em up.” The two puppies race to the head of the bed and sit at attention on the visitor’s pillow, and Honor slightly moves her ass only what’s required to uncover a patch of my pillow just large enough for me to place my head.

I roll the comforter off my half of bed, lay down, and then say, and always say, “OK, kids, assume your positions.”

On freezing nights this means that Squirt lays (lies?) next to me at the hip not on my crotch, and Yoda curls into a tight ball in my armpit against my side. I then cover the two puppies with comforter, making little doggy cocoons. Honor waits for all of this to unfold and when the rest of us settle for sleep, my fucking cat wraps herself around my neck into whatever position will most bother me.

The previously-detailed all unfolded as usual last night excepting for two things. The first being my state of altered consciousness, previously mentioned, and a strange chill I felt just before drifting off. I think all of the silly bullshit Squatlo has caused with his hurt feelings over his cold house had some sort of negative influence on me But I felt chilled and pulled some of the comforter over me, my intentions to warm a touch and then toss the down blanket before sleep.

Good intentions and all of that aside, I fell asleep under the fucking comforter.

Those of you with ADHD or ADD will understand when I speak of what I call “the confluence of multiple influential thought streams on dream contents”[.] That would be when my ADHD-addled brain patterns take actual awake thoughts and turns them into dream scenarios. Therefore, and Ipso Facto if ever Ipso had a fucking fact, I had a camel toe dream. A camel toe dream that even I am willing to call weird.

Remember the AIDS Quilt from a few years ago, you know, the one where loved ones of AIDS patients sewed patches into a big quilt, which traveled the country? It was beautiful in both sentiments and art. I remember boo-hooing like a school girl when I saw it.

Well, this dream had a quilt, a camel toe quilt consisting of hundreds of actual live dromedary tootsies tacked to my goose down comforter. Rows of them and each clipped and pruned just as I remember them from previous camel toe dreams. As a connoisseur of ladies’ pocket meats, I can distinguish them all.

I was lying on this quilt. OK, I was luxuriating on this quilt. I rolled gingerly so as to not injure, I touched and I never touch in these dreams, and I actually kissed and caressed as I admired plump mounds with only occasional tufts of bushy crowns. I spoke to them as if they were attached to their keepers. “Oh hey, Chelsea, how’s it hanging, girl?” I said to Chelsea Handler’s incredibly luscious toe.

Gram and the dogs watch the Chelsea Lately TV show each night and the girls think Ms. Handler needs a new stylist. “She looks like a man dresses her,” is my Gram’s assessment. This from a crabby old bag of bones that would look like a scarecrow in a Chanel gown.

I tell you that bit of info as again, confluence of multiple influential thought streams on dream contents, I added, “Chelse, Gram and Squirt want you to think about getting someone new to dress you. They think you look silly most times.”

When I said that, Chelsea’s camel toe queefed me. That’s right, I caught a vaginal fart right in my face. It was light and airy and smelled of lavender soap, but Chelsea Handler’s camel toe farted in my face. It went, “pfft.” Small “p” pfft and not a Pfft.

I moved on.

Next I encountered Queen Elizabeth, who was in a deep conversation with Demi Moore. The Monarch was telling Ms. Moore that she was too skinny. Since I agreed with Her Royal Highness’s assessments, I said, “I agree with Her Majesty, Demi. I can’t quite see bones sticking out of your lady package, but you’re starting to look like a boy down there. You need to plump up.”

Demi queefed me, and then the Queen followed suit. “Pfft,” from the Queen and a, “pfft,” from Demi. I detected rose water from Lizzy and I think honeysuckle from Ms. Moore. Then suddenly, like a room full of wind-up false teeth toys chattering in chorus, the entire patchwork quilt of camel toes was queefing at me. Not all smelled of flowered perfumes and now all were Pffts, and PFFT’s even.

I rolled around and broke out into a terrible sweat, and no matter how far I rolled I never could roll off of queefing camel toes.

I awoke with a start with the Squirt sitting on my chest and nudging my chin with her snout. “Mooner, wake the fuck up. You’re having a nightmare.”

I was laying under the comforter, sweating like a pig and breathing in gasps. “Holy shit, little lady, I was just attacked by a meadow full of pastoral camel toes.”

“Nope,” Squirt told me. “Your were having drug and sweat dreams because you forgot to uncover yourself, and you just farted a sweet bean tamale fart that even burned the fucking cat’s eyes.”

Crap. I just hit 2,000 words. Manana, y’all.

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Camel Toes Give Mooner Woes; Buy Mooner’s Book

Thursday, October 27th, 2011

 

So. My webber and bloggie sites are running amok, again. I guess I just need to get used to these periodic interruptions. I should swallow the lump of bile stuck in my throat, take a mood stabilizer and get over it. I should be an adult and admit that this shit just happens, get it fixed and move on with my life. Every obstacle in life doesn’t require full Mooner meltdown. I need to accept these website problems as a part of successful bloggerating on the I-net.

Instead, I want to smash my computer, kick the fucking cat, and set my hair on fire.

I might actually kick the fucking cat. As you all well know, I have been working with the dogs to get them on a later morning breakfast schedule. I have been negotiating with Yoda and the Squirt for a week, and last night we reached an agreement. I sent Jeff the basic terms for him to draft into a contract. Jeff is my attorney for all of my “legal” activities.

Basically, in return for them eating breakfast at a time of my choosing—but under no circumstances at any time later than 9 am Central time—I agree to do whatever the dogs want to do one day each week. I was wary about this agreement at first but now I see it as win-win-chicken-chins.

We agreed to these terms, shook hands and slapped backs all around, and I even popped a bottle of bubbly. We each drank a toast and then gave the bottle of silly wine to Gram and Aunt Hilda. Gram brought home two young cowboys from the Broken Spoke night-before-last, and the girls were still riding the trail last evening. I’m not crazy about champagne, but I am crazy enough to aid my randy old grandmother with her conquests.

Anyway, as I lay my head on my pillow last night, the dogs settled into their regular spots and I said to them, I said, “OK, guys. I’ll agree to get up at 6:30 today and you agree to let me sleep.”

“No problemo, Bwana Mooner. No problemo at all,” Squirt replied.

I reached up to scratch the cat before drifting off, but she wasn’t there. I realized I hadn’t seen her since after we reached our landmark agreement earlier. But Honor is after all, a cat, so I didn’t worry. I went to sleep.

Am I the only person in the world who has camel toe dreams? Really? I was having another of my celebrity camel toe dreams where I’m the judge of a contest. In this one, the ladies were competing for “Best in Show” ribbons and the theme was “Walt Disney Cartoon Characters”[.] Queen Elizabeth had her pocket meat dressed like Cinderella, a classic preparation if ever I saw one. In homage to her loyal subjects, the Queenster had Cindy dressed as she was in the Disney movie when she was on hands and knees before the fireplace and scrubbing the floor.

Chelsea Handler was a big disappointment this dream. She chose Dumpy the dwarf and it was poorly done at that. Wait, maybe it was Dopey the dwarf. Marcus Bachmann was stellar, as always, with his Daisey Duck. It was really cute the way he could make Donald Duck’s girlfriend wiggle her tail, just like in the cartoon.

And Michele Bachmann was a mess, and a consternation as well. When she unveiled to the audience, her Mickey Mouse camel toe looked like a big, bloody rat. I got closer, as judges do, to get a better look.

“Ick,” my first impulse. “That is disgusting. And what is that smell?”

I stuck my nose to the rat-camel to take a bigger whiff… And I awakened to find myself eye-to-eye with an actual bloody rat. The rat sat on my chin and the fucking cat sat on my chest. The rat was fresh kill, a detail I gathered from its still-glistening eyes, but it stunk anyway. All rats stink.

“Get this thing off of me, Honor, and right now!”

She did, reluctantly, but only to lay it beside my pillow. “Oh for shitsakes, take it outside.”

She didn’t. Wouldn’t. I looked at the clock—it read 5:02 am. Squirt and Yoda started giggling, and the cat got this shit-eating grin to her face.

“Son… of… a… BITCH!” I looked at each of them individually.

“Oh, now I get it. You think I need to negotiate with you now, right?”

“Cheh, cheh, cheh,” was the fucking cat’s answer. I’d never heard a cat laugh before, and that’s my best spelling of the noise.

The rat is still on the bed, and I’m not moving it. And I am definitely NOT negotiating with a fucking cat that I didn’t even want.

Any of you guys need a cat?

Manana.

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Chelsea Handler Wins Camel Toe Contest; Yoda Wins First Dog Fight

Tuesday, September 27th, 2011

 

So. I needed to take the new puppy for a follow-up visit to the vet to get him another shot. I don’t remember what it was for—was it a parvo or rabies or whatever—just that I had the appointment. Squirt suggested that just the two of us make the trip so that we could do some male bonding.

OK, maybe we did some male/semi-male bonding. Or male-eunuch bonding. Poor Yoda had his little puppy gonads sliced off before he ever got a chance to use them.

So I packed him into his harness and loaded him into the GTO. Which reminds me to tell you that the original subject of today’s bloggie was to have been me telling you about the incredible dream I had last night. I had this absolutely amazing dream. Somehow my subconscious had managed to assemble enough suggestive materials from my other conscious to create the critical mass required of a great dream.

Some of the outside factors gathered by my not-frontal lobes were: Squatlo’s dream story last week; catching a glimpse of Chelsea Handler wearing tight, stretchy Capri pants; the now faint eau de SAC Ellen I can still whiff when I close my eyes and sniff the back of my left elbow; and the internal debate I had with myself over pachyderm versus dromedary.

I had this remarkable camel toe contest dream that was to be the central focus today, but something happened at the vets to disrail my attentions. And don’t even think about telling me I should have said “derail” when I said disrail. Derailing is when your train leaves the tracks. Disrailing is when the train jumps off the tracks.

Yoda and I were already checked-in over to the vets and sitting on the church pew that serves as waiting room chairs. I always sit on the pew when I come to help remind myself of just how much I do not like church. I’d already weighed the little shit and he has gained two ounces, a good sign for my little puppy mill castoff.

He sat at my feet on his leash and wasn’t doing the Chihuahua shaky bones dealie too bad. He’s still scared of other people and dogs but has made much progress. He didn’t freak when the lady sat next to me with a cat in her lap, even when the cat hissed at me. Fucking cats. He managed to handle everything that came our way until the asshole with the Sharpei dog walked in.

First, I don’t give a shit how you spell it, Sharpei, and I’m not looking it up. Second, I don’t like anything about the ugly and mean-tempered shits. This one’s owner was of a similar character as his asshole dog, and walked him into the vet’s office without a leash. Big-ass sign telling him to leash his fucking dog, this asshole ignoring it.

“Would you please leash your dog?” I quite pleasantly asked the man.

“Don’t worry, Emperor Chang won’t hurt your little doggie,” the total dumbass responded.

“Not worried about my dog, sir. This little guy isn’t quite sociable yet and he’ll take a nip if he feels cornered, so you should leash his royal highness,” my second request.

“You take care of your dog, buddy, and I’ll take care of mine.” This got me his rebuke and the shit-eating grin that bullies like to give the weak.

To add intimidation to the mix, the man said, “Emperor, you’re free.”

In this case “Free” meant “free to roam the cabin”[.] The ugly mass of gray wrinkles wandered towards Yoda and me, so I put my foot out to block his path. This got me a snarl and a low rumbled rebuke. “Sir,” I said, “keep this dog away from me and my puppy.”

He pretended to not hear me and acted like he was reading about feline heart disease from a poster on the wall. But I could see him glancing my way and I could see the shitty grin still plastered to his face. “Okay, have it your way,” I tried.

I lowered my foot and Emperor lunged towards Yoda, a ten-pound jumping jack of a dog who has recently been taught several MMA moves by the Squirt. “What you want to do, Yoda, is go for the eyes or the nose,” was the part of the lessons that seem to have stuck in the little guy’s brain.

As the bigger dog lurched his way, Yoda jumped straight up and came down on Emperor’s head, upper front fangs snagged in the Sharpei’s nostrils and bottom sunk into the wrinkled skin at the eyes. I’d never heard dog yelping in Chinese before. It would be very unsettling.

“Release, Yoda,” I said calmly. “Yoda, release.”

He looked at me just for a flash with this “Aw, come on Dad, I’m going for a pin” look, but he let go and jumped beside me on the pew. The bloodied Emperor ran to cower at his owner’s feet.

“Look what he did to my dog, asshole. I’m gonna kick your butt.”

When I’m sitting, I look of average height. I have quite long legs and I like to relax when I sit—slump if you will. My overall height and bulk are disguised. “Oh, alright,” I answered as I stood to most of my original six-feet four. I have shrunk a little as time goes by, but the man was staring at my neck as he approached.

He stopped short and backed away. “You’re not worth it.” And with that he picked his dog up and left the vet’s office.

“That shitball is the preacher over at Bethany Baptist Church, Mooner. He’s always like that when he comes in.” The receptionist and I go way back. “I started to say something but I knew you would handle it.

“Figures,” I answered.

Anyway, last night I had this dream where I was judging camel toes in a contest at the State Fair of Texas. The Fair has started up and I guess that’s responsible for my dream’s venue. This contest was for “Best Painted and Unclothed Camel Toe”[.] You know how an artist will paint a naked lady to look like she’s wearing a tuxedo or a snake or whatever, and it looks all lifelike and shit?

Well, Chelsea Handler was the winner. She was painted to look like she was wearing black Lycra workout shorts and a pale blue top. You know, whoever dresses Chelsea Handler should be shot. She is so pretty and has such a great body, but she always looks as if she were dressed by a color-blind blind man. Thank god that person didn’t paint her for this contest.

Anyway, her camel toe was so plump and juicy that I just knew it was real, and not painted on. The painted on part was the major rule for the contest and one that had already disqualified Michele and her husband Dr. Marcus Bachmann both. She tried to fake a painted-on bikini camel toe with a neon green thong, and Marcus attempted to deceive this judge by wearing pages of a Bible that were papier mache applied with rubber cement.

I almost passed out from the fumes as I tried to read the verses from First Peter and Revelations Number Nine that were all jumbled up on his package. I didn’t need to pick at the loose edges of paper to disqualify Marcus. I was worried he was going to cry. I hate when the weaker sex cries.

As I was declaring Chelsea the winner, Michele Bachmann declared a foul and demanded that I test the winner’s artistic authenticity. I said, “OK,” and bend close to Ms. Handler’s camel tow. I noticed that it glistened in the bright stage lights of the contest pageant. Now, I was dizzy from my proximity to one of the world’s best pocket-meat sandwiches.

I was wavering, worried that I was about to do something so inappropriate as to redefine the word. I looked around for help, but none was there. Michele Bachmann is screaming at me to prove it’s a legal win and the crowd is screaming for the winner. That’s when I feel a tap to the top of my head, and I look up into Chelsea Handler’s quite pretty eyes.

“It’s OK, Mooner, go ahead,” She said.

I must have looked perplexed because she smiled at me and repeated, “I said go ahead, Mooner.”

“Are you certain?” I asked as a final assurance.

“Sure, Mooner, take a taste.”

I awakened licking the leather harness I use to strap Yoda into the car, and I had boot black smudges on my face when I went to brush my teeth. Did you know that Carta Blanca beer will wash the taste of dog sweat out of your mouth?

Manana, y’all.

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@Reckmonster Inspires Camel Toe Dream; Mooner’s Trains Derail

Wednesday, July 20th, 2011

 

So. I was going to tell you the name of the third installee of my Blog Roller today but something has interrupted the trains of thoughts in the switch yards that is my brain circuitry. And look at that shit… I can’t get one full sentence out before the grammar teacher who resides inside my skull is reproaching me.

First, maybe that should have been “installeded”, or possibly “installerated” Blog Roller designee. Second, my trains of thoughts and mental circuit boards are tough to specify. I say “trainS” and “thoughtS” and “yardS” on purpose. The plurals are required in my cases. If you have my form of ADHD you have an inkling of understanding as to what goes on in the toxic swill swirling in the cauldron that is my skull.

If you do not suffer from ADHD, or its little sister ADD, then you haven’t got a fucking clue what goes on inside my head. Everybody knows people who pretend to have ADHD– people who use ADHD as an excuse to cover for laziness or inattention. Those of us who truly suffer the slings and arrows of our ailment would like to crush the fakers’ balls in a vise. Or maybe remove their tonsils through their giant smelly assholes.

Which reminds me that I still have my tonsils. Proudly, I’m the only living Johnson family member to have made it with his tonsils intact. Old Doc Ashburn tried to take them from me numerous times when I was younger. Tried every trick in the book to get me to sit still for him to butcher me. And that– me saying Doc Ashburn wanted to butcher me– reminds me that my given name at birth was “Butcher”.

That’s right, my actual name is Butcher Einstein Johnson. I won’t tell you the story because it is contained in my soon-to-be-published book, Full Rising Mooner. What I will say about that is this: what I will say is, “What the fuck?”

Really, whatinthefuck is going on when a bunch of hillbillies name a kid a name like that? People make fun of me all the time for my having the moniker “Mooner”. When I tell them my actual name they all shake their heads and say, “Oh… Sorry.”

Anyway, I have multiple trains of thoughts, some racing down their tracks like a Japanese bullet train, some dragging along like a thousand-car coal train with a single tired engine, and the balance are commuter trains that make frequent stops and change schedules with the same frequencies.

The main method I employ to control these thoughts can best be described as switching yards, like you always see in action films, where some guy escapes capture by running between tracks and trains. In my brain I have more than one switch yard. My brain contains separate yards for trains traveling as first line thoughts, mid line thoughts, obsessive thoughts and then pesky thoughts.

Often, a single train will derail and I’ll lose focus for a moment. Sometimes trains get improperly switched in a yard and I’ll lose focus and say something stupid. Occasionally, however, the switch yard controller mechanism in my brain falls asleep at the switch all my trains derail or crash into each other. That event is what I call “brain fritz”.

Remember in the old BBC TV series Monty Python, when the John Cleese professor character would say, “My brain hurts,”?

That, dear readers, is brain fritz for me. My brain hurts. It’s not a headache in the classic sense and it isn’t brain freeze like with ice cream. It is the combination of those two sensations, then add some confusions and delusions, and then subtract the pain.

Holy fucking shit what a digression I’ve got here. The origination point of this posting was to tell you that I got the fritz brain last night and that caused me to have another funky dream. Since I wrote about the Reckmonster yesterday, she was in it.

In this dream I was eating at the Lubys Cafeteria over to Mopac at US 183 here in Austin. I was inside their building to start and it was a giant place, and full of people in long lines. We served ourselves, so I had big spoon and was helping myself to a taste of whatever I saw that spiked interest.

I ate most of a bowl of tapioca pudding, half a bowl of oatmeal and spoonfuls of a bunch of other stuff. I rounded a big turn in the food line, and there, on the right, was a dazzling assortment of camel toes on ice. Displayed like seafood at the fish market, every toe was perched on the ice and surrounded with herbal adornments to best demonstrate the attributes of each.

Little signs told of their origins. They said “Sarah Palin Camel Toe” and “Reckmonster Camel Toe” and “Queen Elizabeth Camel Toe” and Dr. Marcus Bachmann Camel Toe” and so on. I thought I had died and gone to heaven in this dream.

I won’t tell you from which camel toes displayed I spooned my samples, and neither will I tell you precisely how that worked. What I will say is that I awoke with a rock-hard dream woody, which I washed clean with a hearty lathering with Ivory Soap, and images of the Reckmonster.

And now Reck is going to be pissed at me and I’ll get an ass chewing from her for discussing her “business” in this forum. But who gives a shit anyway. That dream makes it all worthwhile.

So drink Carta Blanca beer and come back manana, y’all.

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Language Barriers; Another Camel Toe Contest

Friday, July 15th, 2011

 

So. Yesterday was as interesting a Thursday as I might ever have had. OK, wait. Perhaps I should have said that yesterday was as interesting a Thursday as ever I might have had. That’s the sort of grammar dealie that throws me the worst. Proper use of adverbs, and other of our language’s modifiers, confuse me the most.

When I seek to communicate with maximum clarity and minimum disclarity, I sometimes get all perplexed and shit. Like with the word clarity. See, Websters’ Unabridged says that the opposite of clarity is confusion. But I’m not confused in the least when I attempt to communicate, but rather I have a clarity issue with my attempt to say precisely what it is I want to say, in a way that will accurately communicate said what it is I want to say, to the reader.

When I sense that my prose is falling short of accurate communication, those sensings are the stimuli for my need to invent a word to fit the situation. Like disclarity, which in and of itself, maybe should be unclarity. Or even anticlarity. I guess the choice there would be the gross expected lack of clarity I would expect my reader to suffer.

Take, for example, yesterday’s trip to the dentist, my dentist. It was time for me to get my teeth cleaned and inspected, and since the Squirt has broken the point off one of her way-back molars, she needed an inspection as well. The little dog refuses to see the vet for her dental care because I love Melissa, my longtime hygienist over to Dr. Kelly Keith’s office. I like the doctor too, and Alma is one of my favorite Grand Dames, but if Melissa ever retires I’m going to simply take the pliers to my remaining teeth and go on a liquid diet.

Anyway, Squirt will only go to my dental practice of choice and she has fallen for sweet Melissa as hard as I have. It’s a hoot trying to interpret Squirt’s multi-language banter when her mouth is full of Melissa fingers and dental instruments.

“Miff unth anth therth phuff an theeth?” was one of the trickier of Squirt’s comments requiring my interpretive skills.

Melissa said, “She is so cute, but I haven’t a clue what she says.”

“Well,” I started, “if I’m getting the gist of it, I think she just used German, French and Swahili to say, ‘That tickles.’”

I later was informed that I had missed that one in its entirety. Squirt told me, she said, “Ich sagte: J’ai besoin de cracher, dumbass.”

“Hey, little lady, don’t be calling me the dumbass. It’s the job of the communicator to insure the clarity of his communication,” I told her. “I will admit that my second choice was that you needed to spit.”

See what I mean about language? Which reminds me. You need to go over to Squatlo Rant and check out the John Stewart video clip he posted yesterday. It might be the funniest ten minutes of TV ever. It’s a dealie about Dr. Marcus Bachmann, the alleged gay husband of Michele. I’ve watched it a half-dozen times already.

Which might explain the silly dream I had last night. It was a camel toe dream and it was one of my “Mystery Camel Toe Series” where I see just the camel toe and have to guess who it belongs to. OK, I have to guess to whom it belongs. See what I mean?

So, I had a line-up of three beauties and I guessed the first two correctly– Sarah Palin’s camel toe and Kathy Griffin’s camel toe, a pair of my personal favorites. The third I missed by a country mile. It was a plump job, dressed in a light purple leotard of sparkly Lycra. It had a largish center meat line that I thought I recognized as another of my favorites. “That’s Oprah Winfrey,” I said to my dream’s contest announcer, Pat Sajack. “I love Oprah’s camel toe and she almost always displays it in the color purple.”

I was incredibly wrong, a fact I discovered when the bag was lifted and I saw the cherubic face and impish grin of Dr. Marcus Bachmann. Dr. Bachmann had a very convincing slug of imitation lady’s pocket meat. It was like his pretending to be a woman was something well-practiced.

I awoke from the dream in a sweat at 4:30 am and washed my mouth out with a Carta Blanca beer. I keep my favorite brew handy in a mini-fridge sitting near my bed.

Ugh. I think I need some extra therapy. Manana, y’all.

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Not A Kate Middleton Sarah Palin Kathy Griffin Chelsea Handler or Queen Elizabeth Camel Toe Story

Monday, June 27th, 2011

 

So. I have got to stop looking at the statistics-gathering devices attached to my bloggie. As I do every night before laying me (myself?) down to to sleep, I logged-on to my Admin dealie to the bloggie to see what’s up on Mooner I-Land. That’s when I check comments (always), see where my visitors live (usually), and look at top searches and top views (rarely).

When I first opened this book on the I-net, I looked at all of my statistical shit multiple times per day. In the beginning, my visitor counts read “Zero” and my visitor locations said “Nowhere.” It took quite a while for me to be found by anybody, which was no surprise to me, but once I was found– I was found.

What found me was that first bloggie posting about camel toes. You know, the one when I was over to the Sprouts Farmers’ Market and the lady smuggled her camel into the store beneath tight Lycra workout shorts. My mouth waters every time I think of those moments.

Which reminds me. Go over to Squatlo Rant at http://www.squatlo-rant.blogspot.com/ and check the posting he did last week called “Japanese Bagelheads”. It’s a story about how you use saline solution to make temporary bulges on your face. Squat has a bunch of pics to show how it works and I, of course, started wondering why not use the method to plump-up naturally deflated camel toes.

Then I, again of course, started to think of the business opportunities and created a concept for a chain of salons we’d call “Plump Da Hump”, or maybe “Pooch-Up Your Pachyderm”. We could offer services to add pocket meat volumes to both sexes– it’s almost like a Public Service kind of thingie.

We could pump-up poor Renee Zellweger to look like she’s packing the same poochies that Chelsea Handler’s camel toe so proudly displays. We could even name all of our services after the level of plumping and, holy shit I’ve had another idea– we can also do be-jeweling or whateverthefuck you call those colored adornments. And henna tattoos too!

OK, what about this. The Chealsea Handler Camel Toe would be a medium plump with a bull’s eye be-jeweled around the targeted area. Then, the Kathy Griffin Camel Tow would be slightly fuller on the one side and we’d be-jewel arrows pointing to the toe and then place the words “Suck It” above the arrows and just at the top of the bikini line.

We could do a Kate Middleton Camel Toe where we be-jewel a crown over a tastefully engorged pubic mound. That one would be a huge seller around the entire fucking globe.

Oh, and we could do waxing and dying too, you know, provide a broad base of year-round services. We could do holiday specials and dress a lady’s nether regions to look like a Christmas package with bows and cards that have the “To: and From:” dealies as additional-charge add-ons. We could serve Carta Blanca beer and wine and Margaritas as complimentary refreshments.

And we could have a skincare line of products. And everything would be organic and as green oriented as possible.

The men’s product line could possibly be as extensive as the womens’. My philosophical inspiration for the men’s line is that African tribal culture that does adornments of their penises, the Beja. The Beja are a nomadic bunch who adorn their peckers for both beauty and pleasure.

Holy shit, could that be where they got the name for be-jeweling, from the Beja’s? If so, they better be paying a royalty. I hate when people steal a person’s idea and don’t pay for it.

Doing male pecker enhancements is an idea that’s been stewing in the cauldron of my brain for many years. I, Mooner Johnson, have had such a male enhancement since childhood when, as the result of an accident, my pecker was mangled and mauled and…

Can’t talk about my accidental pecker adornment since that story is in the fucking book, and holy shit has my ADHD digressed us all over the fucking place.

What I started to say is that last night I read my bloggie statistical info only to rediscover that the main searches used to find me, second only to searches for “Mooner Johnson”, were those for “camel toes.” Why I wanted to tell you that bit of drivel is, therefore, to additionally say that each time I discover that info I have a dream about camel toes, which I then tell you, and thereforemore, the telling to you restarts and rejuvenates the camel toe search bias.

I’m unsure if this is a Catch-22 dealie or one of those circle jerks. Either way, I read the stats and then dream a camel toe dream then write a camel toe story and then read the stats, and so on. It’s no fucking wonder I’m nuts.

But imagine this, if you will, for I find a small measure of joy in it. There’s this sixteen-year-old sitting in his tiny closet-sized room in Mongolia, or some fucking place. He’s got his special sock, all clean and fluffed with Downey fabric softener, at his side. The family is asleep so he fires up his laptop and punches in “Sarah Palin camel toe” in hopes of obtaining images that will inspire him to a steamy climax.

And up pops my site! Hoo-yah!

Drink Carta Blanca beer and I’ll see you manana, y’all.

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Sex With Sarah Palin; A $50K Personal Appearance Fee Away?

Monday, June 6th, 2011

 

So. The early summer tomato harvest is finished and the big barn is brimming-over with the luscious red orbs. Efforts started early this morning moved from harvesting to processing. I’ll be in charge of grilling and smoking and Gram heads-up the sun drying team. Streaker Jones came at six am to help Gram and her crew to load up for the trip to his mushroom plant.

Everyone except Gram wears a hood for the trip. Streaker Jones is powerfully protective of the exact location of his psychedelic mushroom operations.

I’ll be smoking and grilling here to the ranch. I use a variety of woods, which I both blend and use separately, to smoke and grill tomatoes. I like mesquite for grilling. It has a flavor so strong and a fire so hot that I find it inappropriate for actual smoking. It can be too strong and make the food taste like nothing but mesquite smoke. If I wanted a smoked tomato that tasted like mesquite smoke I can always lick a mesquite briquette.

I also use oak, pecan, apple, peach and cherry wood. The oak and pecan are in big chunks of trunks and major branches. But the fruit woods are mostly smaller lengths of smaller branches and used in concert with oak or pecan. The Squirt wanted to be my main assistant for tomato smoking, so I assigned her the initial task of fetching the fruit wood sticks from the wood shed and stacking them by the smokers.

The shed sits maybe forty yards from the smokers, and I need a full cord of fruit woods for this year’s smoking. The miniature dog is thirty minutes into her job and already bitching about it.

“Holy shit, Bwana Mooner. C’est beaucoup de fucking bois.”

“Yea,” I told her, “that is a lot of wood. But you standing here bitching at me won’t get it moved.” Saying that embarrassed me. I sounded just like my Gram.

“Sie klang wie Gram, Senor Culo Agujero,” the soon-to-be-my dog said to me.

“I’m sorry, Squirt. I can be an asshole sometimes.” I hate it when I engage the same parental tools as my elders used on me. I stooped to pick her up and planted a big kiss right between her eyes. Her short fur is soft and sweet-smelling after our shower this morning.

Have I told you that Squirt and Honor the cat take showers with me now? We’re a fucking shower-taking sideshow. I’m teaching them to sing in the shower and our current song is the old Kinky Friedman and the Texas Jewboys hit, Waitress Oh Waitress, Come Sit On My Face.

Their favorite line is, “Eatin’ ain’t cheating, it sure ain’t no disgrace.” Mine too.

But here’s the thing. With Sarah Palin touring the country and saying stupid shit the last week, I had another camel toe dream with her in it. It was Sarah fucking Palin, The Daft Scots Lass and The Reckmonster in this one. The four of us were in the shower together with Squirt and the cat.

The Reckmonster made a joke by saying, “Look here, we’ve got four pussies, a dog and a giant asshole taking a shower together. Who needs the giant fucking asshole?” And they kicked me out of my own shower.

In the dream, I padded from the bathroom to lay on my bed, still dripping wet from my shower. I was there with my eyes closed and feeling sorry for myself, lamenting the loss of joy I was to have from soaping the three women into a lather. Then I felt someone snuggle into bed with me. Whoever it was sidled up beside me and began the prelims for a blow job. I didn’t open my eyes to see which lady it was because, quite honestly, given the proper circumstances I would have sex with any of them.

My order of preferences would be the Reck, the Scots Lass and then the brain dead Republican shitball. I don’t really know the Scottie except for reading her stuff over the last week, but I can tell that she’s my kind of woman. The Reckmonster can turn me on with a simple, “What the fuck?”

Sarah Palin is an elephant in a different room.

I’m ashamed to say that I would have sex with her. I have already spent maybe a hundred hours of therapy working on the problem. Translated into meaningful terms, my willingness to bang Sarah Palin is already a $20,000 problem. Hell, for a $50,000 personal appearance fee she’d likely come to the ranch and blow me.

Maybe not. That might be wishful thinking. Would I be breaking any laws to ask her? I guess my main concern would be violating the Mann Act. I could go to Arizona to mail my request since she’s in Arizona now. Seems she has an affection for the A states. But wait. Is the violation of the Mann Act if the request to break a law crosses state lines of if the act itself crosses state lines? Need to call Jeff, my attorney.

And the Scots Lass lives in South Africa, but grew up in Scotland. I’ve been married to an African woman, but not a white African woman, and not a South Africa inhabitant. I must be wondering about that stuff since she was in this dream. I find her charming and sexy as all get-out. But don’t go climbing all over my ass. Go first to the Daft Scots Lass’ site at http://www.gillianhefer.blogspot.com and read some of her stuff. Then judge my affections.

OK, and I know she’s a married mother and quite happy and all of that. I’d still, under all of the right circumstances, sex her up. Just saying.

I’m seriously fucked up. But I’m loved and I have an ample supple of icy cold Carta Blanca beer to get me through today’s grilling and smoking.

Manana, y’all.

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Kate Middleton, Osama bin Laden, Chelsea Handler Camel Toe Take A Vacation

Friday, May 6th, 2011

 

So. Now that I have your attention…

We are going on vacation. I decided to leave early, and the tour bus pulls out at 6 pm tonight. I told the crew that the bus leaves at 6-sharp, so be there or be left behind. It’s now 6 am, and Gram is already packed and sitting on the front porch with her old geezer-in-a-wheelchair.

“We ain’t missin this this wagon train, Mooner. Ole Cecil here, well he’s never been ta Florida.”

When I asked ole Cecil if going to Florida was on his bucket list, all I got was a wheeze of phlegmy breath and a look of stark-eyed terror. I then asked Gram if Cecil had some back-up oxygen bottles for the clear-tubed contraption that snaked around his head, and she told me, she said, “That ain’t my worry, Mooner. Nurse Judy– she’s the oxigeen an tha diaper lady. Me, I got tha Viagri anna toys.”

When she said the part about the toys, she patted a big Samsonite suitcase at her side. I got her that case in 1978 when she and Grandpa took an anniversary trip to Mexico. It is one of those big turtle jobbies with the indestructible sides, and large enough to carry half the books in the Library of Congress.

And also, it appears, large enough for a week’s-worth of my grandmother’s sex toys.

Mother has stocked the refrigerator on the bus with sandwich fixings, there’s ten cases of Carta Blanca beer in iced coolers (twenty more in the underneath storage dealie), and maybe two-hundred pounds of assorted varieties of tomatoes from the garden. There’s a bunch of other stuff but I don’t really give a rat’s ass about anything save my beer, my tomatoes and making sure that we have enough toilet paper.

Anyway, Aloha for a week.

Manana de la manana de la manana de la manana de la manana de la manana de la manana, y’all.

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George Takei Still My Hero; Camel Toe For Dummies

Wednesday, April 27th, 2011

 

So. I have been too busy to pay much attention here to I-net and bloggy world to have many original thoughts. Having original thoughts never stops me from blabbering, but I think you catch my drifts.

I have been getting many emails regarding camel toes and things camel toe. The same thing happened last year about this time, so I posted the following. Maybe this will explain some stuff. Reprinted from March 2010, I give you the reprint of:

Chelsea Handler Has A Great One; George Takei Said “Oh My” First On Howard Stern”

So. The weekend was great weather here and we started the hot season garden out to the ranch. We garden in a fifty-acre patch that I won in a poker game back to 1983. With all of the mouths we feed from it Gram is wanting to expand its boundaries next year. So while the rest of the crew were planting, Streaker Jones and I were spreading the compost and granite sands on the adjacent land and tilling them in.

We’ll grow alfalfa this year and then plow it under. That’s the best way to prepare your soil around here. I let Gram and Gnat decide what we plant so long as I get at least ten acres of tomatoes. I love homegrown tomatoes. Especially the old fashioned ones. You know, the purple ones and the striped ones, and those that get really big and gnarly looking.

Back to 1990, or maybe it was 1991, we grew a Merced that looked like Washington crossing the Delaware. To me, it looked more like a bunch of goat pellets stuck to the bottom of a tire-tread sandal, but Gram got her picture in the Garden Page of the Austin American Statesman anyway. That’s our Austin newspaper.

Once June hits, I carry pre-mixed salt and pepper in a shaker in a hemp cloth tote bag full of ripe tomatoes. Take them everywhere I go. Lured one of my ex-wives into my sticky web with a perfectly-seasoned beefsteak. Supplying her with tomatoes from the ranch garden is one of the conditions to our Alimony Agreement. Woman loves her tomatoes.

OK, enough about me, let’s talk about you. I had no idea that so many people did not know what a “camel toe” is. I need to thank Mrs. Che-Che La B, from up to North Dallas, for her thoughtful email and inquiry about the subject.

But, “Yes,” I do know that the camel is a pachyderm, and, “Yes,” I do know that the camel provides essential transportation, nutrition and night-time comfort to the nomadic peoples of the world. But “No”, I disagree with your thoughts that I am a brain dead Troglodyte.

I even understand how important the camel is from a cultural perspective. But I don’t get the part about sleeping with camels. Have you ever smelled a camel? Maybe all of that dry desert air kills a person’s sense of smell. Or your nose gets all dust encrusted from the sand storms and you can’t smell anything.

But back to topic. While I have always known that it has many names, I thought that camel toe was the universal nom de plume for when a woman has her pocket meat on display. Whether on purpose or by accident, I always thought the name was “camel toe” for when a lady places said meat into the display case. And I figured that every woman knew this.

Other names I have heard are “moose knuckles” and “my honey’s hams” and “girl package”. If I was naming it I think something along the lines of, “Oh my!” would be my choice. Like George Takei says on the Howard Stern Radio Show. George was Mr. Zulu on Star Trek too.

A nice lady with a well-tended and proudly displayed camel toe walks by me, I’m thinking to myself, I’m thinking, “Oh my!” Maybe I can start a new trend and create a new saying and get famous.

Oh my!

Maybe I’d need to credit George.

My Gram calls hers her “pocket poochies”. While I guess that “pocket poochies” is perfectly and properly descriptive of Gram’s camel toes, I can only hope that particular descriptive name would have limited applications. My Gram looks like she was constructed from dried goat bladders to start with. To imagine her camel toe would be traumatic. But again, “Oh my!”

But to be technical, Mrs. La B, I will quote to you the definition for Camel toe that I am sending to the people to Websters. You know Websters, the dictionary folks.

“Camel toe. Noun. From the early Egyptian meaning “Oh my!”. The result of a mature woman wearing outer garments which are pulled tight into a frontal vaginal wedgie, placing the pubic mound and crevice at maximum visual display.”

From the historical perspective, Cleopatra invented the camel toe. It seems that one of the few positive genetic flaws of all the inbreeding, which is so common among the ruling classes, was that the women offspring’s labia and surrounding mounds majoris, were truly major mounds. And these were not mounds like what glandular malfunctions cause. These mounds were meat-swollen and not swollen meat or water-retentive in nature.

I wonder what Queen Elizabeth looks like down there.

Old Cleo would have her hand maidens pluck her crotchie areas clean of hairs using tweezers made from dried shark cartilage. Cleo discovered that if the hairs were plucked one at a time, she could avoid razor rash. Of course, she didn’t call it razor rash since razors were a future invention, and the plucking took hours, of course.

When I did the research on this shark cartilage dealie, I called Ingrid over to Ingrid’s Hot Wax Emporium to ask her if we could try plucking me that way for my next ass show. Ingrid told me to get some rest and make an appointment with Dr. Sam I. Am for some therapy.

Actually, she said, “Have you lost your mind Mooner?”

Anyway, Cleopatra used her toe jobber to mesmerize Mark Anthony and Julius Caesar and a bunch of other Roman men back to the B.C. times. I think that’s maybe why Italian women lack the basic sense of humor to enjoy a free-thought discussion of the subject of camel toes to this day.

OK, maybe it should be “camel’s toe” or even “camel’s toes”. I can’t figure if that is one of those spoon fulls vs spoons full dealies.

Cleopatra would get herself all skinned-off and buffed utilizing hand-maiden-and-shark-cartilage tweezing, and then have her hand maidens anoint her polished loins with oils. The oils would be fragrant with frankincense and myrrh. Do you think she had special oil-anointing hand maidens or were they maybe multi-tasking maidens who both tweezed and anointed?

I think I could use a hand maiden or two. And why is myrrh spelled that way?

After proper exfoliation and anointing, the royal camel toe would be bound for presentation. When I heard that she had it “bound” I was kind of admiring Cleopatra for taking one for the team. You know, it sounded like when the oriental women would bind their feet up to make them attractive. Sounded painful as all get out.

But when I read the records of this on the I-net the other day, I got the sense that this binding was quite different from foot binding and that old Cleo actually enjoyed it.

And then this morning, Streaker Jones came to my office with some timely news. “Mooner, ya need ta know that Chelsea Handler is kechin a buncha crap bout her camel toe. People’s callin her a man cuase shes got her a man-sized load.”

Then he added, “I don’t lik em talkin bad bout Chelsea, Mooner. Wud ya say sumthin in yur bloggy?”

Streaker Jones is a huge Oprah Winfrey fan. But with her ending her talk show soon, I think he is changing the channel of his TV attentions. Actually, what I think is that Chelsea Handler is me with a pretty face and different plumbing. I really don’t think she is a man. If she is all I can say is, “Holy shit, I have fantasized about a man.”

I got on the E Entertainment website and sure enough, there’s like 10,000 blog comments posted about Chelsea’s camel toe, and some are quite cruel. Chelsea is funny, irreverent and inappropriate- attributes which I much admire. When I got the letter telling me I’d been voted the Most Inappropriate Man In the World, I just assumed she’s garnered the woman’s trophy.

Well, actually I didn’t get a trophy, just the letter that I framed and hung next to my other awards.

Anyway, one of my objectives in starting this blog was to perform public service. Dr. Sam I. Am said that helping others would help me get a sense of satisfaction that I don’t find other ways. So, I am offering here to provide a public service to any woman with camel toe concerns. If you are worried that you have an issue with yours, just contact me. I’ll be glad to advise.

My Gram’s best buddy, P-cubed, says that maybe I could sponsor a club to support the issue. I think maybe I can. I could have a contest for the best name for the club and everything. You know, generate some buzz.

Speaking of buzz, Roshandra called me to talk about her camel toe. She wanted me to tell you guys that a woman needs to be proud of her stuff. I don’t remember if I ever saw it displayed in classic camel toe fashion, but I can say that Roshandra has world-class stuff.

Wait. P-cubed is Penelope Paxton-Parades, who is also known here to Austin as the “Guacamole mama”.

Let me know if I can help with the club.

Drink Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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Homegrown Tomato Countdown: Ten, Nine, Ocho…

Sunday, April 3rd, 2011

 

So. Squirt and I decided to take a walk through our big garden after dinner last night. I grabbed a fresh Carta Blanca and we headed out. The garden covers a total of ten acres and Mother tends to it with the collection of what now totals five wards. The wards are but the current crop of unfortunates whom we give a place to live, and work, while they recover from whatever it is they are recovering from.

I won’t get too deep into it, again book fodder and off-limits here. But what I will do is tell you that our garden tenders this spring include a musician, a former assistant district attorney, a waitress and a second musician. Each of the four are here because they need help and this was all they could find. The Johnson family ranch is a large property with many buildings and most of the buildings are houses– the homes of the former landowners.

Over the years, I have accumulated a few thousand acres and grown the original forty into a prosperous enterprise. I’ve made quite a bit of money in my life, starting at a young age, and land is the best investment to me.

Anyway, as I strolled through the rows of corn and tomatoes and peppers, and such, it was obvious that different plant varieties were tended by different resident farmers. While most rows looked as though an amateur gardener was in charge, my treasured tomato plants are each planted with the precision of a Swiss watch. Every plant has been installed at the perfect depth, was trimmed cleanly and accurately, and the spacing and row management is concise.

“Mierda, Senor Mooner! ?Que nos jijamos en que?” Squirt exclaimed.

“Holy shit is right, Squirt. Looks like somebody’s OCD is running on high alert,” I answered.

My guess is that my mother has assigned the keyboard player the duties of tending my tomatoes. Mother knows their importance to me and always tries to mother them the most. The young man watching over my tomatoes came to us when Streaker Jones and Dixie dropped him off a few weeks ago. Seems he had arrived early for the South-by-Southwest Music Festival, jobless and looking for a gig.

This young man isn’t autistic, but Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson says he is a possible sufferer of Asperger Syndrome. He’s got a load of natural musical talent– he’s almost a savant. And he’s got a double dose of social disorders in the balance. He twitches and stares at you without blinking and he has mechanical speech mannerisms. Everything about him is guarded and he shows no emotions outwardly.

And he’s fucking adorable. When I ask him about my tomato plants, he can rattle-off the characteristics of each variety like he was reading the book. He memorized the book.

He has a notebook where he keeps his diary of each plant. Every plant is carefully numbered by row, row placement and variety. The plant’s history– whether the seed came from Johnson family stocks or the vendor if it were purchased. What date it was first sown in the greenhouse, water and compost schedules and growth results, all of that shit.

He showed me the notebook at dinner, which is why we were taking this walk. “Look, Mooner, see this number?” he asked me. The notebook jammed in my face was opened to the section titled “Tomatoes; Row Six; Area Two; Subsection Early Girl/First Planting.”

“Pull it back, son, so I can see it,” I gently said. “OK, that’s the neatest handwriting I ever saw.”

“Well of course. Now look at the notation by plant number Early Girl 16.”

I’m looking at the half-page of notes for little Missy number 16, trying, politely, to determine which of the notes he meant. When I didn’t respond appropriately to his expectations, he said, “The one in green pen, Mooner. I write all of my expected harvest notes in green. Green is the correct color for harvest notes, where red is for problems, see? Like when tomato worms make their debut, that will be notated in red. Now, look at the green note and tell me what it says.”

Like I say, the kid is adorable. “Well, lemme read it. OK, it says, ‘Anticipate ripe fruit/lower south-west quadrant/Friday 4/1/11 approx. 7:36 pm.’”

The unblinking eyes almost registered a smile. “Exactly,” he said, and he sat down to finish his meal.

So that little interchange is why the almost-my puppy known as Squirt is walking with me through the garden. “Where the fuck is Subsection Early Girl, Bwana Mooner?”

“How the shit do I know, little lady. And don’t cuss so much. You aren’t my puppy yet.”

Then I noticed the popscicle stick markers carefully placed in the soil at the base of each plant. The careful penmanship was obviously the tomato tender’s work, and each stick obviously marked the plant and correlated to the notebook references. Since Squirt can’t read well yet, I had to stoop to read the numbers on the sticks. So I’m on hands-and-knees like a baby, crawling from plant-to-plant.

“Over here. Pronto, arriba!” an excited Squirt calls me.

I jumped up and ran down the row maybe fifty feet to where she stood. The little hound was on point and she was doing her vibrating thing. Her little body was buzzing so hard that her feet were becoming buried in the soft garden soil.

“If I don’t call you off point little girl, you’re gonna be neck deep.” I chuckled and took her off point.

“Mira, Sir, look at that!” as she nudged a tomato on the lower part of the plant.

“Well I’ll be damned,” I said. “It’s ready to harvest.”

It was, and it is a beauty. It’s got one of those deep creases across the bottom that makes it resemble Kim Kardashian’s ass, and it has a little poochie gathering in the front that looks like a camel toe. My mouth started watering just thinking about salting it up.

I checked my watch and saw it read 7:35 pm. “Let’s wait one more minute before plucking it, Squirt. We don’t want to disappoint our grower.”

We finished our Carta Blanca while the sixty seconds ticked away, and counted down the last of them. “Ten, nine, ocho, siete, six, cinco, quarto, tois, deu, one!” was Squirt’s countdown.

I placed my hand under the ripened fruit and told Squirt to do the honors. She nudged it with her nose and it dropped into my hand. When held to the fading spring sunlight it brought tears to my eyes. It was the most incredible first harvest I had ever seen.

I am always amazed when my conservative, usually deeply religious, friends complain about funding for social services. As our small part, we Johnsons provide food, shelter and medical services, and opportunity for a small number of people not providing for themselves. We’re careful who we take in because we take them into our homes.

Next time I’m asked why I would do such a thing, I’ll think about that tomato.

Manana, y’all.

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Forbidden Fruit Reprint; Why Mooner Tops Google Search

Wednesday, March 2nd, 2011

 

So. It seems that many of what I’ll call “Bloggie Visitor Anomalies” (BVA’s) have been happening. Squatlo has reported that he has has spikes of more than 2,000 Korean visitors to his site in one day’s time, a BVA. When he evaluated the postings that drew the Korean visitors, Squat could find no tangible reason to attract Koreans as opposed to, say, aardvarks.

Isn’t aardvark a great word?

A buddy of mine here to Austin said that he wrote a story about his dying grandmother and the wishes she had for each of her offspring and their progeny. Within an hour of posting the bittersweet story of his Gram’s last wishes, his site was crashed with comments from porn site trackbacks and pingbacks. Another BVA.

He also could find no visible, tangible reason for the occurrence.

I have been getting significant middle European visitor spikes, BVA’s, to a story posted here in March of last year. One of my earliest postings, this story has attracted 80% of my total visitor traffic to this site. Since it was posted almost a million words ago, one of my faithful everyday readers asked me to post it again.

I shouldn’t do this because the story is in my new book and my Editorator is going to go apeshit. But I don’t really give a shit, so, here goes. This is the story that puts my website at the top of several Google searches. Reprinted from March 24, 2010, I give you:

Frobidden Fruit and How to be a Man; Sometimes it Hurts to be a Man”

So. Life is full of dichotomous situations. You know what I’m talking about- those times when you are damned if you are doing, and likewise damned for don’t-ing. I encountered one of those dichotomousses yesterday afternoon when I went over to the Sprouts there to the Arboretum.

Maybe that should be “dichotomousi”.

I wanted to take advantage of their special on sweet Italian sausage so I drove over in Gram’s Ferrari. She needed my truck to deliver some mushroom juice to a new customer, and the weather was too nice to pass-up on the hot red sports car. Besides, Italian food- Italian car. I was making fresh tomato souga with basil and garlic and secret ingredients. Souga is Italian for sauce, kind of like salsa is Spanish for salsa. Dr. Sam I. Am taught me this recipe back when she was wife/psycho therapist and not just therapist.

Look, Whole Foods is my favorite grocery store, and likewise always will be. But for certain things, Sprouts is it for me. Like the stuff that I’m OK with in a non-organic state, like grapefruit.

So. I buy my groceries, and since I was there I figured I might as well accommodate myself and get the two-bags full that fit in the tiny backseat of Gram’s car, and go to leave. Wait- two bag fulls. It has to be “fulls.” As I was lifting my two bags from the shopping cart to hustle off to my ride, my eyes were captured by a woman walking into the store.

Said woman was dressed for exercising and looked well exercised. Her cheeks were rubied and fully-blushed and she had a misting of sweat on all of the exposed skin not covered by the tight Lycra skin that was her hot pink outfit.

Of course, it is possible that the “just exercised” part of her look was just for looks, and the cheeks were blushed with makeup and her sweaty mist was sprayed-on from an atomizer. In that part of town it’s maybe 60/40 either way.

Anyway, her hair had a sprinkling of gray, she was in great shape- not ripped and bulimic looking, just sleek and smooth. She had a pretty face and inviting eyes.

And there, doing the pocket Rumba, sat the plumpest, juiciest-looking most robust camel toe I have ever seen. I mean ever! This thing looked like the woman was its caretaker, not its owner. It was incredible, and I don’t use the word “incredible” lightly.

Once my eye caught it, my eyes were caught. I stared like the moron I am from the first spotting- from maybe fifty feet out in the lot, until it rumbled its way into the store and past me. It was a wonderful day here to Austin- sunny and mild, and the clean sunlight sent cascades of sparkles off that shiny, pink fabric in hypnotic jumbles and swirls. By the time I managed to refocus my eyes I saw that the fifteen others around me were just getting their focus back as well.

“Holy shit,” remarked the elderly woman standing beside me said. Then she grabbed my arm and urged to me, “Please Mister, would you look to see if I’ve got one of those?”

I did, she didn’t. I told her, “No Darling, but I do like your belly piercing. Is that a real diamond?”

Then all the other women were getting opinions from me. I guess I looked like an expert on the subject. So after a few minutes of playing FDA inspector and passing judgment, someone suggested to me, “You outta tell that woman she’s packin. It would only be right.”

I went to the car and wedged my groceries to the back seat, got myself seated- a job into its ownself, started the car, and then started to thinking. A mind is a terrible thing to waste, but terribler in the wrong hands. Terrible-more?

My first actual thought was if steroids could possibly be the root cause behind this woman’s loaded crotch. But her muscles didn’t match steroid rage, so I discounted that. I moved on to more profitable thinking and I wondered, “If a woman has a world class camel toe, should you say something to her about it?”

A very good question, Mr. Johnson. Now, don’t shut down on me because I’m inappropriate. Go with me on this for just one more minute. I mean, think about this with me. Follow my logic tree.

OK. Supposition Number 1: the woman either knows that she’s got a double-wide flap of woman meat bulging from her crotchie, or not. Right? She either knows or doesn’t know.

Supposition Number 2: if she knows, she is proud, and: A. she wants you to look and compliment her, or: B. she’s trolling for a man that likes meaty-crotched ladies, in which case she wants you to comment.

Supposition Number 3: if she is totally unaware that she could play a stunt double for the butcher shop in the movie Rocky, then wouldn’t she want someone, like me, to let her know? Kind of like that dealie where you walk up to a stranger and say, “Look, I don’t want to pry into your personal business, but you’ve got a Caesar salad stuck in your teeth.”

You know, that kind of situation.

So I’m thinking that maybe someone does need to man-up here and talk to the lady and since I never shirk responsibility, I’ve got a man’s job to do. I turned the Ferrari engine off, endured the exercise that is getting out of the little car, and proceeded inside the store. I’m looking for the woman and realize all I need to do is follow the trail of glazed-over eyes.

I find the lady over to produce, inspecting a pair of the giant avocados that were on special at two for $1.00, a great price. Ever a man with a quick wit and light tongue I told her, “Don’t try to smuggle those out of here in your pants. That camel toe of yours will kick some avocado ass and you’ll be scooping your guacamole from a V-necked bowl.”

Now look. How much more clever and appropriate could a remark have been? I didn’t say, “Holy shit lady, how many days can your camel go between drinks,” or, “Better build a corral for that thing,” or something rude. I didn’t ask her if she was ashamed of herself for keeping the poor camel cooped up, and I for sure didn’t say, “Hey lady, all I see are his feet. Where’s the rest of your camel?” Nope, I didn’t do any of that rude shit. I tastefully let her know that I knew and let the chips fall where the fell.

Anyway, this lady got a funny look to her face, smashed the avocados in my face, slapped me (hard) on each avocado-slathered cheek, and stormed-off to find the manager.

Having experience in similar situations, I stood where I was to wait for the store manager rather than run from the store. I have found store managers to be much better listeners than the police.

So I wait for like a minute, maybe less, for lady and manager to arrive. I think Sprouts has excellent customer service. That circumstance would take at least three minutes if we were at any regular grocery store store. The lady tells the manager, a sturdy man of maybe thirty-five, her side of the story, shows the camel to to him after he asked to see the evidence, and then she slaps me again for good measure.

The manager gives me the usual look I get from retail managers in these situations, turned to the lady and says, “Thank you, Miss. Give me your name and contact information. I will take a report and handle things from here.”

So, she thanks him, gives him her info, slaps me one more time for good luck, and storms off. “You,” he says as he points a stiffened index finger in my chest, “to my office.”

We get to his office and he closes the door, points to a chair in front of his desk, and says, “Sit.” He sits down behind the desk, takes a deep breath and opens the drawer of the desk to pull out a pint bottle of Hornitos.

“Here, you first. Your exposure was far longer than mine.” He offered the bottle to me for a slug.

I obliged and passed it back and he guzzled a shot from the little bottle of tequila. He swallowed the booze with a grimace, looked first to the ceiling and then he crossed himself in classic Catholic method. “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” he almost whimpered. “I wanted to touch that thing so bad I was shaking. I had the image of pulling a rabbit out of a hat.”

“I understand, young man, but that’s a forbidden fruit,” I counseled. “Men have got to be strong in the face of these new trends in womens sportswear.” I think I’m quite a good role model for this younger set.

“I’m not calling the police or anything, but we need to stay in here until she has left the parking lot.” Then he lifted his phone and had someone bring us some limes. “We need a drink.”

A young woman of maybe nineteen came in with the limes and said, “Better call the produce distributor, Harry. We’re almost out of avocados.”

As I was driving home, recounting the incident, I decided that my logic tree needs an arborist.

Carta Blanca beer builds strong boners. Manana, y’all.

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Kate Middleton Joins Moonettes; Sarah Palin Camel Toe Wins

Wednesday, December 22nd, 2010

 

So. Prince Willie is getting himself a mooner. That’s right, Kate Middleton is a certified, documented mooner.

Cheerio, Prince William. Cheer-i-o!

I’ve long been concerned that any offspring of Prince Chuck would be too dumb to shuck the stogy ways and antiquated social graces of England’s royalty, and actually display some human traits. Too dumb, or maybe too scared to stand up to the Queen and have a real life.

Speaking of the Queen, I was planning to bitch about the other Queen today but Kate Middleton stole my heart away. I was winding up to take another swing at His Royal Highness Pope Benedict, Queen of all Catholics. The Popester and his brain-dead advisors have managed to shit in the manger right here at Christmastime and I’m mad as hell about it.

But let’s be serious for a minute. The future Queen of England is a mooner for shitsakes. Kate likes to flash her ass in public! Or would she like to flash her ass in private? The English confuse the ever-loving-shit right out of me with their Public Schools being private, and their Private Schools being public. The origins of that confusion must lie in the whole royalty business. When you add the extra layer of Your Highnesses on top of a near-democratic government, weird shit is bound to happen.

Like Prince Charles.

In case you missed the story, as university students, young Katie and her mates would routinely poke their naked bottoms out the dorm windows in proud display. Said displays were made for the entertainment of both themselves and the boy student observers. Contests were held by the viewers to determine which bared arse matched which comely coed.

As an expert on the subject, I can confidently say that I would score high grades on those tests. I didn’t see any reporting about the observers and their observations, or their scores, and that makes me wonder about the voracity of the initial reports. I wondered if it really happened.

When I questioned whether the reports of Kate’s mooning were accurate at breakfast this morning, Gram says to me, she said, “Who gives a shit, Mooner? Prince Walter’s gittin hisself a fine little lady. An she’s got good teeth.”

Gram’s right. I think Kate Middleton would have made a good fit for me at about my ex number four, or maybe number six. Those was my skinny, model-type ex-wife periods, and Katie would have made a fine match. She might also have been richer than me and be paying me alimony and buying my house.

But I’m starting to digress. What I wanted to tell you is about the dream I had last night after hearing this story. The dream hit me after I was awakened by Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry at 2:30 am. My pig and ostrich have been in this nasty lovers’ spat about Christmas gifts. Rick Perry told Rush that he felt they should be fiscally responsible adult Texans and not buy expensive, unneeded gifts for each other this Christmas.

Rushie reluctantly agreed, and had me return the cashmere cardigan– with its matching beret and scarf, a nice bottle of wine, and a pair of velvet-lined leg shackles he had purchased as his gifts for the Rick. Personally, I think the giant bird would look splendid dressed in the high quality wool garments. I had envisioned the two of them coming out of the closet as a couple this Christmas. Those two dressed in their finest, we would toast them with glasses of the tasty wine Rush bought Rick

I was unsettled, however, thinking about the shackles.

Anyway, nobody bothered to tell Squirt that the boys were having a no gifts Xmas, and when Rush Limbaugh asked her where she and I were going yesterday afternoon, she told him.

“Senor Mooner e moi es going to la biblioteca primavera, and then to le Body Oil Store,” the Squirt told him.

Well, that was all it took to start a war because the Body Oil Store is Rush’s favorite and he figured out that Ricky was cheating on him with a gift. I was startled awake at 2:30 last night as the two of them fought it out in my closet. Rush was quite pissed and accused his lover of being a Republican go-back-on-his-word liar like his namesake.

I try to stay neutral with them, but Rush Limbaugh was spot on with this assessment. I got them separated and settled back down, and I managed to get to sleep. That’s when I had this dream. I was up to New York to be in this big Broadway production called, “Mooner and the Moonettes Present: Camel Toes and Moon Shows, a Christmas Extravaganza.”

Other than myself, the cast consisted of all my regular dream girls– Kath Griffin, Sarah Palin, Chelsea Handler, Oprah Winfrey, Sandra Bullock, Hilary Clinton and Renee Zelwigger. Kate Middleton and a dozen of her classmates filled out the cast, and they were the Moonettes.

We had one skit where there was a set that was just like the window set dealie on the old TV show, Laugh In. You remember, the Rowan and Martin show that had Goldie Hawn, and Henry Gibson and the rest. I saw a picture of Goldie a few weeks back where she was splashing her camel toe and I must say, Goldie’s holding her own.

Instead of having cast members open their window and tell a joke, we would either flash a moon as we open the window flaps, or display a tastefully-decorated camel toe. There were elves with those air cannon dealies firing tee shirts to audience members making correct guesses as to who’s toe or butt was poking out the window.

In telling you this dream story I just got a terrible feeling deep in the pit of my stomach. I had my choice of one each camel toe owner and butt flasher to take home with me after the show. I chose Kate Middleton, of course, since this was a KM dream.

But my choice of camel toe owners disturbs me. So I wouldn’t hurt any of my regulars’ feelings, I played that eeenie-meanie-minie-moe game to choose my camel toe girl. I kept going with that “My mother told me to…” business until I landed on Sarah Palin.

I actually selected Sarah Palin over my other ladies.

That makes me a sick fucker. A really sick fucker. I would have sex with Sarah Palin if I weren’t in a committed relationship, and I could tape her mouth shut. Then again, I’d bet she’s got a randy mouth on her when she’s all sexed up. She and Kate Middleton would make a hell of a bed full of women. I’d dress Kate as a reindeer and Sarah as a hunter.

My god would you listen to me. I need a special therapy session and a Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

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