Archive for the ‘Carta Blanca Beer’ Category

Anybody Scared Yet?; Votes Matter

Wednesday, May 10th, 2017

So. It’s been an interesting few weeks of collecting events upon which I shall, and will, report to you on these pages, hereinafter presented. Having spent considerable effort in debate with the dogs about what (which?) order these various events should (shall?) be presented, the Goat Dog and I have voted a quorum over the Squirt.

“Looka here, dumbass,” the Squirt told me upon hearing the final ballot tally, “Nobody really gives a shit what order you use. My money is that you have already forgotten half of what you were going to say, because you can’t remember what you did five minutes ago much less the chronological order of random occurrences from the last two weeks.”

“Wrong-o, Chuckalita. I’ve been practicing memory tricks from that book whatshername gave me, you know the one with the blue cover that I left over to the hamburger joint last week. Those memory exercises have helped remind me that I have the dreaded ADD, which, in turn, has assisted with rememberating to put vinegar in the dish washer before I start it.”

A quarter-cup of cheap vinegar will add years to your dish washer’s life, your dish washer being mechanical or carbon-based either way. Yoda and I voted on a chronological ordering of the things we wished presented for your reading pleasure (displeasure) and the Squirt wanted them mentioned in ascending order of their importance in our lives. Upon further cogitation, it seems, mayhaps, that the best efforts will be to mention what events I can remember as they come to mind. Starting with what I’ll call “grocery wars”.

Item one: I was over to the Kroger—the big one out on the eastside on Loop 288—shopping for the ingredients for mint julips to be sipped as we watched the Kentucky Derby. Having decided that we needed a new family tradition, the dogs voted for the Derby against my wanting to add the Texas spring football game to our familial traditions. Never having had a mint julip, as my beverage preferences are strongly tilted to not-sweet drinks, I was somewhat at a disadvantage on this shopping spree. I knew I needed bourbon, which I had, and I was reasonably certain I needed mint. It was that whole “julip” thingie whereat I remained flummoxed while searching the aisles. I was surveying the book aisle for a drink mixing tome when a quite pleasant looking lady caught my eye as she glanced at me—from askance—as I studied the bookshelves.

“Are you alright, sir?”

“Who, me? I asked. “Why I’m better than maple surple.”

Where, inthefuck, did that come from? Wasn’t it my dead sister who couldn’t say syrup, in much the same way one of my sons called the Nickelodeon TV show “nick-a-noke-a-nik”?

Must have been something in the sweet countenance of the woman. I turned to the nice lady and noticed she was scooting sideways toward the magazines farther (further?) down. “You seem to stir fond memories in me, Miss. Might you be interested in a cuppa Joe, or maybe a mint julip?”

Turns out she had no time in that her mother is in hospice and in need a final batch of reading materials to fill her last hours.

Remembering I needed a jar of tomatoes for some sauce for our Derby dinner, I left the reading section to find canned veggies, and upon entering that area I encountered an elderly couple—she on a walker and he holding her elbow as encouragement. Moving at a snail’s pace as they blocked my entry to the wide pathway, I debated walking around to get to the far end of this aisle where the jarred to-maters sat shelved. But the tenderness of this couple’s saunter struck a chord in me, and I chose to watch them amble, then stop at the canned peas and beans area.

They did a swinging gate maneuver—a slow-motion affair that would have gained the affection of any marching band director—and after a few minutes left room for me to pass. I walked around them to the tomatoes, stooped, and found that the choices had expanded. Having additional choices is both a good and bad dealio for me. I like choices, but choosing can be problematic, so I must have spent quite a while stooped because the couple had managed to matriculate from peas and beans to be situated into alignment with me—her at my back and him at her side. They toddled to where her walker almost touched my shoulder and they stopped.

I heard him ask, “Do we need Depends?”

The old girl giggled and sniffled a snotty nose, and then I heard a sound that answered his question in a strong affirmative.

“Pppshlooop!”

When my father lay on his death bed, filled with caustic chemical drugs and the cancer that was consuming the last vestiges of his life, his bowel movements had a unique odor. I started having another flashback, this one to the time of Daddy’s death as the smells settled over me from the ass end of the woman. The acrid odor of Daddy’s death clung like that time I ran through a blackberry thicket that was infested with a fresh tent caterpillar infestation. I was covered with sticky webs that only further grabbed skin and hair and clothes as I tried to get them off.

As the smells of the woman’s movement blanketed me, tears filled my eyes—not from the odors, but the memory. She managed to trigger my sense of loss for my father and my sister. I wasn’t quite blubbering crouched there in front of the tomatoes, but I did manage to re-catch the eye of the lady from the reading aisle when she turned the corner and came my direction.

The dogs and I had Manhattans as we watched the horse races, and beef tacos instead of the planned pasta with tomato sauce for dinner. Squirt won the fifteen dollars we wagered on the Derby and she told me she would use it to buy me another book for my memory.

A next event mention started with a comment from the Squirt. Seems she’s been steering my life with increasing frequencies. We have been debating what to do for a vacation this summer and deciding as well do we even want to take one. “This might be the last time I get to take a vacation, Mooner, she told me. “If my back goes out again…”

We then started talking “what if last times”. What if the next vacation is our last, next birthday last birthday, last dance, last kiss, last cow leg bone to gnaw on, last icy cold Carta Blanca beer to swill on a last summer night? Talking about lasts made me weepy. I started tearing up over memories of past lasts and then started bawling when considering future lasts. Since then the three of us have decided to not let the last of anything important have already happened.

In this morning’s psycho therapy phone session, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson told me that it is likely some stress that is triggering the sorrowful memories. “Anything stressing you out?”

Duh!   “Can you say “President Donald J. Trump?” my response.

Fuck Walmart and every single Trump voter!

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Insights; I Call Your Epiphany And Raise You Three Fates

Tuesday, November 29th, 2016

So. The last month has been a blur. Blurred hours either racing past or passing so slowly as to be nearly motionless; blurry decision making caused by both my own indecisivenesses, and the desired and not quite so desired, inputs from others; fuzzy thoughts swirling through the often disconnected synapses of my fevered brain; the disjointed confusion of not clear intentions of others—loved ones, friends, Mother.

The blur of second-guessing. Was it time to move? Did I choose the right place? Did America really elect Donald J. Trump as our next President? Really?

OK, here’s some facts for you. I moved back to Texas to be in more of a position to assist Sister in caring for Mother. Original intentions were to move back into the family homestead there to Austin, a ninety-minute drive to Mother’s dementia-filled side. After a weeklong visit headquartered in Austin, the daily trips to San Antonio proved too much for me. Not the commutes, the visits. I enjoyed the Hill Country drives racing to-and-fro, but daily contacts proved to be an overload of my mind’s few family circuits not previously ravaged by the maternal relationship.

Then, with an overloading of fresh mushroom juice, a strain of pot named “Cherry Bomb”, and a case of icy Carta Blanca beer drunk whilst sitting dockside with my best buddy, Streaker Jones.

“Don’t need ta come all tha way home, Mooner. Come back in degrees or you’ll go nuts.”

Yesterday, I was walking the dogs around my new neighborhood here to Denton, Texas—the best thing found that resembles my beloved Austin of thirty years ago. Two-college town, twenty-minute drive edge-to-edge, two Hilary signs per each Trump banner, and quite nice people. In two weeks I’ve met a rainbow coalition of neighbors and the puppies have settled in nicely. Yoda and I have already started our territorial marking of the smallish, fenced backyard, and the Squirt came within an inch of grabbing a squirrel’s tail.

“I hate those snittering little fuckers, Mooner. Wait ‘till I get ahold a one.”

We drove back from Thanksgiving down south Friday morning after a mixed-results holiday, and found many neighbors putting out their Xmas decorations. The Guatemalan family on one side have what must be a thousand lights strewn about walls, bushes and lawn. Good thing I’ve got blackout drapes in the master. Many of his bulbs are the old fashioned, larger incandescent type that sound like a 22-cal rifle shot when slammed into concrete.

One of my worst whippings came after getting caught stealing those lights from the elaborate Xmas display of a west Austin mansion. Got caught breaking them on the loading dock over to the downtown Post Office building. Now Travis County Sheriff Woozie Wozniack was my accomplice, and that shithead got off all punishments by blaming everything on me.

Was my idea, we drove my car, had smoked my pot, and my choice of the well-patrolled Post Office building to finish our act of vandalism. Got caught, however, because his fat ass couldn’t break twenty seconds in a ten-yard dash to an open car door.

Oh, and speaking of cars. A couple months ago my left hip started hurting—a ball joint already afflicted with arthritis was starting to ache with mind-numbing intensity. Long story shortened for reader’s sake, it was the operating of the clutch pedal in my hot rod Subaru causing the new pains. Seating position required me to lift my hip off the seat to shift gears, motions that un-naturally angulated the use of that joint, causing routine grinding of soft tissues and hard alike. “Get a new car or suffer,” was the prognosis.

Replacement is a Chevy SS. Look it up:  http://www.motortrend.com/cars/chevrolet/ss/2015/2015-chevrolet-ss-second-test-review/

OK, the ADD is starting to take control more intensely than the traction control button in my SS. We were walking the neighborhood sidewalk circuit yesterday, dogs on long leashes and my thoughts fully untethered. I was thinking about a hand of poker I played at my new casino, an establishment located thirty minutes from locking our back door. I slow-played a set of sixes and lost to a runner-runner flush, a fate fully deserved by me for letting a loose player stay in the hand for free. I’ve decided to look at poker as a profession and am working to get my game repaired.

We’d stopped to let the Squirt growl and bark at a tree rat while I examined my dumb actions at a house with a yard-full of those molded plastic Xmas scenes. Toy soldiers, nativity scene, Three Wise Guys, wrapped packages—you know, that sort of puffy plastic stuff. I was, I guess, in a poker evaluation fog.

“Hey you, what the fuck? You, standing in my grass there with the dogs!”

Huh? “Huh, you talking to me? I asked.

“Yea, you. Your fucking dog just pissed on baby Jesus!”

Dogs got extra treats upon our return to Johnson Family Denton Central Headquarters, and my head cleared somewhat. It started to look like this neighborhood in this town was a good place to safe harbor for at least the next few years.

“This was a good choice, Squirty girl. I think we’ll be happy here.” A long walk can refresh your thinkings.

My sweet brown puppy jumped into my lap, a dead serious look on her face. “You know, Yoda pissed on that plastic on his own. I didn’t say one word. I was figuring a way to climb that tree and snatch that jabber mouth by his throat. I know I can catch them if I can get high enough. I’m thinking you can build me a ladder, and…”

Tis the season to Fuck Walmart!

 

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Maybe, Baby; Resistance To Maturities

Monday, August 15th, 2016

So. On this fine Sunday morning Santa Fe has awakened to crisp 51-degree air with crystalline skies serving as a canvas for the flat clouds of grey moisture typical of this season. For our part, the puppies have shit-showered-shaved and eaten their first meal of the day, and I’ve been awake long enough to have consumed three cuppa Joes, played two quickie poker tournaments on the Inet, walked the perimeters of La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe in search of flies, killed three of said flies with my salt-filled air gun custom-made for fly killing, and still, and at that alas, and had no fucking Sunday newspaper.
My paper always arrives before five in the am, except, heretofore, on those rare occasions when the press breaks or it snows so much the delivery personages cannot get about. That consistency of delivery result results in certain expectations in me, said expectations counted upon within the confines of the obsessive/compulsive regimens woven together into the fabric that somewhat controls my fevered ADD-addled mental processings. It is the morning structures of event stringings that carry the most weight in my attempts to wrench control of my focus and concentrations from Mr. Evil, the madman who lurks deep within my psyche.
Said another way, I have specific routines, which when properly followed, assist me to spend less of the day that follows in the State of Fucked. Having said that, those of you who know me have a clear understanding of what my day does, and will continue to look like, now that I’m visiting the State of Fucked while under the controls of Mr. Evil. I hate visiting the State of Fucked, and as I have aged, Mr. Evil’s presence has become more aggravating than you can imagine.
“Hey Mooner. Yoo-hoo Mooner! Hey you, fuckbrain, stop writing and look over here at me…You know you can’t ignore me, your newspaper is late!…No, look over there…Did you turn the burner off with that last cup of coffee?…When was the last time you saw an actual nekid woman?…Did you hear what Trump said?…Ali McGraw on your left!”
There’s another reason for my consternations in spite of this beautiful morning. We put La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe on the market for sale—what I thought a solid yet unremarkable effort made by me to appear concerned about my family back to Texas—thinking there would be no sale at my price and I could say, “Sorry, Gram, sorry Sister, I tried but the real estate market is too soft here right now. I’ll try again in 2020.”
Two showings, two contract offers. The first was less than asking price and I rejected it summarily. The second, well the second was for full price, which forced its acceptance, and we’ve had two more showings wanting to know if the contract falls off. A Christian would look at these events and say, “That’s God’s hand, son. He works in mysterious ways.”
Me, for my part in all of this, I realize that my understanding of the housing market has surpassed my knowledge and I’m unlikely to have any reasonable excuse for not moving back to my family in Tejas, home of Guv’vy Abbott sans Costello. Nothing funny about that prick.
The Squirt and I were talking about this conundrum Saturday night as we sat with cold beers, smushed avocado-not guacamole with chips and handmade by us salsa, and pain pills. The pain pills were in response to Squirt’s reoccurring spinal condition wherein she loses operational benefits of one, or both back legs, and the beer was Stella Artois—both situational events out of my control. As a Carta Blanca drinker since birth, it aggravates the shit out of me to not find it, and as a father I’m sad to the bone I can’t help my puppy live forever.
I was mooning and fretting and whimpering on, and on, so Squirt told me, she says, “Stop fretting, dickwad, there’s good news in all of this. You’ll get fresh veggies from Gram’s garden, SAC Ellen still lives in that little place over on the Fifties, and you can spend more time with Mother.”
“Not comforting, sweetie pie. Santa Fe has a great farmers’ market, the last time I saw SAC Ellen she locked the door in my face, and as for Mother…”
“Jesus, but you’re a half-empty Bozo. OK, think of this. My back will be better in the warmer climate.”
Can’t argue her points, but I’m still not more happy than not happy. Then, again, maybe I can gain comfort in the fact that I’m making a major decision based upon the needs of others in my life and not on my own whims. Maybe this is the first ever time I’ve done so and therein lies my rubs. Maybe sacrifice for others is such an uncomfortable garment because I’ve never fitted it to my frame. Maybe I can’t find pleasure because I’m too conceited and center-self’ed to have joy in helping others.
Maybe I’ve never matured as a man, or grown to know the value of putting others first. And maybe I’m an ADD-addled fuckbrain who can’t get out of his own way. And maybe we should all:
FUCK WALMART!

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The Garden Is In; Yoga Is For Lovers

Sunday, May 19th, 2013

 

So. The dogs and I have been landscaping and garden planting, and I must admit that I find myself both impressed with our results, and, likewise, satisfied with the efforts. The reasons I’m impressed with the results are obvious—good design, personal preferences considered all around, and strong team participation.

“No, no, shithead, get ones that already have tomatoes on them. I’m hungry.”

That was the Squirt when we were over to the Aqua Fria Nursery yesterday choosing garden plants. If you know anything about us Johnsons, you know that we are absolute freaks for homegrown foodstuffs and totally bonkers for tomatoes raised by our own hands. Squirtie and I were in the big greenhouse where the nursery keeps the dozens-of-varieties of heirloom and regionally-adaptive tomato plants that thrive here. We were arguing about “is it smarter to get healthy, barren plants or weak ones already fruited”, and I was pushing for strong starter plants. The diminutive brown-furred smart mouth wanted weak plants pre-adorned with snacks for the ride home.

“Sir,” a not all that friendly voice said from the open entry in the plastic-covered greenhouse. “There, you, sir, the big man in the dirty shirt with the noisy dog. Do you also own a white dog that looks like that Star Wars gremlin?”

“Why that would be my Yoda, sir. Isn’t he a cute little shitbird?”

“That ugly mutt of yours just ate our last three flats of Thai basil, five one-gallon spinach, and is now started on the Greek oregano. Will you be paying cash or credit, sir?”

When we finally had a tabulation on the damages, I told the Squirt as we were checking out, I said, “Well, at least his farts won’t smell so bad. Asshole’s been eating the stink weed growing behind the shed and he’s had the gag gas.”

My puppy giggled and said, “Yea, he’ll be farting Pad Thai and spanikopita gas. If he gets a-hold of the Italian parsley, he’ll be an international fart festival.”

Reality is often different than imaginations. I was awakened last night by bedsheets billowed with rancid dog gas and a pile of plant stems that had been puked half on the edge of my bedside rug and the other half on my socks. Which reminds me.

Am I the only one who has become more tolerant of stuff as I age? Ten years ago, just the thought of a mouthful of short dog hairs would stir my gag reflex. Now, I simply think of it as roughage. I don’t gak up fur balls like a cat, but I do often crap small patches of brown and white fabric. I clean up animal turds as a routine and don’t even bitch so long as it’s solid.

OK, stop. As I sit here bragging on my maturities, I realize that my growing tolerances are with animals and I’m becoming less tolerant of asswipe humans. The number of humans I want to thump on the nose grows daily. If I’m ever to meet that right-wing goat fucker, Texas Senator Ted “Cruzin’ for a Bruzin’” Crudz, I’mma wind-up a nose thwack like never before delivered.

Anyway, I was sitting here early this morning with my first cuppa Joe. It was a quite strong and bitter brew, my favorite. As I gazed at the small, just-planted vegetable garden through the open window of my office, the dogs were out back standing—tails wagging—with their snouts jammed through the small crack between the back gates here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. Squirt left the gates and walked over to push her head through the rabbit fencing I placed around the tomato plants. She grabbed what appeared to be the largest Cherokee Purple that was a week from harvest and trotted back to the fence. She pushed the dark purple orb through the crack, wagged her tail and ran toward the house.

I watched as the goat dog started grazing in the dill and mint section and heard tiny puppy toe nails ticking on the wood floors. The Squirt skidded the corner from the hallway into the office, jumped into my lap, planted front paws on my chest, jammed her face into mine and said to me, she said, “Shit, shower and shave, asshole, and put on your tights and that new Humane Society tee shirt you got from the animal shelter last weekend. We’re going to go yoga.”

“Fuck yoga, little lady, we’re cleaning this house today. We’ve got company coming the next three weekends, including Mother.”

Squirt jumped off my lap and headed from the room. As she left, she flipped over her shoulder, she said to me, “Fine with me, shithead. But just so you know, Rooster the Dalmatian knows a Chow dog from Second Street who knows Ali McGraw’s dog, and Khan—the Chow dog—says that Ali does yoga most days at the place up the street.”

That was six hours, one shit-shower-and-shave, and four hour-long yoga classes ago, and who would name a Dalmatian “Roster”? I’m cramped from ears-to-knee caps and I can’t feel my pecker. Balls are swollen from the natural squishing that happens with some of those stupid yoga positions, but that’s not a happy ball swelling. Happy ball swellings occur differently, more naturally.

Anyway, I couldn’t last long enough to see if Ms. McGraw made it to an afternoon yoga class today and now I’m too sore to clean house. And that reminds me of that tantra yoga shit—you know, that yoga wherein you’re supposed to have six-hour sex.

I now believe it’s possible, and that reminds me to tell you something that I have already forgotten. Fucking ADD. I’m having a cold Carta Blanca while I decide about dinner. Manana, y’all.

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Antimatter Matters?- Mooner’s Latest Scientific Treatise

Saturday, March 9th, 2013

 

So. It all started about a month ago. This unlikely chain of events that has created a wonderful mass of conflicting emotions never before experienced by me. It started, as many of my New Mexico unlikely chains of events do, with a conversation with the Squirt.

“Looka here, asshole,” the adorable bundle of brown fur and unfettered opinions told me this one Wednesday afternoon. She and the goat dog were playing in the back yard here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe, and I was sitting on the red stone wall—drinking Carta Blanca beer and sucking on a doobie fat as a frankfurter—while commenting on the state of my love life.

Squirt had walked over to where I sat, jumped into my lap and stuck her nose in my face. “Listen to me, shithead. You need to find something to occupy your time before Yoda and I take out a contract on you. You’re driving us batshit crazy with your moping around, and Honor the cat knows a guy who knows a guy.”

Huh? Was she telling me they were tired of all my parenting and animal husbandry? “What the fuck are you talking about, little lady? I rededicated my life to being a better parent to all my pets, and since Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are stuck in Austin and the fucking cat only visits on whole fish dinner days, you two puppies are the beneficiaries of all my love and affection.”

“You’re loving us to death, Bwana Mooner. Find something to do away from the house or I swear, we’ll have you snuffed out. We’ve saved all our allowances and we can cover the five-grand price tag.”

Maybe it was a bad idea to raise their allowances. Which brings up a point. How much allowance should parents give their kids? What should they do for that weekly stipend?

“Contracts for a hit are two-way streets, shitbird, but I guess I get your point. Maybe something will come up,” I told her.

And that reminds me. I was at the computer playing a game of Spider Solitaire. I had but one stack of cards to play and I hadn’t turned a single five card. Seriously, eight decks of cards in play and I’ve seen at least sixty cards and can’t turn a single fucking five. “Where are all the fucking fives?” I almost yelled at my computer screen as I jabbed the button to turn my last ten cards. And there, big as life, were eight fucking fives. Swear to God. All present and accounted for, and all with no place to go.

After first cussing and then staring in wonderment at the eight fives and attempting to calculate the odds of the event, I started surfing around somewhere on the great I-net. I came across a video on Antimatter—you know, that stuff that is the other dimensional mirror image of actual real-life matter shit that famous physicist, Paul Diroc, discovered back to the 1920’s sometime. Story goes that the Big Bang should have produced antimatter in equal amounts to actual matter, but there’s this huge shortage of antimatter. One theory says that there’s this entire second antimatter universe that suffers a shortage of matter, but I have a second theory that holds as much water as that one.

See me, I am firmly convinced that science hasn’t quantified all the antimatter assimilated into the hearts and minds of America’s right-wing Christian conservative fuckballs. Physicists say that one milligram of antimatter is enough to to match that of the Hiroshima Fat Boy bomb. I say that the antimatter in our right-wingers is enough to destroy the world.

Anyway, the day after the Squirt threatened to have me eliminated, I had lunch with some friends from Albuquerque who own the largest and finest business of its kind in all of New Mexico. Smart, fine people I’ve known for decades. They asked how I was doing and when I told them of my dog’s plans, the man said to me, he said, “Well, maybe this is a coincidence of good fate, but we’re doing so much business in Santa Fe that we want to open an office here. How about you run it for us?”

After three-seconds of serious and detailed consideration, I said, “OK, when do I start?”

I’ll do anything to stay alive, including work for someone else. I love my life even without sex. Maybe if I was getting sex I wouldn’t be able to stand it. Maybe there is something as being too happy. Maybe a person’s heart would explode if their life was filled with too much joy.

Bottom line—and the conflictions mentioned way up there in the beginning, herein—is that I’ve been working my ass off and having a ball while at it. I haven’t worked as an employee since I was a kid, and I have never in my life been involved in any business enterprise wherein I had no financial risk to the business’ success and profitability. My new boss and friend says that my fiscal responsibility and management experience make me especially well suited for his needs. I say that the constant worry that it isn’t my money at risk is a burden. I’ve never worried about costing another person money if I make a bad business decision. All my boo-boos, blunders and basically hard-headed mistakes have only cost myself. Now I carry the additional burden that if I fuck something up it hurts another human whom I care for. OK, stop. My mistakes only hurt the finances of people for whom I care.

Ugh! Being an employee is tough.

But I love what I’m doing and having a blast doing it, and that reminds me of something else. The Holy Roman Catholic Church is electing a new Pope. Do you think he’ll be vetted to first determine if he’s a pedophile, and second, determine if he’ll move the Catholic position on rapist priests into at least the Nineteenth Century?

Me, I’m thinking not. I think that as long as The Church won’t allow women to become leaders and they prey upon the purses of the World’s poor and uneducated, that institution will still be run by fucking Nazis.

Maybe if they make the black guy Pope I’ll feel differently. Until then, fuck the Pope and fuck Walmart too!

Manana, y’all. OK, maybe manana de la manana or thereabouts.

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Don Henley Is An Asshole; Music Mania For The Instable Mind

Monday, December 31st, 2012

 

So. It’s New Year’s Eve and we’re back to home at La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. We left Austin early yesterday to try to beat the expected snow, and did—not because we, as a group of three, made a concerted and conjoined attempt at a timely arrival—manage to arrive ahead of the snow. The only reason we beat the snow and slick driving conditions is because the snow didn’t start until after midnight instead of before noon as predicted.

The several times I’ve made that drive alone, it’s taken right at twelve hours—half-a-day at the wheel including breaks to pee, eat and gas-up. With the two asshole dogs I call my Santa Fe family, yesterday’s trip took fourteen hours and a few extra minutes.

“I’m not squating in a patch of goat burrs and tumbleweeds, shithead,” the Squirt informed me when I let her out in Littlefield, Texas to do her business. “You sit and roll your pecker around first and I’ll piss after.”

I bitched at her a few minutes as she listened with a look of undistilled intemperance plastered on her quite cute little face. I wrapped it up with a, “You are sooooo finicky!”

“And you, Bwana Mooner, are an asshole. Remember that time when you sat in a prickly pear cactus?”

She had a point. I’ll not bore you with her point other than to say that she made it and to ask you to think “cucumber-shaped pin cushion”. You can buy my silly fucking book and get the extended version of that story. And a lot more silly shit as well. The book would have made a great stocking stuffer if you’d fucking bought it. Amazon had one listed for sale for ninety-eight-cents. As for condition, the listing said, “New, except for I read the first two pages, has vomit stains.”

“You’ve got a point,” little lady, I told my adorable puppy. “I don’t want to be picking needles from your little tooter.”

I drove from the gas station back into a small, Littlefield, Texas neighborhood to seek an appropriate yard in which to pee. “There!” Squirt shouted, “the one with the big Santa and all his elves.”

The yard we chose was covered with winter-browned Bermuda grass cut at the suggested three inches tall and littered with dozens of those shitty blow-up Christmas characters. Those plastic balloons seem to demonstrate what Christmas is to me—trashy, cheap and stupid—so Squirt’s first choice became mine. Ours.

Squirt chose to pee next to one of the eight tiny reindeer, and the goat dog hiked his leg on an inflated plastic present. Yoda lost his balance and fell into the balloon box and was bounced back onto his ass. That made me start laughing and caused my pee stream to travel from the cedar bush and onto the string of lights running all over the yard.

I was glad the lights were off.

As for Austin, I had a great and terrible time. I got to see the whole family and loved that, and I spent two full days in psycho therapy with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and hate the results. I saw the good doctor to work on my issues with my mother, as directed by God. Not that I’m blaming God for my problems, mind you, but it was Her and His instructions that I “Find a way to love your mother” or words to that effect.

Since I could find no reason to obey God’s instructions much less a way to perfect them, I knew that psycho therapy was my only hope of fulfilling that prophesy. To summarize twenty hours of therapy sessions, please allow me to simply quote the bitch I call my ex-wife number one.

“You must forgive your mother, Mooner. You can never accept her terrible actions and words until you do so. Mother can’t help herself, my dear ex-hubby, it’s just how she is. Forgive her.”

I could have saved myself nineteen hours and fifty-nine minutes of aggravation if I’d have simply replied, “OK, I’ll do that.” Instead, I said, “Fuck that, fuck her and fuck you too!”

Look, I hate that “forgiveness” bullshit. Do you have any fucking idea how much work that takes? How much personal sacrifice it requires to let go of a lifetime’s hurt and pain and tears?

And anger? Ugh.

My sessions were last Wednesday and Thursday, and my last words to my therapist as I left her were, “I still love you, Sammie, have a great New Year, and fuck you—I won’t forgive her.”

I felt sanctimonious and satisfied both. “No fucking way!” I said to myself as I drove home to the ranch. Might have said it fifty times on the way. I stopped over to the Sprouts store to say “Howdy” to the store manager and grab some avocados for dinner. We roasted a goat and half a pig for Xmas and were having leftovers packed in tortillas. When I got home, Gram asked me, “Where’s tha avie-caddies, Mooner?”

“Shit,” I responded. “Shit, shit and shit some more.”

I returned from a second trip to Sprouts just as dinner was set on the table. “Supper cain’t wait on yer lack a tension onna details, sonnyboy. You need ta git ya some therapy, an’ quick!”

OK, stop. I’ve neglected a small detail of this story. You guys know that Don Henley song Heart of the Matter? Fucking ex-Eagle pussy asshole.

When I got into the GTO when I left Dr. Sammie’s place, I put the tranny in Drive and left a scratch of rubber char on the pavement in her lot. “No fucking way!” I shouted, as I looked over my shoulder at her office door. I drove a few blocks and punched the On button of the radio. “And now from 1989, here’s Don Henley.” That fucking song started, and before I paid enough attention, it got to the chorus.

“Forgiveness… Forgiveness… Even if, even if you don’t love me anymore.”

I slammed my hand at the radio to turn it off, missed the Off button and instead turned it up. “There’s a yearning undefined and people full of rage. We all need a little tenderness, how can love survive in such a graceless age?”

I was livid. I pulled the GTO to the curb and made a huge event of turning the radio off. “Mother… Fuck-er!”

I was screaming at the radio. I then drove to Sprouts in a semi rage where I promptly forgot my avocados and purchased three cases of Carta Blanca beer instead. My buddy Henry the manager was off, and likely a good thing. When I drove home, that fucking song was stuck inside my head, like a broken record.

I washed and peeled the avocados and mashed them with garlic, onion and salt and pepper. Everyone was already seated so there was but one chair open for me to park my ass. Since I no longer fully-reside there, my seat at the head of the table is now filled with the ass of the weathered old goat bladder I call Gram.

“Ain’t yer chair no longer, shithead. You done abmolated it when ya moved yer ass over to Santa Fe. Now sit down next ta yer Mother an shut yer yapper.”

“It’s abdicated, Gram, and can’t we trade just seats for tonight?”

All I got was the evil eye in response, so I sat in the chair next to Mother, with Aunt Hilda on the other side. I set the big bowl of green goodness on the table and said, “Let’s eat.”

My mother took the spoon first and put a tiny dollop on her plate. She then took the fork and poked its tines into the dollop, an action that deposited four insy bits of green. She wiped the four drops onto her tongue, made a face and washed her mouth with iced tea.

“I can’t eat that. It tastes like grass paste. Did you ruin all the avocados, Mooner, or might there be a few for some proper guacamole?”

Mother’s words bit into me like a swarm of piranha.

OK, stop. I, Butcher Einstein “Mooner” Johnson, have a date. That’s right, and actual New Years Eve fucking date! And I’m already late to get ready, so let’s stop here at 1,437 words for now.

Happy New One, Fuck Walmart, and manana, y’all.

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Smarty Pants Silly Phones; Mooner Solves Voter Fraud

Tuesday, October 2nd, 2012

 

So. I got a phone call from a buddy last night who wanted to schedule a visit to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. Since I left my trusty personal assistant, the lovely and charming Mz. Gnat, back to Austin to run our business affairs, I’m required to perform her jobs on my own behalf. Gnat has been with me for over twenty years—a story you can read if you buy my stupid fucking book by clicking over there =====}}} on any of the linksters that mention Full RisingMooner.

I have so many requests for extended-stay visits that I bought a motel software package to handle the reservations and accommodations for my many guests—a task normally performed by Gnat. The software package arrived yesterday afternoon by US Postal’s daily to-your-home delivery system two days after I ordered it.

Which reminds me. Who, inthefuck, would want to kill the United States Postal Service? I mean who other than greedy businessmen who want to privatize it for their own personal gains.

I took my new software program back inside, unwrapped it, glanced at the installation instructions and jammed the round plastic disc into my computer, and began operations. All tasks normally performed by Gnat.

Two hours later, I called Gnat and scheduled her a visit to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. I think she can fix the messes I’ve made in my life the last two weeks in New Mexico in a month, or so.

Which reminds me. This entire Voter Registration business is stupid.

S T U P I D !!!

OK, look, I get it that we need to register voters in some fashion in order to prevent the rampant Republican voter fraud perpetrated by the RNC. I get it that we need a way to insure that our One Man, One Vote system of semi-democracy needs to be a system of ones. What I don’t get is why this shit is so fucking difficult. So, I was sitting out to the portal last night with the dogs but not the fucking cat, drinking Carta Blanca beer and smoking a blunt.

For new readers, a portal is a covered patio and mine is a marvelous contraption with jalousied windows on one of the two closed walls and a fireplace on the other, and the long open side looking out over all the flagstone we laid and looking up to New Mexico’s magical sky.

Last night’s sitting was with the nearly full moon hanging over the big Ponderosa pine tree and a vigorous dotting of bright stars. I was stretched out on the wicker couch with Yoda curled up on my chest and the Squirt settled between my legs, head on my crotch. Squirt was staring bullets at me through the haze of pot smoke hanging in the chilly, dead-still air.

“Answer me this, Bwana Mooner. What is all of this hullabaloo about voter registration? Why is this such a big deal?”

I attempted to explain it and she questioned my answers, and all of a sudden the solution came to me. I, Butcher Einstein “Mooner” Johnson, have solved the entire voter registration problem. Here’s the deal, and I call it the “Mooner Johnson Voter Registration Solution”, or MJVRS for short.

Stop. I need a catchier name than that so that its nickname will be catchier more than that silly shit. MJVRS? Really? Maybe you guys will have a better name after you hear my ideas.

OK, first of all, Republicans are all hung up on Photo Ids, like they can pull more underhanded stunts with a picture of the faces of the people they fuck over. Not a problem with whatever it is my solution is named.

Smart people are concerned that the Republican efforts to make it difficult for a huge portion of our population to get registered and then vote are egregious attempts of unmasked bigotry. Once again, not even a problem for, try this—Mooner’s Voter ID Solutions, or MVIDS.

Is MVIDS better than MJVRS?

Here’s how this dealio will work. OK, for starters, every asshole in America—save for me, Streaker Jones and my Gram—have cell phones with 50-gigabite memories and cameras that make a Peeping Tom drool. Next, those same cell phones are connected to the INTERNET and have keypads and special applications and all sorts of other shit.

Sooooooooo, here’s what we do. Ready?

We register Voter Registration Clerks with each county or parish or whateverthefuck they have in each state. Democrats and Republicans and Greenies and all the rest of the parties can register their registrators to be Voter Registration Clerks. Hell, for that matter any church or Moose Lodge or VFW Post can do the same.

Voter Registration Clerks will have their smarty-pants silly phones loaded with an application containing their state’s voter registration form, and a photograph clicker dealie to take a person’s picture with their utility bill or mortgage stuff or whatever.

It cracks me up when Gram says “smarty pants silly phone”. You try to tell her that we call them smart cell phones and see what happens.

Anyway, the applications will contain security thingies to insure that the Voter Registration Clerks can’t pull any funny business, and they will auto-transmit any application back to Headquarters, whether it was completed or not. That way, some shithead can’t cancel or discard a registering voter for any reason.

This way the County will now have a picture of the registered voter with his proof of residence and the application in their hot little hands instana-fucking-taneously. Then when it comes time to vote, a voter can show up with any damned kind of ID. Got a question? Look on the computer and see the voter’s picture.

Am I brilliant, or what?

This solutions shit is easy when you take the time to look at it with a belly full of beer and THC-lacquered lungs.

Maybe next I’ll take a shot at male pattern baldness. Maybe I need to come up with a good name for this current solution. I wonder how much money I can make with this?

Which reminds me of something else. Why do we men dribble a few drops of urine after we finish peeing? It doesn’t matter how many times we shake and squeeze and re-shake, we always dribble. At least I do.

Last night when Yoda the goat dog and I were re-marking our territorial rights to the back yard, Squirt was watching with a keen interest.

“What’s wrong with your pecker, big boy. Your undies are going to be stained something awful.” Then she added, she said to me, “Oh, I get it. Yellow to the front and brown in the back.”

We all three laughed and then wondered where the fucking cat was. Honor has been missing for a week, and I have absolute certainty that is a metaphor for something political.

Manana, y’all.

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All Hail King Mooner; If I Only Had A Crown

Tuesday, September 25th, 2012

 

So. I read over to BJ’s place at Dumb Perrignon that Ann Coulter has criticized the Democrats for dropping their support of blacks in favor of courting the Latinos. In Mz. C’s eyes, America’s black population and their issues have nothing to do with Civil Cights and our immigrants from the South are all about it.

Really?

Then at Squattie’s place over to Squatlo Rant I read about how Herr Field Marshall Schmidt Rommel had openly wondered why commercial airplane windows don’t open and suggested that the oversight might should be corrected.

Really?

I’m starting to feel a small sense of relief over the pending elections. I’m starting to feel that the tide has turned on our Nation’s recent nosedive into the swill and muck of extreme right-wing Christian idiocies and back towards the middle where I think our political climate belongs. And while I mixed my metaphors there, I did manage to state—with precision—my current sentiments.

And how confusing must that seem? I’m a liberal-thinking person with the social policies reported in some circles to mimic those of Jesus; I think our military should truly be orchestrated as a Department of Defense only; I think it takes a village to grow a billionaire and that some of the resulting wealth should be taxed and returned unfucking equally to pay for the infrastructures of said village; I think that physical and mental health services are a required product of any advanced civilization; I think that Jane Fonda is still sexy.

But I think our national political systems need to be fair and balanced—middle road bodies of compromised conclusions. While I know that my ways to do things are far better and fairer than those of differing views, I don’t think that my ways should be the only ways, and I don’t think that revolution is desirable when things are only damaged.

Like America. I think we’re damaged but not broken. I think that most of the folks with far-right thinking are misinformed but not evil. I think that for every Rove or Coulter or Bachmann there are thousands of confused citizens who simply are not connecting the dots in the big picture of our country. Likewise, not every liberal thinks we need to stage a revolution of our own.

If I were King and this not a democracy of sorts, I would impose my will on the rest of you, and you would like it. OK, you would like it for the most part. I would enforce equality in every aspect of society and I would share our Gross National Product with a fairness not before seen. I would arrange an accounting system that would judge the cost to produce wealth—the incremental expenses to pay for roads and schools and hospitals and Police and all the rest—and tax all income under that system.

It wouldn’t matter if you were a school teacher or an oil tycoon, a movie star or a $50,000 per year fireman. The infrastructures required to produce your income would have an allocation to your income source, and you would be taxed accordingly. The more you earn, the more infrastructure was used to support the growth of your wealth.

For starters, the first $40,000 of earned income would not be taxed at all. No federal tax, no how. That $40 grand is what it takes to enjoy a basic American lifestyle in most parts of the country and the only taxes allowed on that income would be state sales taxes. And, by the way, all income is earned income. Corporations earn income just as people and religions would be treated just like the businesses that they are.

The only non-profit organizations allowed to not pay taxes will be required to apply 85% of all monies collected to the actual need they serve. If they can’t administrate on 15%, they can kiss my ass. And you’d better not be wasting donated funds, shithead. I’ll send your carcass to jail. Break my new banking and investment laws and I’ll jail you as well. Matter of fact, if you bend or break financial rules for personal gain you, dear friend, will be treated as a murderer. While I’m on the subject, if you are a child molester you’d best consider repatriation.

I’d limit state sales taxes to 8%. With me returning much of the federal taxes collected back to the states, those governments will be able to pay for their services on 8%.

After the first forty thousand, your income will be charged a “Use Fee”. Use Fees reflect what it costs for you to make your money. A fireman will pay less than an oil company. Oh, and in my system corporations will be people as far as taxes go. An oil company will pay for the roads used up by trucks that provide the company services, and all the other affiliated costs required to support their enterprise. The company will pay taxes based on gross revenues, not net.

Fuck your net revenue bullshit. General Electric—watch your back, mother fucker—King Mooner is gunning for your ass!

And holy shit have I gotten ADHD waylaid. I wouldn’t want to be King if elected and I’d likely get sidetracked with my mental illness and fuck things all to Hell and back. I’d be meeting with my Secretary of Defense, BJ, and he’d have set up a demonstration of our new vaporizer weapon and I’d suggest we share a few tokes of weed before we lunch on some pulled pork sammies and Carta Blanca beer, and we’d forget the vaporizer dealie and it would over-charge and blow up somewhere over to Iowa where we kept it hidden in a silo.

I wonder how much of Iowa would need to get vaporized before we’d miss it?

Anyway, I think the mark of a true semi-democratic society is that it compromises its way through its evolution, and I also think that I have spent enough time on this subject. Nobody really gives a shit what I think. When we were sitting out on the portal last night after dinner, I was talking about how I think that the current bunch of far-right Christian assholes are, at least, somewhat fascist.

One-by-one my son, his lady, and then the dogs excused themselves to go inside to pee. When the Squirt excused herself, I told her that I had planted the cute little patch of fescue bluegrass so she could pee outside. In answer, she said to me, she said, “We’re not going to pee, dumbass, we’re playing Scrabble. You have managed to bore the ever-loving shit out of us all.”

Whatever, I made some cogent points. Manana, y’all.

 

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Hosed Again; Moving Moments

Sunday, September 23rd, 2012

 

So. Here we all are in Santa Fe, New Mexico. We’re tired and sore and sick of wrapping paper and moving boxes, but we’ve not often been as happy to be tired and sore. As the Squirt put it last night when we were out to the portal having icy-cold Carta Blancas and a plate of finger foods, “Son of a bitch but this is some fine living, Bwana Mooner. This is some mighty fine living.”

She was right, of course, and a portal is a covered patio and the finger foods came from a selection of fresh veggies, handmade sausages and meats, and some pickles we grabbed from the Santa Fe Farmer’s Market. I picked up some fresh bread and other accouterments from the Whole Foods over to Cerrillos Road and we were set.

The weather was crisp and clean and the temperature fell from about 69 when we sat down just at dusk and was 62 when I checked it at 11:00 pm as we finally went inside. Then this morning it was 55 when I got up to go get the Sunday paper. I see from the sports section that Tennessee won yesterday, so I won’t need to listen to my buddy Squatlo piss and moan about that, and Kansas State whipped Oklahoma so I get the pleasure of hearing Sooner fans whine about that. A Daily Double.

My elder son and his special lady will arrive for a visit in a few hours—the first of family and friends to see the new casita. It’s still a work in progress but he wanted to help me with some of the update stuff, and help is what I need.

“You’re as clumsy as a borracho pintor Bosnio, Mooner. Everybody knows that you have to put the clamp on the hose first, dumbass,” Squirt advised me. “Look at that dumbshit, Yoda, he worked his ass off getting that hose into place and now he’s got to take it back off to put the clamp on it.”

I was squatted behind the clothes dryer—cramped and crowded in the tight space and likely looking like a drunk Bosnian painter—and the Squirt had her nose wedged between it and the washer next to it. Yoda the goat dog had jumped atop the dryer and was peering down at me like when Snoopy played vulture in the cartoon. The smell of stinky dog breath was a fetid cloud of halitosis as I was struggling to get the too-small vent hose snugged-over and clamped-to the out-of-round vent pipe in the wall. I was thirty minutes into the job and I already had two slices in my fingers from the sharp metal edge of the pipe and an ass full of frustrations.

“Have I told you that they eat dog meat tacos up to the Reservations near Taos? We’ll be heading that way this afternoon.”

Squirt laughed at me and the goat dog tried to eat the end off the dryer hose. We all climbed into the GTO to head over to the Ace Hardware store for a new hose and they were making a new batch of popcorn when we got there. Yoda went to stand station by the popcorn machine to capture anything that dropped and to practice his begging skills.

“Mr. Johnson, how are you sir?”

It was the head cashier. “Listen, you might want to leave Squirt in the car today, sir. We just waxed and polished the floors and I don’t want her to rub those wax finishing products into her cute little bottom.”

For those of you uninitiated here ’bouts, the Squirt had impacted anal glands and would drag her ass on the floor tiles all over the Ace Hardware. She was so fucking adorable with her hind legs pointed skyward and that grimace plastered on her face.

“Oh, Thanks, but don’t worry. We got her all fixed up before we moved.”

Here I lifted the miniature bundle of brown fur and wonderment and flipped her around to show the scars. “See, most of the swelling is gone and you will hardly be able to see her scars. I paid extra to get her cuts and sutures done cosmetically.”

“Uh, ah, I can tell,” was the only reply I got.

When we had made it to the dryer vent aisle, Squirt stopped and looked up at me. “That, you giant flaming asshole, was soooo embarrassing. If you do that to me again I’m going to shit in your favorite sneakers and have Yoda eat your car seats.”

Point taken. I guess I can be somewhat inappropriate at times. “OK, little lady, I’ll try to not do that again.”

Anyway, when the family arrives we’ll head out to the Santa Fe flea market and off to lunch in the mountains. Another day in paradise.

Manana, y’all.

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Tough Questions Tackled; Mitt Romney Still A Prick

Thursday, September 13th, 2012

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ouch, Dude. That hurt.”

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

“Powerful shit, no?”

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

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

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

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

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

Ugh.

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

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

And with that, He was gone.

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

Ugh and again. I had to ask.

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

 

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Mexican Food Mambo; God Imparts Sage Wisdom

Monday, September 10th, 2012

 

So. We’re a full week into the Squirt’s recovery from ass surgery and she’s finally back to near her normal self. She was still cranky and bitchy all day Saturday but then awoke Sunday morning with a big smile and a new attitude.

“Buenos dias, Bwanna Mooner,” the little puppy almost purred at me. “Let’s crack some eggs!”

One of the diminutive dog’s favorite Sunday breakfasts is Huevos Rancheros—the northern Mexico dish of a grilled corn tortilla topped with runny-yolked eggs and your best salsa—and I’m an especially good cooker of Mexican ranch eggs. I grill the tortillas outside on the BBQ pit over mesquite, the salsa Gram makes is likely world class, and I fry the eggies in hot pork fat. The egg whites will get all crisp and crunchy and leave the yolks soft and bursting with flavor.

And don’t start on me with any of that “you need to cook the shit out of your eggs for the sake of food safety” bullshit. If you’re worried about the food safety of your eggies, you, dear friend, need a new fucking supplier of eggs. Or get a chicken and grow your own. Nothing is easier than raising chickens. Cluckers are the simplest-raised food resource there is.

They’re dumber than the back side of a hoe but loyal if you feed and water them routinely. And in this case, the chicken comes before the eggs.

Which reminds me. My buddy Katy over to the Lesbians in my soup site has gotten herself into quite a pickle. I’m thinking she has put a major league fuck job on her marriage and caused Dana to take the kids and leave Katy to suck the dirty, fetid Hoover air that can only be found in the carpets of a broken home.

While her most recent writings left me wishing she’d posted a pic of her mentioned rug carving, the power of her prose likewise broke my heart for her and her family and left me wishing I could help her. I feel a kindredness of crazy spirits with Katy and wish I could provide her with some soothing salve.

Should that be “kindredlikeness” of crazy spirits?

Speaking of crazy spirits, I had another visit from God over the weekend. I’d not been visited for over a month and had actually started to think that I was imagining the visits. Should that be the “Visits” with a big V?

It had also been over a month since I had sat out to our fishing dock with my menagerie of animals, a cooler of icy Carta Blanca beers and a can of worms. I had eaten an after-breakfast dessert of medicinal cannabis-infused chocolate—an herbal remedy I’m not yet accustomed to dosing—and I was sporting a pretty spiffy buzz. I think this particular Rx was prescribed to help a person suffering from stress and I must say I was feeling stress free.

The Squirt was sitting at my side with her head trapped in the big plastic cone that prevents her from chewing at the stitches on her ass. “Take this fucking megaphone off my head and I’ll tell you a secret.”

Her voice had the tinny, desperate edge of an Alabama Civil Rights protest organizer of the 1960’s as spoken through a rolled-up newspaper. “I promise I won’t mess with my stitches.”

“Sorry, kiddo, you’ve already broken that promise and I’m not chancing having to go through a second surgery recovery with you. These last seven days have been rough on me.”

I closed my eyes and enjoyed the somewhat cool air and the sounds of my animals as they farted around on the wooden dock. I heard the sound of hard plastic battering tin and knew that Rick Perry had attacked the can of fishing worms. Like chickens, ostriches love them some earthworms.

“You’ll miss this when you’re in Santa Fe, Mooner. There’s other things you’ll miss as well,” a familiar voice advised me.

It was God. When I opened my eyes to look, I saw She had fashioned Herself into the perfect visage of a young Kate Hepburn. I love Katherine Hepburn, but God’s voice wasn’t the gunmetal gravel and sex of Katie H.

“That’s my best version of Moses, kid. Not that idiot Charlie Heston, the actual one from way back on the Way Back machine.”

I was thinking that Moses had a weak and sort of silly-sounding voice, something akin to Arnold Horschak from Kotter on TV.

“He was short as well. Almost all men were short when compared to today,” God said.

Then I started thinking what lesson this Godly visit could have for me. Each time they happen I get some insight from God.

“Have you ever wondered about Moses and the Egyptians and all of that wandering in the desert, Mooner?”

Without much thought I could answer that question. “Like most of the incredible stories from the Bible and other history books, I always wonder what recreational drugs folks used when they wrote their version of events. Old Moses? I’d bet the farm that he chewed Peyote buttons. Now if you want to talk about Joan of Ark…”

“Don’t say it, Mooner, don’t even think it. Joanie wasn’t a batshit crazy bitch, sonny boy, she was a true believer,” God informed me.

Huh? How does a sane person distinguish between the two?

Reading my thoughts as only God can, She replied, “You can’t tell the difference. And that, dear sweet man, is the problem with histories. You can’t distinguish the liars from the prophets or the loonies from the sage reporters.”

Isn’t that the Truth—from God’s lips to my ears. “It’s no different today as we write our history from current events, is it?” I asked. “Every word is at best tinted with personal perspectives, and outright lies at the worst. How will our history ever be accurately recorded?”

As I looked at God for the answer, She morphed into Richard Nixon. “It won’t, silly. Half of all histories were written untrue, and the other half have been re-and-misinterpreted so many times even I have trouble with them. In a hundred years from now, Tricky Dick Nixon could be one of your greatest Presidents and Mitt Romney an honest man. As long as school textbooks are being written under the guidance of the Texas School Board…”

“… Then man played with dinosaurs and You started this entire mess because you were bored,” I told Him.

I added, “Sometimes I think You are an asshole, Sir. Some of the shit you pull is just plain rotten.”

“You shouldn’t blame me, buster, no more than you should praise me. All I did was give you humans a brain, a heart and a conscience. This dealio is yours to make or break.”

And with that, God was gone.

God said “dealio”, and I guess I will miss this dock when I’m in Santa Fe.

Manana, y’all.

 

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Tuesday Blues; Welcome To Fascistland

Tuesday, June 26th, 2012

 

So. It’s Tuesday and I just got another call from Mother asking if she can come home. She refused to attend the Limbaugh/Perry gay wedding last week so I banished her from the ranch for all of the attendant wedding affairs. That was last week and the threads that connect “wedding affairs” to reality are getting pretty thin.

At breakfast this morning I asked the few others seated around the big table if they were ready to have Mother back among us. They mumbled and grumbled a bit but nobody said anything decipherable. “Well, OK then,” I told them. “Looks like the main activity on today’s calendar will be the Official Limbaugh/Perry Wedding Fishing Trip, sponsored by Carta Blanca beer.”

“Rick Perry does love when you take him fishing, Mooner. Do you think the newlyweds will go while they’re in Costa Rica?”

That was Mr. Dave, the giant-peckered old geezer I hired to service the older ladies of Mooner Manor. “I doubt it, Mr. Dave. Rush Limbaugh has been sex starved for over a month. Me, I’m guessing that Rick Perry will be lucky to see anything but the paint of their hotel room.”

I realized that I had sent all the women but my mother to Costa Rica to oversee the honeymoon and Mother was sent to a hotel over to town. I offered to fly Mr. Dave down to Central America or put him up with Mother in her hotel, either one. He said to me, he said, “Oh, that’s a lovely offer, sir, but I think I’ll spend the time with you and the dogs. I find I’m missing the sound of voices not coming from the mouth of a Johnson woman.”

I didn’t tell him that he had just voiced the main reason he was hired, I simply said in reply, “You stick with me, Mr. Dave. We’ll get you recharged and ready to go. How about we go cut us some calves?”

Mr. Dave isn’t much of a ranch hand. Man pukes when you hand him the big curved blade we use to cut the balls off young bulls—well, that’s what we Texans call a clue. I was talking to the Squirt about it last night and she said it might be because Mr. Dave’s pecker is about the same size as the 400-pound bulls carry. “You’d be queezy yourself, Bwana Mooner, if you were packing the heat same as Mr. Dave.”

Maybe, I thought. “Might also be perspectives, little lady. I was cutting cows before I knew that my pecker was good for more than the one thing, so I never had the mind to do a side-by-side with the little bulls. Mr. Dave was city raised and likely has a city boy’s stomach.”

And that reminds me. Can you believe the fucking US Supreme Court? What part of “not a political body” is so confusing to them. I am embarrassed to tell you that I didn’t think George W. Bush would screw things up too badly as president—I thought he was too dumb to make much trouble. But the justices he put there have formed a coalition that has sent civil rights back at least a hundred years.

A state government can now authorize agents to demand that you prove your citizenship at any time they wish. My thoughts are that to keep from appearing to use profiling with this power, they will start making the demand on people just for the sake of it. As a white American male, I will not prove my citizenship to you, motherfuckers, and I dare you to try to make me. I don’t expect people of color to resist this but I’m asking every white person in the country to stand with me on this one. This isn’t Nazi fucking Germany or Cold War Russia, for shitsakes.

Or is it? I mean really, what’s the difference? Corporations and single rich donors can put as much money behind a candidate as they want, so every elected public official office in the entire fucking country is for sale, we can harass and bully non-whites for no reason, we are legislating control of womens’ bodies, and we are creating the economic environment that imitates a wealthy, ruling class society.

When we speak of Pakistan or Malaysia, we call countries with those attributes “Third World” countries. We are denying our citizens health care and quality public education; we have stripped the funding for support services for the poor; we have sent much of a generation off to fight two brutal, winless wars because of economics and now we deny the returning veterans proper health care to fix their damaged bodies and minds.

Oh, and our greedy financiers almost bankrupted the entire fucking globe while they were gone to war and killed the job market. Many vets have returned to little, or no, employment options.

Ugh. Fucking ugh! Mother fucking ugh!!!

Maybe New Mexico isn’t far enough away to escape the oppression of America’s right-wing Christian conservative idiocy.

America doesn’t need to worry about international terrorists taking our country down. We’re ruining it just fine all by ourselves. I have a buddy who thinks that this might be the time that is The End of Days. If America falls into a fascist state all of civilization will follow.

“And the Ted Nugent’s shall inherit the Earth.”

Fuck it. I promised a fishing trip and we’re going fishing. Manana, y’all.

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Texan Terrifies Tennessee Mosqueteers; A Little Info On The Wedding

Saturday, June 23rd, 2012

  

So. By now I guess you guys know that Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh finally tied the knot. We had a very small group of mostly family in attendance and only had those folks at the reception. As the pig Rush Limbaugh had not had sex with his ostrich gay lover for more than a month, keeping him off the bride’s back until after the “I dos” was a difficult chore.

I printed the press release about the wedding yesterday so go there for that info. What I’ll add here is that because of the enforced abstinence above mentioned, it was an untraditional shotgun wedding. “Shotgun” in that Gram’s 12-gage double barrel was aimed at Rush Limbaugh, and “untraditional” because the buckshot was pointed his way not to keep his feet planted but, rather, to prevent spontaneous sexing on the alter.

When he wants to do something, Rush Limbaugh just does it and he doesn’t care the effects on the rest of us. Rush Limbaugh is, after all, a fucking pig.

Which reminds me. As if Tennessee doesn’t have enough right-wing Christian assholes living up to Murphreesboro, Tn. to fill Neiland Stadium to standing room only, one of our local assholes made his way up to the Boro to screw with their new Mosque and the Mosqueteers who worship there. I want to first apologize on behalf of the state of Texas for letting one of our own escape our borders to be a stupid bigot up to Ugly Orangeville, and second, I want to thank the Volunteer State for providing that ignorant fuckball a nice, cozy place to stay. Not that having one fewer ignorant bigoted shitwads in Texas makes a dent in that particular population.

But a trip of a thousand miles begins with a first baby step.

And that reminds me to tell you that I’ve been really busy planning and hiding the details of the big wedding from the world. I’m sorry that I didn’t invite my friends, but Rick Perry was already so nervous he had the squirts, and he told me he wouldn’t be able to hold his nervous bowels if there was a crowd.

Have you ever smelled a loose ostrich shit? Have you ever tried to get that smell out of your hair?

It wasn’t a large wedding as weddings go, but anytime you have Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry involved common sense and reason fly out the window. Take the wedding cake as just one example. How do you find a bakery willing to make an alternating chocolate-and-vanilla six-tiered cake with an ostrich bride and hog groom, slathered with duck liver pate’ icing and coated with sunflowers? Once you do, how do you get them to keep quiet about it?

Mother was the only family member who didn’t attend the touching ceremony. Her refusal went something like, “If I cursed I would say to you, ‘No fucking way will I ever attend a homo-sex-u-al wedding.’”

While that wasn’t the first time in my life I heard Mother cuss, it was the first time since I decided to allow brutal honesty to be a two-way street in our relationship.

“Well said, Mother,” I told her. “If you’re too fucking bigoted to attend the festivities then I expect you to vacate the premises until we’ve finished all our reveries. I’ll have Gnat find you a room over to town for a few weeks. I expect the party to last a while.”

For new readers, Gnat is my personal assistant, and if you go to the Bloggie Roller over there ====}}}}} and buy Full Rising Mooner, my stupid fucking book, you will learn all about the little Russian wonder.

Mr. Dave helped Mother pack her bags and I’m guessing he packed the old bag as well. I used to think that what made my mother such a bitch since Daddy died was that she just needed a little sexing. While Mr. Dave’s giant penis has improved Mother’s moods in some ways, I have finally had to accept the simple fact that Mother is an asshole.

When Mr. Dave rolled two big suitcases into the kitchen to be loaded on the truck to go to town with Mother, I said to him, I said, “There’s two more cases out to the barn that match what you have there, Mr. Dave. I’ll go get them while you tell Mother she’ll need more things. We’re gonna do us some partying here to the ranch and you know Mother likes a broad selection when dressing.”

And that reminds me to say this. I just bought a case of Ivory soap and shipped it up to that asshole Jerry Sandusky. Big tough football guy my rosy red ass. I wrote him a card that said, “Here’s a little something to make things go a little smoother for you, shithead. Don’t wait until you hit the showers with those men, Jer’, lather up before you go. You’ll likely be a hot little thing up there and they might skip the foreplay. Oh yea, I’m not certain they’ll call raping you in the shower “horseplay” but I’m absolutely certain you’ll know how to play.”

Rotten child raping motherfucker. Now it appears that he adopted a boy to help fill his dance card when kiddie camp was out of season.

And now I need to remember to tell you that I’m taking the dogs and the fucking cat on a road trip over to New Mexico a week from today. We’ll be looking for a little place over to Santa Fe where we can go when we need to escape the heat and conservative Christian assholes here to home. I ordered a 14-foot truckload of Carta Blanca beer for the wedding and I hope to have a few cases left by the time we leave. We’re taking the route that goes through Lubbock but won’t have time to visit my buddy Pat Metze. But I’ll catch him next trip.

One of our side trips is to head west to hunt Peyote buttons. For some reason, the fucking cat can’t catch a buzz off mushrooms. Streaker Jones suggested that we try Peyote and I firmly believe that anyone’s first Peyote needs to be hunted down in person.

Anyway, I need to take Mother to her Hotel and then drop the bride and groom off to Emory Express for their trip to Costa Rica. Gram and Aunt Hilda went down with the P-cubed yesterday to set up the honeymoon suite and to un-crate the lovers upon their arrival.

Manana, y’all.

 

 

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Mooner Bags Powerful Women; New Mexico Governor Charms

Saturday, June 9th, 2012

 

So. I’ve decided to stop bitching about the blistering Texas heat and my state’s extreme right-wing politicians, and I’m going to get myself a place up to the mountains at Santa Fe, New Mexico. That way, instead of calling out the Roto-Rooter man to separate my balls from my leg, I can escape from the brutal heat and humidity to cool, dry mountain air. They actually add moisture to the air in Santa Fe!

A place over to the Land of Enchantment will also give me respite from the idiocy that is Texas politics. It appears that our legislatures are about to get farther to the right this year. As those silly assholes have already been driving our state’s bus way over to the right shoulder of the road, I fully expect them to race us into the ditch in next year’s legislative sessions.

Santa Fe, on the other hand, is as solidly planted in the left lanes as Texas is on the right. Hell, Santa Fe is so far left they should be driving like the British. Overall, New Mexico is considered to be moderate—sometimes Republican and sometimes smart. Their Republican governor, Susana Martinez, respects Democrats and works together with them to better govern her state. I’m not fully up-to-date with her politically, but I have recently become fully up-to-date with her.

OK, stop. How fucking confusing was that? Try this: I haven’t completed my research on New Mexico politics, so my only thought is that their Governor is a reasonable woman. She isn’t a Rick “The Prick” Perry sort of Republican based upon my research, and she doesn’t seem destined to ruin her entire state just for kicks. Again, my research is in it’s infancy so I’ll make no in-concrete proclamations.

But I did have sex with her. Intimate, tender and sweaty twist-my-hair and shout, “Hallelujah!” sex. It was Governor Susie (she asked me to call her that) and Hilary Clinton and me, and the three of us were sitting down to the fishing dock—legs dangling over the side—swilling icy cold Carta Blanca beers, just like god and I did a couple days ago. And just like a couple days ago when I was there with the big guy, we were deep into the mushroom buttons.

OK, wait again. This was dream sex I’m addressing here and not actual awake and all parties aware sex. Not that I haven’t had sex where all the parties were not awake and aware, but this was a dream for certain. I was certain it was a dream because the circumstances were so akin to god’s last visitation that I made everybody pinch everybody else to be sure that I wasn’t dreaming.

Which, as it turned out, I was.

And somebody help me with this. How, in the fuck, does pinching yourself tell you if it’s a dream or not? Who made that silly shit up? I have dreams wherein I can pinch myself and it “dream hurts” just like a real pinch in awake hurts. If Hilary hadn’t been there the other night I might be bragging that I’d bagged the SEC.-DEF and New Mexico’s governor in actual life. The former Presidential hopeful straightened me out.

“Listen to me, Mooner,” the most honorable Mz. Clinton told me. “Do you really think I’d be blowing you on a rough plank wooden deck, sweating my ass off and getting splinters in my knees while Governor Susie watches? Don’t you think in real life I’d be a bit less submissive?”

Another clue that this was a dream is that in actual life I’d be required to ponder that little question. As a social scientist and unfettered commentator, I might seek further experimentations with Governor Susie and Hilary before answering.

But this was a dream and she had a dream point. “You’re right, my Sweet Baboo,” I told her. She asked me to call her my Sweet Baboo. “In real life Governor Susie isn’t a watcher, she’s a participator. Also, I think I’d likely be the first on their knees at the alter of sex.”

And don’t go getting all pissy on me for revealing the intimate details of my sexing these important women because I’m not going into the details. However, I will say this. First of all, the former first lady isn’t a full-out lesbian, and second, her husband doesn’t fool around on her because she isn’t fun to get nekid with. As for Governor Susie, well…

OK, stop once more. My ADHD has seized control of the mainframe and cloud computers and is garbaging everything in-and-out. I have absolutely no idea where I was going with that other than to say I was going nowhere you give a shit to go. It’s just that there’s been so much going on about gay and lesbian political issues that I guess my subconscious mind wanted a little action with two nice ladies, and my dreamscape painted those two powerful women as willing participants in my fantasies. I often dream of powerful women—some I admire in actual life, and some are Michele Bachmann.

I did awaken from the dream with splinters in my own ass and shoulders, but they could have come from anywhere.

Anyway, I’m packing the animals and taking a trip up to Santa Fe the end of June, first of July. We’re going to find a place for us to use as an escape from Texas whenever our home state gets to be too much. Too fucking hot—we’re off to Santa Fe. Too much asshole right-wing politics—fuck it, we’re headed to New Mexico!

At breakfast this morning we had a round table discussion as to our wish list for the new place. I had Aunt Hilda take notes as family scribe and she somehow managed to screw things up as usual. But it’s what she does and it’s OK by me. Don’t know why I mentioned that, maybe I’m getting a case of the early onset dementia.

Squirt, in her usual opinionated way, had an entire list of wishes. “Here’s my list, Mooner, and the first ten are non-negotiable.”

She rattled off sixteen things she wanted in the Santa Fe abode. Most made sense, but several were ridiculous. “Look, little lady,” I told her, “I’m fine with you having your own bedroom fully furnished with all of that pink girly shit you like. But I will not be bringing Caesar Milan to live with us. I don’t need the Dog Whisperer telling me that I’m a bad parent.”

The Squirt somehow thinks that having the famous dog trainer as her personal confidant would have some magical benefits. I know I’m a decent father to head this herd of animals and I always have their best interests at heart. I’d never stick one of my dogs in a crate wired to the roof of the car and I never beat my pets. I might drown the fucking cat if she shreds any more of the clothes in my closet, but that would be a justifiable homicide.

I built Honor one of those around-the-room cat play scapes with worlds of carpet for use to sharpen her claws. Still that bitch kitty prefers to climb through my closet like she’s repelling the cliffs over to Paleface Park.

Fucking cat.

I want a place near the Plaza so I can walk to coffee and meals and music and all the neat shit that makes Santa Fe so great. I want it to be rustic adobe in style, have a nice kitchen and plenty of charm. Otherwise, I’ll attempt to please the animals’ wish list.

Time to hit the I-streets and look at what’s available. Anybody know a good real estate agent in Santa Fe?

Manana, y’all.

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God’s Sense Of Humor; Water Rings On The Dock

Monday, June 4th, 2012

 

So. I’ve been having visits from god for a year now and the resulting thoughts, feelings and desires are a mixed bag of tricks. For starters, after many hours of conversation with god, I have no better clue as to his/her/its origin or identity, powers or desires than anyone else on the planet. Other than to tell me that Pat Robertson, Jerry Falwell, Brigham Young, Pope Anyone, and the rest of the “preachy” preachers are mostly full of shit, my new best buddy, god, hesitates to tell me what is right, and wrong.

When god paid me a visit yesterday he said to me, he said, “Look, Mooner, the basic tenets of most religions are sound and mark cadence with my wishes for you humans and the world I gave you to foster. Peace, Love and Caring are my middle names.”

God laughed at that one, then added, “I like deprecating and especially self-deprecating humor, sonny boy—like your refusal to capitalize me and my pronouns. You silly human shits have gotten so self-centered and exclusionary that you can’t have any real fun anymore. And you keep oppressing and killing each other.”

We were down to the dock—sitting with our legs dangling over the side—drinking Carta Blanca beers that kept materializing from nowhere, and enjoying the mellow from some nifty mushroom buttons. Each time I’d set an empty down, a fresh new bottle of beer would be sitting in the water ring of the last. And let me tell you this. God’s beer was no colder or tastier than that which I purchase by the truckload down to Mexico and smuggle across to Texas. When I asked him why that was, he answered, “How can I improve on perfection?”

How, indeed.

On his last visit, god came in the form of a shape shifter, changing faces and forms faster than Mitt Romney flips his flops. Yesterday’s visage only changed a couple times as points were made to me. I was sitting alone, contemplating life when my cell phone rang in my pocket. I saw on the caller ID that it was my buddy Bill from Tennessee. When I answered my phone, Bill’s voice said, “Look over your shoulder, brother.”

I did and there was Bill, or rather there was god in Bill’s skin. It took me a moment to figure things out and when the thought hit my brain to jump up and hug a welcome on my friend, I was told, “Keep your seat, Mooner, it’s me—god. Have a fresh beer.”

That was when the first new beer materialized in place of the last beer’s water ring. Maybe for the sake of clarity I’ll use the name Bill-god for this visit, and say god was a he and him. “I brought some mushrooms from the Far East for Streaker Jones and Dixie. I’m testing to see just how smart your pecker-wood buddy might be.”

A Zip-Lock baggie appeared in Bill-god’s hand and he opened it, grabbed half-a-handful of buttons, ate three and handed me two. “Best we start you on two of these, son. I need your focus for a little talking.”

I chewed and swallowed the shroomers and noticed the flavor of truffles and the perfume of lilacs. “These tastes like a French countryside, sir. Where in Asia do they grow truffles and lilacs?”

“They’re cultivated in Hanoi, Mooner, but the flavor is all from that mushroom. Truffles can’t grow in Viet Nam.”

Bill-god sat and dangled his feet towards the water, he and I swinging our legs back-and-forth. “It’s too fucking hot here, dude. I know you want some cooler weather so why don’t you look for a place in the mountains?”

I had started sweating like a goat in a soup pot, rivulets of fat, salty drops soaking my tee shirt after running off my face. “Man, these mushrooms hit quick,” I said, “I feel like I’m in a sweat box.”

Bill-god tipped his bottle for a swig of beer, wiped his sweaty brow with the front of his Oakland Raiders tee, swilled and drained his beer, and said, “Not the spores, dude, that’s pure Texas heat beating you down. You need to be drinking more water.”

“If I get a place to the mountains where would I go? I need to stay close to home, so the Appalachians are out, and I’m not crazy about Colorado or Arkansas. I’m not all that excited about Colorado. Everybody’s too intense about something or another—exercise, work, avoiding work, church,” I told him. “And you know I need to stay out of Arkansas after that little indecent from back when we played them in football.”

Bill-god gave me a quizzical look. I said, “Back when we were in the Southwest Conference, remember that year when we tail gaited up to their place and smoked the wild pigs near the front gates to their stadium?”

“Oh yea,” he said. “That was a close one right there, dude. I never knew you could run that fast.”

We laughed about how I almost got my brains bashed out by drunk hillbillies wearing pig helmets, and then reveled in the fact that Texas won a national championship nipping and tucking the Hogs in the game. Bill-god started giggling and said to me he said, “Can you believe old Tricky-Dicky Nixon trying to steal the Horns’ thunder after that game? Catch this action…”

He shape-shifted from Bill-god and transformed into the spitting image of Richard Milhouse Nixon, former president of these United States. He held up peace signs on the fingers of both hands and made that stupid pose and expression that Nixon used when he was attempting anything light hearted. He twinkled his eyes at me, shook his jowls with a “bluuubb” and said to me, he said, “I… am not… a crook!”

“Holy shit but that’s a great impression,” I told Dick-god. “Did I detect a little Dan Aykroyd in there?”

Dick-god did the Nixon jowl shake again, then told me, “I was trying to do Chevy Chase doing Dan Aykroyd doing George Carlin doing Nixon. I think I got too much hard C sound in the crook. Let me try again.”

He did, and then repeated the “I’m not a crook” line over and over with different inflections and voice characteristics. He had me in stitches. When I got my breath back and the tears wiped from my eyes, I said to him, I asked him, “Look, you’re god and all, and I need some help. I need a second home, someplace cool of weather and liberal of thought. But someplace where I haven’t already pre-worn my welcome. And not someplace musty, like Oregon. My balls are growing air roots like Spanish Moss and I need a dry climate that isn’t Colorado.”

Dick-god turned into Michele Bachmann and said to me, her pissy-nasal voice and posture Ms. Bachmann’s spitting image, and answered, “Look at the Land of Enchantment, asshole. Santa Fe is full of communists and fornicators and homosexuals in need of conversion.”

And with that, Michele-god vanished in a fragrant mist of Chanel Number 5 and fresh-pressed linen. All that remained from god’s visit was the memory, a baggie filled with purplish mushroom buttons and a solid dozen empty Carta Blanca bottles.

“Santa Fe, why didn’t I think of Santa Fe. I love Santa Fe.” I said aloud to myself. “Maybe I’ll get a place up to Santa Fe.”

My cell phone rang again, and again it was Bill’s caller ID. I flipped the phone open and said, “Hey, god, how’s it hanging? You coming back for another talk?”

“No, Mooner, I was just calling to tell you that my tomatoes are coming in and the weather here in Tennessee is cool and sunny. Are you stoned already? It’s not even noon out there in Texas.”

Oops. It was the real Bill. I said something like, “Uh, well ah, I was just talking to god and he called me on your phone, and when I answered he was here to Austin standing on the deck behind me, and when I turned to look at him… Well, Bill, he ah, he uh… Would you just listen to me all Chatty Kathy and shit. It’s your dime, brother, what’s up?”

“Jesus, Mooner, you need to get out of the heat. Are you drinking plenty of water?”

Bill’s a good friend. We talked about stuff and laughed at a present he gave Squatlo and Cindy and we rang off the call after a few minutes. I peed in the water off the end of the dock, gathered my empties and headed back to the house to start the smoker going. I was halfway there when my phone rang a third time, and for the third time it was Bill’s number.

I wondered if it was Bill or god this third time, and I figured that whichever it was, he was just calling to fuck with me. I let it go to voice mail.

Manana, y’all.

 

 

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Mr. Dave Takes A Trip; Is Empathy The Answer?

Wednesday, May 23rd, 2012

 

So. I find myself mostly happy today and not as unsettled as has been my typical disposition of late. I credit having come to grips with my sensibilities re: my mother and the early crop of tomatoes now appearing out to the big garden. Nothing says “Peace and harmony,” like a big helping of ham with a slice of sweet onion topped with thick slabs of purple Cherokee two-mater. Gram sometimes says, “Two-maters.” A fresh grind of salt and pepper and slap yo Momma!

Why do we say something is so good we want to slap our mother? That one has never made any sense to me. Not that I’ve never felt that urge, but that particular urge doesn’t strike me when things are good. Or when things are well either.

And speaking of urges, a word I’m told by my dictionary is rooted in the other word urgent, which confuses me because it seems that urge would be the root word. Or maybe the root is “urg” and now my brain hurts.

Ugh. I feel like that John Cleese character from Monty Python who used to say, “My brain… HURTS!” He said it just like that.

Actually, as I said before, I’m happy and quite pleased with myself. I’ve grown less apt to slap my mother since accepting that she is a right-wing religious asshole, and agreeing with her that I’m an ungrateful giant prick of a son.

And speaking of giant pricks, Mr. Dave cornered me yesterday when I was out to Gram’s potion pantry which is headquartered in the barn. Streaker Jones and Dixie came over last weekend and brought Gram some mushrooms grown from spoors gathered from cow patties down to Argentina somewhere. Gram used them in a summertime potion she calls “Bring on tha heat, bitch, I’m too stoned ta give a shit.”

I had just downed a taster of the magic mushroom juice when Mr. Dave walked into the pantry. I was washing away the taste of skunk venom with a guzzle of Carta Blanca beer when he did a polite cough and said to me, he said, “Uh, Mr. Johnson, might I ask a favor of you?” Gram sometimes uses skunk venom in her potions. Buy my stupid fucking book to learn why. You can clink on the linksters over there ====}}}}} to buy it.

“Mr. Dave, my giant-peckered savior, anything you want as long as you call me Mooner,” I told him. He had a grave look plastered to his face and he started to shuffle his feet. “Are you OK, Mr. Dave? Please don’t tell me your pecker is broken—I’ll get the doctor to race right over.” I might be tempted to kill myself if Mr. Dave can’t service all these Johnson women for me. I really don’t want to go backwards from the nice place I’m in.

“Oh, that’s not it, Mister, uh, M-Mooner. I was wondering if I might try some of that potion with you. I’ve never used any of those hippie drugs and I think I’ve missed out on some fun. I’ve missed out on a lot of fun in my life, Mooner, and you’ve taught me that life’s too short and precious to pass on the good times.”

“Alright, sir, then let’s us get you started with my primer for first time trippers,” I told him, and I did. We spent an hour drinking beers and discussing the many aspects of first time hallucinogenics consumption. Since I already knew that Mr. Dave has the health of a forty-year-old man, I didn’t feel compelled to make him get a physical first. So I dosed him from the little tincture bottle, took a second pull for myself, and we continued to talk of life and women and history and war and religion.

And as the potion started to work on his brain, the conversation turned to sex and he started to talk about sexing the Johnson family women. I do not EVER get wasted enough to hear that shit and I did my best to talk him onto less infertile ground. I had my laptop so I conjured up my bloggie and clicked the Roller and hit Squatlo’s place.

This linkster is what popped up:

http://squatlo-rant.blogspot.com/2012/05/take-ten-minutes-to-consider-evolution.html

 

Take a few minutes to watch this animated video about empathy and then come back. OK, now you know what Mr. Dave and I watched as he was taking his first trip with magic mushrooms.

We watched it maybe 36 times and found new meanings each of the 36 watches. My first movie while dosed by one of Gram’s potions was From Here To Eternity. It was a winter when I was just a kid and was receiving Gram’s potions for constipation, and the whole family went to the drive-in theater to see the movie. I was farting so much that they set me on a lawn chair in front of the car. All I really remember about the movie was that the actors were at the beach while I was freezing my ass off.

Anyway, Mr. Dave had a really good trip and has discovered the he one, really likes mushroom juice, and two, he’s going to get Mother to take a taste of mushrooms and watch the empathy video with him. “Your mother needs to loosen up and have some fun beside having sex with me.”

I told him I agree and added that he might want to make those requests before he sexes her—while her blood is running hot.

Me, I had another visit from god last night and I’ll tell y’all about that manana.

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Electric Lawnmower Magic; Squirt Shows Management Skills

Friday, May 11th, 2012

 

So. We got another drenching rain last night—another 2.7 inches at the ranch—but this one came without the high winds that damaged the garden earlier. We need the rain so badly that I guess I need to be willing to sacrifice my prized veggie patch for the greater good of my fellow man.

When thinking about this sacrifice, the evaluation is difficult. I love my garden, a fact I’ve over-discussed herein, but an important fact none-the-less. I love my garden more than I do Carta Blanca beer and only slightly less than I love sex. I do love me some icy-cold Carta Blanca beer but that quenching Mexican bebida is trumped by the taste and satisfactions of gardening.

Hell, if I was getting sex on any kind of routine basis I might place the garden ahead of that. But SAC Ellen is traveling so much that most of my sexing involves my lifelong love affair with Ivory soap—that 99-and-44-100ths-percent pure wonder of animal fat.

Speaking of SAC Ellen, I hinted earlier this week that I have a Governor Rick Perry story, a story you simply will not believe. I’ve been shitting my pants to tell you about it but I need the SACster’s permission to print the details, and she is withholding that OK with the same tenacity as her sexual favors.

OK, stop, as that was misleading. My lover doesn’t withhold sexing by choice as she seems to enjoy it as much as do I. She travels and is gone most of the time so, and therefore, Ivory soap.

Anyway, I was over to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s place yesterday afternoon to mow her lawn before the rains hit. I mitigate some of the not small psycho therapy bills I manage to run up by performing maintenance on her lawn and pool. I took the puppies and the fucking cat with me, all loaded into the old GTO with me and ready to help.

They remind me of those old “Shake-N-Bake” commercials. You know the ones, right? “Daddy cooked fried chicken and we hepped!”

Squirt acts as supervisor directing Yoda and Honor with authority. She has a wicked sense of humor that I must admit cracks my ass right on up. Like I said, it’s been raining, and the deck around the pool was covered with earthworms and many of the live fish bait had made it all the way to the pool and drowned on the bottom.

“Yoda, come here boy and listen carefully,” Squirt barked. “I need you to pick all those worms up and put them in the compost pile. Pick them up with your lips so you don’t squish them into the cool deck.”

Yoda, dim wit that he is, barked his agreement and panted and jumped to the task. Squirt reminded the little salvage program from a Sooner State puppy mill, “And don’t eat the worms, dumb ass, you know they make you sick. You puke in Mooner’s car and he’ll send you back to Oklahoma!”

With that she looked my way and said, “I did all I could, Bwana. If he pukes on your leather it’s not on me.” Then she turned to the fucking cat. “Honor, I need you to jump in and snag those worms off the bottom of the pool. Try and not drown yourself.”

I spent a few minutes watching Yoda collect worms and Honor think about her swim. The little half Chihuahua/half Whippet had his lips curled into a silly snarl as he tried to get a grip on the slippery worms. As for the fucking cat, she’d stare at the worms gathered at the pool drain—eyes big as saucers—then look at me with that “won’t you do something, you’re the adult” look all over her face. Then she’d give the Squirt a nasty cat look and hiss.

I chuckled and went off to mow the front. When I had gotten the first few long runs cut up against the street and concrete flat work, one of Sammie’s neighbors walked over to interrupt my work. This is the racist neighbor—the one who asked me to only sell the house to white people. My ex-wife/therapist had considered moving awhile back and this asshole asked me to not sell to anyone not Caucasian. I thumped the asshole’s nose—hard—and called him a Nazi fuck.

He stopped about ten feet from me and said, “Uh, Mooner, that’s an electric mower, right?”

I nodded as I removed my right glove. My right-handed finger flicker packs a more powerful punch than the left. When I did a couple practice flicks the neighbor man flinched. “Well, I need a new mower and I wanted to ask you how you like this one.”

“Only thing to buy. Quiet, strong and dependable,” I told him as I relaxed my right hand. “Just don’t get one with a cord required. That dealie will drive you nuts.”

We then chatted about lawnmower shit like neighbors do and I pointed out some of the features of that particular mower. I put my glove on to go back to work. “Hey,” he said to my shoulder as I turned to get back to the grass, “can you believe Obama is supporting the queers and using Social Security to bankrupt the nation?”

He shook his head, eyes to the ground, so he missed me removing my right glove again. “These communist programs are ruining America. It’s disgusting!” and he spat, thick spittle sticking to his lip and landing on his chin. He didn’t seem to notice as his heat was rising to the topics.

“Leonard,” I told him, “ you get a pass on the queer comment so long as you drop it. As for Social Security bankrupting America, that’s a total fucking lie, and you know it. The entire SS system is paid for by the people who use its benefits after they retire, AND, the latest independent study shows it to have a $3.4 Trillion positive balance—enough to fund the next twenty years of benefits to every fucking pensioner. SS pays for itself, shithead, it’s just that your tea bag buddies want to use that money for big tax cuts in favor of their own self interests.”

“You are wrong, sir,” Leonard told me. “It’s just like the Postal Service—a loser.” Then he sang the word loser for thirty seconds.

Now I shook my head and thought that this asshole is what’s wrong with America. He’s so brainwashed by the masters of big business and faux news that he can’t see reality. “Look, Leonard, if you can’t stomach the truth, then try this on for size. Look at social services for the poor and elderly and infirm as a gift you give to your fellow man for being a part of this great country. For example, make a small sacrifice for our fallen American warriors so that they can get good health care for injuries they got while making a huge sacrifice for you.”

Leonard is always grousing about how we need a bigger military so I thought that might strike a chord with him.

“You sound like that Ed Schultz. You’re just another fag loving commie.”

Before I could think, I’d flicked his nose and his ear. Hard. Leonard had tears in his eyes and an expression of pure hatred mauling his face. “I’m filing charges. You’ll go to jail for this.”

“Be glad I don’t carry a gun, Leonard,” and I returned to my lawn mowing.

I’m proud of my President for taking the stand for gay rights, and guess what. I don’t give a shit if he is using it as political capital. He’s a fucking politician, for shitsakes, he has to use every word he says as political capital. It’s his goddamn job.

And how about Mitt Romney, folks. During the worst of the economic crisis Herr Schmidt Rommel wanted to bankrupt American auto companies, an event that would have cost over a million American jobs and $Trillions in lost business enterprise to overseas manufacturers. He actually wanted to ruin our country’s rich automotive history instead of providing the needed loans as were made by President Obama.

Now Herr Schmidt is taking credit for saving our auto industry. Lying, two-faced rat fucking right-wing christian asshole. I wish I could thump his nose. I also wish that I had enough resources to adequately fund our nation’s social services, but I don’t.

What I do have is a voice and a vote.

Which reminds me. Did you guys know that cats can swim? Manana, y’all.

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White Wedding Woes; I Miss My Father

Thursday, May 3rd, 2012

 

So. At yesterday’s breakfast Gram revealed my mother’s most closely-guarded secret. While I laughed at it and made jokes at the table, I find myself more than a little unsettled with the findings. Mother was being pissy about my ostrich wearing white to his wedding when he’s obviously not a virgin, and Gram reminded my Mommy Dearest that she wore white to her wedding and was anything but virginic. And why isn’t virginic a word? I don’t want to use virginal.

Virginal sounds like a porcelain bowl where you place used virgins.

And a used virgin is precisely what my mother was when she married. It turns out that she had not only had sex with my daddy, but my daddy didn’t even ask her out on a date until Junior Spellman told him about Mother’s skilled hands. According to Gram—whose story was not questioned by Mother at any phase—Junior and Daddy were hanging out down to the South Congress Pool Hall where Daddy was the under-18 champ. They were playing Rotation—my father’s best game—and Junior said to him, he said, “Chigger, you need to take this girl out to Walgreens for a soda. I swear she’ll do most anything for a chocolate phosphate, and she’s got a firm, but gentle hand with a man’s privates.” Everyone who knew my father called him Chigger.

Daddy, according to Gram, talked to his daddy, my grandfather, and asked him if he would go to hell if he got a hand job from a girl before marriage. Again according to Gram, Granddaddy said to Daddy, he said, “Well, Chigger, if that would be the case, I reckon I’ll meet you in hell. Your momma could rub the chrome off a flagpole—still can for that matter.”

My randy old grandmother had a wistful smile on her face when she recounted Daddy’s first encounter with Mother. She said, “Chigger comes home real late after his date with yer mother an went right straight ta bed. I didn’t hear him a huffin’ inna bathroom so he didn’t rub one out. That boy beat off more ‘an you, Mooner, an’ tha bathroom was right next ta my bed.”

She sighed deeply, chuckled, and added, “Didn’t hear that boy rubbin’ off ’till after they was married an’ little Miss huffy-ass over there cut ‘im off.” Here she looked Mother’s way. “I still blame you, Mother Johnson, for givin’ my boy tha ass cancer. He must a been so stoved up that his insides ate their ownselves right up.”

Gram got up and opened her first Carta Blanca beer of the day and sat back down, took a healthy swig. “I told that boy don’t never let a woman use sexin’ agin him, but he didn’t listen ta me.”

Gram fixed her eyes to the spot on the paper where Mother’s face was on the other side. “Hell, after you took tha nookie away I told ‘im I’d hold yer skinny ass down fer him if need be. An I’d a done it!”

Mother finally peeked from behind the newspaper where it was hidden for most of this conversation. “Mooner,” Mother addressed me instead of Gram, a tactic calculated to ease tension, “your father would use the lord’s name in vain, he read girly magazines and he kept asking me to do unnatural things in the bedroom. The only way I could get him to do the right things was to withhold sexual pleasures. I’m a christian, lady.”

“OK, first, dear Mother, I agree with Gram and would like to say that I too think you sent my father to an early grave. You were mean and spiteful and you never let Daddy have a sense that you were glad he was your mate. And don’t give me that look, Mother, Daddy told me that himself.”

After saying that to my mother, the memories of that conversation with my father came flooding back into my memory. It was the day I graduated from high school, the traditional day when fathers told sons about life when I was a kid. It isn’t that my parents and grandparents ever spared me any embarrassment or life lessons, it’s just that this was the first conversation we had when my father made certain that I felt like a man as we spoke.

The memory brought tears to my eyes. Hell, I’m starting to leak eye water as I tell you about it now. Back in my time, the day you graduated from high school you had a big all-night party with your senior classmates. Everybody would “sneak” out to chug drinks hidden in their cars and then return to the party. Many high school girls lost their virginity on these trips for booze, boys as well, and Daddy knew this.

Me, I had been hoping for weeks that this would be the day I first got laid. OK, wait. This was when I hoped to get the first sex not sex inflicted upon me by my baptist deacon Boy Scout Leader. Getting raped as a thirteen-year-old had stunted my sexual development and relational health, and in typical victim form I had wondered if I had encouraged the asshole to rape me. I thought I might be gay for several years and withdrew from all my peers save Streaker Jones, the smartest human I have ever known.

Like I say, I lived a couple years in an angst-filled depression and Streaker Jones grew tired of it. One day we were sitting down to the creek under the big cypress tree and Streaker Jones said to me, he said, “I’m sick a yer shit, Mooner,” and he took his pecker out of his pants. “Iffn yur homosexual, stick this in yur mouth. Otherwise, git you a girlfriend.”

Like I say, my best friend is a smart sumbitch. His method wasn’t very scientific, but I quickly realized I wasn’t gay. In the next few years I began to repair my stunted social and sexual development and grew a healthy interest in girls. By graduation day, I’d had hand and mouth sex with a girl but no actual intercourse, and I can tell you that I was ready. R-E-A-D-Y ready for sex.

Daddy and I were on our backs under the farm truck making a repair to the u-joints when we had my first man talk. “Look, son, I’m not tellin’ you that you can’t have sex, I’m tellin’ you to be real careful who you sex with. Pussy is powerful, Mooner, maybe the most powerful thing on Earth, and you ain’t got one. You get to borrow them son, not possess them. Once a woman let’s you borrow hers the first time, you’ll do most anything to get more. Don’t. Don’t do anything to get more. Don’t ever sex it up with a girl that thinks givin’ you a taste of her pussy is some kind a prize for doin’ what she wants. If a woman tells you that you can have the pussy if you just fill-in-the-blank, Mooner, don’t fill her blanks for her. And don’t ever fill her pussy either. That’s a woman who’ll hurt you with sex.”

My daddy had tears in his eyes at this point, and he locked mine with his wet eyes and said to me, Daddy said, “Hardest thing you’ll ever do is walk away from pussy, son. Learn to do it before it’s too late.”

Even back then I knew my father’s advice was rooted in a hard-learned lesson of his own. I’ve always known that my mother was a prissy, martyred and pious baptist matron. After a wild child adolescence, Mother turned into a petulant christian prude in the early years of marriage to Daddy. I guess she used sex as a weapon on him. I also know that men can use sex as a weapon as well.

Ugh, but this is unpleasant shit.

Which reminds me. The three-ring circus that is Gnewbt Gangreenich just keeps on giving a laugh a minute. That silly fuckball announced yesterday that he is “suspending” his Presidential campaign. Uh-huh, it’s suspended alright. Suspended, as used in this case, is like when they used to hang convicted murderers, and in that millisecond after the floor dropped from under the prisoner’s feet, he seemed to float in the air.

The former Speaker of the House is a weak, sniveling little weenie. You lost, shithead, and you lost to Herr Schmidt Rommel. What does that tell you, asshole. You lost to a two-faced, flip-flopping pseudo-christian who wears magic undies. Go back and hide under your rock—wait for Mz. Callista to get sick so you can shop for another woman.

You are way better at snagging women than you are at political endorsements.

Manana, y’all.

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Hurt Feelings; Let’s Go Fishing

Thursday, April 19th, 2012

 

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

For some stupid reason, this has hurt my feelings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I miss my father.

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

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

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

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Bumper Sticker Bozo; Please Buy My Book

Wednesday, April 4th, 2012

 

So. I’m starting to think Austin, Texas isn’t quite the paradise I have always known it to be. I had to make a trip in to town this morning and everywhere I went I saw signs that my Austin no longer exists. I realized that if I were to have pulled a Rip Van Winkle and gone to sleep for twenty years back in April of 1992, my trip to downtown Austin would have shocked me.

I’m not talking about the buildings here, folks, I’m speaking of the people. I also want to say that Austin has always had asshole right-wing Christian Republican rat fuckers, even back in the day. But back then, they were hard to find—you needed to wish an encounter with one of those shitheads to have an encounter with one.

Not today. Braindead exclusionary bigoted bastards are everywhere and out in plain sight. I was down to the Book People to see if they are selling any of my books, and I was almost run over in the parking lot by this woman in a big Chevy Suburban. Silly bitch is yakking on the fucking phone and I have to jump out of her way when she nearly squished me into a little Mini Cooper.

Man, but I really like the Mini Coopers—the new ones. I hear they’re made by BMW now and I think I want one. I’d get the souped-up version like when I was a kid. Had a buddy who had one and Lloyd had an MGB. I was always jealous of their rides.

Anyway, people talking on their fucking phones while driving stupidly is one of my pet peeves, so I followed the woman to where she parked, and waited for her to get out. I’m standing there already warmed up when I read a bumper sticker on her bigass truck. “Obozocare is for Monkeys,” it said, and it had a caricature of the President. A very unflattering caricature of President Obama.

I pulled my pocketknife out and stooped to scrape the offensive sticker off. I felt the truck waggle, like someone was getting out, and then I heard, “Exactly WHAT do you THINK you are Do-ING?”

Standing to my full height, I encountered a perfectly-dressed and outfitted matron of maybe thirty-five years. She wore big designer eyeglasses, designer jeans, a luxurious silk blouse—lipstick red with white piping—and she carried one of those giant Coach handbags. She was skinny everywhere except in her way-too-fucking big bosom.

“Well, LADY, first, I’m saving you from getting your ASS kicked by peeling this SHIT off your bumper,” I reached down and peeled the last of the sticker off. “Now, I’m going to tell you to turn your phone off and drive your fucking car when you are driving your fucking car. You almost hit me just now and you don’t even know it.”

That’s when she punched the numbers 9 and 11 into her phone and jumped back into the big Chevy. That’s the end of the incident for me. I walked into the bookstore and she was gone when I walked back out.

But being in the bookstore reminded me that I haven’t pimped my book here to Loonyland for at least a week, so I’m going to do so now. The following is the first chapter of my new book, Full Rising Mooner, a story I call Chapter One. Please read it and I’ll be back. And don’t get all pissy on me, it’s short.

 

Chapter One

All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them.”

–Galileo Galilei

 

“Alright, Mooner, say it like you’re speaking at an AA meeting. Truth, with full and total disclosure.”

“Oh, for shitsakes, Sammy, this is really dumb,” I respond.

My psycho therapist, and first ex-wife, gives me this laser-eyed look. “Let me put it like this. After the stupid stunt you pulled yesterday—do it my way, or I check you into Shoal Creek Mental Hospital.”

That’s not going to happen.

“My name is Mooner Johnson, and I’m a crazy man.”

When I take too long to gather my disparate thoughts to continue, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson gently prods with, “Now tell me about the craziness.”

“My name is Mooner and I’m a crazy man. I’m not lock away to the loonie bin and throw away the keys crazy—not the dangerous to Society sort of crazy. I’m the variety of crazy that makes for ten ex-wives and great campfire stories.”

It takes another minute to corral more thoughts, then I add, “Since I’m doing this exercise in the name of truth and full disclosure, I feel compelled to say that I am crazy enough to have been locked away to the mental hospital on several occasions, for short visits. I have also been diagnosed with the world’s only case of ‘Contagious Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.’ That one got me into the Guinness Book of World Records.”

Now I’m rolling, “US News and World Report named me The Most Inappropriate Man in the World, and that has gotten me terrific free press. I also killed a man, which got me arrested and charged with murder. But I was acquitted—self defense.”

I take a deep breath for a big finish. “I am sorry for every bad act I have ever performed. From this point forward, I hereby promise to be true to my conscience, think things through carefully before acting, always take other people into consideration, and I further promise to always do the right thing.”

Maybe that will satisfy the good doctor.

“Mooner, how can you still be so clueless after thirty years of intense therapy? Deal with your National Security issues and then do it again. And do it right this time.”

Of course it didn’t satisfy her. She’s never happy. “OK, fine.” I try again.

“My name is Mooner, and I’m a crazy, inappropriate and scatterbrained murdering fuckball, and I can’t focus.

“I apologize to everyone I have ever hurt, even though I didn’t mean to ever hurt anyone with purpose. Except for those times when I did intend to hurt, and I’m not even a little sorry for any of that.

“I wrote a book and terrorized Pulled Pork Publishing, LLC, its Publisher and employees, when they refused to print the book. We had a lawsuit that we settled with my agreement to a thorough vetting by National Security agencies, and Pulled Pork Publishing agreed to print three of my future books.”

Sam starts to prod me, so I add, “It was wrong to take the photographs of the Pulled Pork Publishing guy with the chicken.”

I take a deep breath to continue. “I promise to try to be a better man.”

In a rush, I add, “And not kill anybody else.”

As she has a thousand times before, my ex-wife therapist looks at me like I’m her biggest disappointment in life, and says, “Mooner, you are so fucking clueless. Begin your journal and bring it with you to every session, starting day-after tomorrow.”

Then she adds, “This journal is for you to write down anything that you think is part of your lunacy. Thoughts, your actions and even how you feel about other people’s actions. And do it on the computer, Mooner. I’m not going to try to interpret you scribbling on a stack of Post It Notes.”

I’m thinking about how good a cold Carta Blanca beer would taste when Dr. Sam I Am barks at me, “Dammit, Mooner, pay attention. Now say it again.”

”My name is Mooner Johnson, and I’m a crazy man.

Finis

I’m back now, and that didn’t hurt, did it? If that peaked your interest, you can go over there ====}}}} to the Bloggie Roller and see a book trailer, read a Four-Stars Clarion Review, and even buy a paper book or a Kindle version.

Me, I’m cracking an icy-cold Carta Blanca. Manana, y’all.

 

 

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