Archive for the ‘Carta Blanca Beer’ Category

Good Parenting Skills Are Hard To Find; Telling Rick Perry “No”

Friday, March 23rd, 2012


So. It’s a beautiful day here, one of those gorgeous May days our Austin Chamber of Commerce loves to brag about. Only thing is that it’s still March and we had our March weather in January. At this rate we can expect July to hit mid-April and destroy my beautiful tomato plants. My tomatoes are already knee-to-waist high and have flower buds all over the place. It’ll be a bumper crop with decent weather until June.

I was listening to the news this morning and it seems like the Republican Presidential hopefuls have taken a new tactic to win the hearts of their voters. These silly shitballs have decided to support President Obama in order to gather votes. Tactic change one is from the great tactic changer his own self, Etchin’ Sketchin’ Schmidt Rommel. The Mittster’s lead political tactician has said that come general election time, they’ll just shake the red-and-graphite-colored-Chinese-made-plastic box, and wipe out all of his primary positions so that they can write an entirely new slate of positions.

In order to reverse all his extremist right-wing positions, the former Massachusetts Governor will be forced to more closely align himself with the President. Former Senator and all-around funny guy, Little Pricky Santoria, has taken the tack that Obama is a better President than Mitt-A-Sketch could ever be. Basically, the two front runners have decided to imitate and support the President.

That, dear friends, is fucking brilliant. It seems that the American voting public really is stupid enough to fall for anything, as long as you make it clear that you are a christian and a conservative christian at that. Mark my words here when I say that the next step is for them to steal President Obama’s successes as their own. They’ll say that the economy is getting better and take credit for it. They’ll be bragging about saving General Motors and how it was their plan that got Bin Laden.

And please note that I am still holding the high ground in my plan for marginalization of all things right-wing and christian fuckwad. I will continue to lower-case them and theirs with impunity until I feel I’ve made my points.

Have you ever wondered who in the fuck named Boston’s home state “Massachusetts” and decided to spell it like that? According to Wiki, it’s named after a Native American tribe’s words meaning “on a large hill” or something close to that.

Bullshit. Some silly-assed Pilgrim school marm who hadn’t been layed in thirty years named and spelled it to torture school kids. Maybe I should have said “…silly-assed school marm whom hadn’t been lain in thirty years…”[.] Who’s and whose and whom’s and layeds and lains have always been problematical for me.

Speaking of tomato plants, why don’t we say “tomatoe plants”[?] One tomato is a tomato and two are tomatoes right? Well, my garden is filled with not only many different individual tomato plants, but also plants of many different varieties of tomato. So why don’t I have tomatoe plants? Come on you prissy Grammar Police, conjugate your silly butts out of that one.

While back on my tomatoes, I had all of my charges out to the garden early this am to look things over and to provide some life lessons. As a newly-dedicated father… OK, stop again. As a father with newly-dedicated desires to be a better parent, I had the two dogs, the fucking cat, Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry out to the garden to tend the crops.

I wanted to teach them that you need to love and nurture Life’s creatures if you expect the best from them in return. Since the recent rains have caused the weeds to almost jump out the ground, I wanted to use weeding as the metaphorical hammer to drive my points home.

We were weeding and talking about life when Rick Perry squawked about something. It was obviously important to him because the big ostrich was running in circles and lashing his head up and down. I couldn’t understand a word of it, so I asked the Squirt to translate for all of us.

“Well,” the brown-furred and adorable little interpretor answered, “his feelings are hurt because he thinks you aren’t taking him seriously. He feels disrespected.”

Huh? How do you not seriously take a bird that shits a ten-pound bucket every movement and can break your leg with one swing of his bowling ball head. “The fuck is he talking about? I take all you guys seriously.”

I try to not have hurt feelings with my kids but it can be difficult. “I allow him and his gay lover—a 550-pound domesticated hog—to live in my bedroom closet, for shitsakes. How much more respect does he think I should give him?”

Squirt squawked at the ostrich, who then squawked at Rush Limbaugh, who oinked and squealed at Squirt, who then turned to me and said, “You are such an asshole. Why can’t Rick Perry have a boob job?”

“Oh, for the love of god, is that what this is all about? Is this because I think he needs to think things a little deeper before getting giant rubber titties?”

This subject came up at dinner the other night and I basically ignored it the same way I did when Rush Limbaugh asked me for a sex change operation a while back. I always feel that the “First Ignore” sales approach is the best tactic to use when your kids have hair-brained ideas. Make them bring it up more than a few times before you take them seriously. Give them time for deeper thinking before attempting serious discussions.

Then again, Rick Perry lacks the actual brain cells required to have deep thoughts. Which brings a question to mind. I never really paid any attention to this until I was adopted by my ostrich, but have you ever noticed that an ostrich egg is the same approximate size as a mature adult ostrich’s head? Have you ever noticed it’s the same with chickens and ducks and robins and all other birds?

Wait, I don’t mean that all birds lay ostrich eggs, but rather I mean that birds lay eggs the size of their own heads. Except for a Duck-billed Platypus. I’ve never seen their eggs but I bet they’re either smaller or larger than their heads. Would need to be.

Anyway, we all discussed the concept of a gay ostrich getting breast implants to please his boy friend. Seems Rush Limbaugh is a breast man. I always figured him for an ass man as he has his head up his own, and those of others, so much. But go figure.  My five kids voted four-to-zero in favor of me letting Rick get his titties.  The fucking cat abstained from voting.  Cats, I’m learning, are trouble makers. 

Anyway, we’re going fishing down to the dock, and Gram and the P-cubed are heading the Ferrari down to College Station to fish for a couple young Aggie Cadets. Here’s hoping we all bag our limits. Me and my bunch are cracking the icy-cold Carta Blanca beers and baiting some hooks.

Manana, y’all.


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Jerry Jones Admits Diminished Mental Capacity; Cowboys Owner Seeks Brain Donor

Saturday, February 4th, 2012


So. We were all sitting at the big breakfast table this morning, enjoying a delightful journey through the world of pig meat that only my mother could ruin. Fragrant sausage, bacon, Virginia ham, spicy Mexican chorizo, and this new English pork bangers recipe Dixie talked Streaker Jones into making. The porcine repast was supported by a cast of waffles, eggies of all varieties, and my famous potato cakes.

For those of you wondering what a banger might be, let me say that banger is British for bland.

Mother was reading the Saturday newspaper, editorial fashion, a habit of hers that is somewhat tolerated by the rest of us. The woman from whose loins I sprang uses these moments to make comparisons between stories in the paper and those of us in the family she considers to be of “low moral character”[.] Should I have said, “… from whom’s loins I sprang?”

To my mother, any Johnson family member and associate attending this morning’s breakfast not named Mother Johnson is of low moral character. Gram sexes with young boys, Aunt Hilda thinks that the shrunken head of a heathen African can talk, P-cubed runs with Gram, Mr. Dave is a gigolo, Squirt curses like a sailor, Yoda is so ugly he has to be the Devil’s spawn, Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are homo-sex-u-als, Streaker Jones and Dixie are involved in illegal business enterprise with me, and I… well, folks, I, quite simply, am me.

Some of Mother’s favorite news stories are when women teachers have illegal relationships with their students and the sting operations wherein the cops set a guy up thinking he’s meeting an underage girl for sex. These stories are fodder for Mother to lecture Gram and the P-cubed for their lust of barely-legal boys. I do admit that my randy old grandmother adds new dimensions to the term “cougar” and might have actually been the original model for it. But Gram and her best bud, Penelope Paxton-Parades, are strict enforcers of the eighteen is bare minimum rule.

“Oh quit yer bitchin’, ya old gasser baggie. We checks their ID an their teeth ever’ time,” Gram responded to today’s editorial chastisements. “Cain’t stand bad teeth, an’ yer startin’ ta git inta my short hairs.”

I’m reasonably sure that Gram meant “cross hairs” but why would anyone correct her?

Streaker Jones and Dixie caught their shit scoop with the story of a meth lab that blew up out in the country near Burnett, Texas. My mother doesn’t approve of any business enterprise that us illegal, and illegal is Streaker Jones middle name. Actually, Streaker Jones has no middle name, but illegal is his game. His and Dixie’s current project is breeding a new strain of sweaty toad. They think they can breed the little boogers to where you can lick them and not die.

Squirt had her chops busted over a story about the declining vocabularies of third graders. When Mother asked Squirt what she thought that might mean, Squirt said, “Who gives a shit? Those potato cakes are really fucking good.”

Another case where a different dog owner might feel compelled to correct his potty-mouthed puppy, yet I found humor and enlightenment in Squirt’s words.

My rasher of grief came from a very strange place. “Oh my, Mooner, would you listen to this. Jerry Jones just confided that he suffered more than fifty concussions while playing football at the University of Arkansas. He says he would have been President if he hadn’t played football. Now what do you think about that?”

“OK, first, I think that explains some things about Jerry Jones. Second, the little prick is always sticking his head where it doesn’t belong, so where’s the shock? Third, I think I’m glad I’ve already stopped liking the Cowboys because that kind of brain damage only gets worse, and I already can’t stand the sonofabitch.” I cogitated some more and said, “Besides, Jerry’s a right-wing Christian Republican. He’s never been more fucking qualified to lead that batch of shitballs than now that he’s lost his mind.”

I actually don’t know that Jerry is a right-wing Christian Republican shitball. I base my assumption on the simple fact that my mother likes him. Mother gravitates to her kind.

Anyway, I want to be interested in, and excited about, Sunday’s Super Bowl but I am, quite simply, not. I could not care less if it was with Jerry Jones’ Dallas Crybabies. Waaaaah, I had fifty concussions in college… Waaaaaah, Dallas lost an important game because of a bad call… Waaaah, I should have listened when my scouts told me Dez Bryant is a knuckle-head. Waaaaah, the plastic surgeon pulled the skin so tight on my face that every time I smile, my nipples twitch.

Fucking Jerry Jones. “I could have been President, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.”

I wanted the Forty-Niners and The Raiders this year. If BJ wasn’t my buddy, I’d have wanted the Niners and the Saints but that’s impossible since they’re both NFC. Hell, I’d be happy to watch them play a rematch of this year’s play-off game, only on a neutral field.

But as the Squirt and my Gram like to say, “Who gives a shit what you think, Mooner. It’s New England and The fucking Giants. Now pass the guacamole, and fetch me another Carta Blanca.

Manana, y’all.


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Read At Your Own Risk; Mooner’s Confusion Is Confused

Thursday, February 2nd, 2012


So. It’s Thursday and a beautiful day here to Austin, Texas. Texas state Governor Rick “The Prick” Perry is still too wounded with embarrassment from his national political debacle to restart his dismantling of our infrastructure. The pompous little bastard is hiding out, no doubt meeting with his big money handlers to determine just how bad his national exposures damaged his state authorities. So, as I said, it’s a beautiful day here.

I have never failed to credit the right-wing Christian religious of Texas, and I suspect Ricky will soon start blowing his fetid, stupid air up their dresses again and re-inflate that balloon. I wonder if those of the religious right have ever stopped to wonder why it is that their best political spokesperson is dumb as a rock. OK, that was an unfair statement. He’s not dumb “as” a rock, he’s dumb “like” a rock. Like the painted rock at his family’s hunting lease.

I also wonder if those same supposed “models of Christ’s image” realize that it is we, the hedonistic, agnostic and heretical liberal left who are actually the ones pushing Jesus’ “love your brother-take care of your weak and infirm” political agenda. Do those guys realize that their right-wing me-first attitudes have made us look more Godlike than them. (they?)

Which reminds me to tell you that I heard from a spokesperson from the Holy Roman Catholic Church late yesterday afternoon. Please allow me to say, here in advance, that I had already cracked a couple icy-cold Carta Blanca beers and also ingested one of my Gram’s magic mushroom potions she calls “A bruised peach ain’t right”[.] The bluish spot high on my arm where SAC Ellen “tapped” me night-before-last had turned into a purple and yellow, swollen lump. Gram gave me the potion to reduce swelling and I guess also to stop my whining about it.

I’m still amazed at how much unwanted attention I bring to myself.

Those of you with inclinations to stay abreast of current science know that studies now show how psychedelic mushroom juice can enhance concentration as well as imagination. I have always attempted to tell people that Gram’s potions straighten-out some of my ADHD’s worst habits, and now I have proof. I tell you this to provide additional clarity to the information re: the call from the Catholic guy. I was on my third beer, which likely dimmed my wits, but I was also in a state of altered ADD and AD-with-an-HD effects with enhanced imagination from the mushrooms.

OK, let’s face it, I was shit-faced when my phone rang.

The call wasn’t from Christian Gonzales, the communications guy, but, rather, from Larry Covington, who is the “Ecumenical Officer” of the Austin Diocese. Turns out Larry is a Catholic who attended a Baptist Seminary and he was the perfect man to answer my questions when doing a compare/contrast of Biblical foundations between Baptists and Catholics on three key issues: birth control, abortion and homo, I say homo-sex-u-al-ity.

At first I wondered how it was known that I was ecumenical as it relates to the Catholic Church. I mean really, how did they know I wasn’t Catholic? The answer, of course, was in my question. As I later learned, only a non-Catholic would ask such a silly question.

I’ll preface my remarks by saying that Larry was forthright, forthcoming and didn’t blanch at any question I asked. He didn’t attempt to avoid or deflect except when he felt directing me to printed Catholic stuff would serve to clarify. Unless Larry is a devious little Catholic fucker and the same Larry I’ve met over to the Planned Parenthood where I anti-anti-abortion protest. Short of that, if I were a Catholic I would want Mr. Covington in my corner.

I also wonder if the local Catholic clan has other Ecumenical Officers who attended Church of Christ, Mormon, Lutheran and other seminaries who stand at the ready for callers like me. My simple request lead me through four entire departments and six people. They’d need like at least a dozen specially trained Larry guys each with training in a different world religion. I wonder how many of those guys convert to the religion they study?

It’s no wonder that need so much money.

To understand my quest you need to know that I was raised Baptist and one, Baptists believe in the “literal” words of the Bible, and two, Baptists believe that Catholics are not “real” Christians. I never really gave a shit as to why Catholics were viewed as heretics at my church and I stopped going at an age that predated my quest for knowledge. I’m pretty well-versed on the Catholic Church’s stand on the centuries of child rape committed by its priests and also its stand on women.

But I had never bothered myself with the Bible verses either the Baptists or Catholics stand upon to justify those stances. I made the call to the Catholic Bishop of Austin because he started whining about new health care requirements that require health care providers, those that that accept payments under government programs, cover birth control. I got all pissed off that the Bishop was pissed off about such a basic human right of women.

I had +/-thirty minutes of conversation with Mr. Covington and while I can say that he cleared several things for me, I am even more dumb founded than before making the call. See, according to Larry, the Ecumenical Officer of the local Catholic Church, The Holy Roman Catholic Church doesn’t rely on the words of the Bible for their positions on those three issues. Instead, they rely upon what they choose to call “Natural Law” and then through “The Theory of the Body” the Church pontificates modern beliefs.

Only after filtering whatever original intentions God might have had in regards to my issues through a succession of dried up old men—that would be the Popes and masses of Cardinals over time—several re-interpretations of the Bible, The Dark Ages, The Inquisition, the Catholic Church plundering of the New World, and the actual acceptance of a New Testament that totally changed Christianity, can the Catholics even decide how they rule.

I want to thank Larry Covington for clearing a few things for me and also for confusing the shit right out of me. I’m way too confused to know how I feel about all of this right now, because basically, Larry told me that over the course of Catholic history the high muck-a-mucks of their church have decided how to act, not the Bible. And in these three modern issues, the only reliance on the words of the Bible come AFTER we apply the Catholic interpretation of the Catholic interpretation of Natural Law.


OK, then we’re required to re filter all of that through “The Theology of the Body” which is the last Pope’s cogitations on life.

Let’s start our journey through the mind of Catholic dogma with Natural Law. I apologize for the highlights, funky lines and dead-end hyper links, but here is some of the info I pulled on a Google search of “Catholic Natural Law”[:]

“From Wikipedia:

Paul of Tesarus wrote in his Epistle to the Romans: “For when Gentiles, who do not have the law, by nature do the things contained in the law, these, although not having the law, are a law unto themselves, their conscience also bearing witness.”


(Author’s note: Holy fucking shit!)


The use of natural law, in its various incarnations, has varied widely through its history. There are a number of different theories of natural law, differing from each other with respect to the role that morality plays in determining the authority of legal norms. This article will deal with its usages separately rather than attempt to unify them into a single theory.

In English this term is frequently employed as equivalent to the laws of nature, meaning the order which governs the activities of the material universe. Among the Roman jurists natural law designated those instincts and emotions common to man and the lower animals, such as the instinct of self-preservation and love of offspring. In its strictly ethical application—the sense in which this article treats it—the natural law is the rule of conduct which is prescribed to us by the Creator in the constitution of the nature with which He has endowed us.




According to St. Thomas, the natural law is “nothing else than the rational creature’s participation in the eternal law” (I-II.94). The eternal law is God’s wisdom, inasmuch as it is the directive norm of all movement and action. When God willed to give existence to creatures, He willed to ordain and direct them to an end. In the case of inanimate things, this Divine direction is provided for in the nature which God has given to each; in them determinism reigns. Like all the rest of creation, man is destined by God to an end, and receives from Him a direction towards this end. This ordination is of a character in harmony with his free intelligent nature. In virtue of his intelligence and free will, man is master of his conduct. Unlike the things of the mere material world he can vary his action, act, or abstain from action, as he pleases. Yet he is not a lawless being in an ordered universe. In the very constitution of his nature, he too has a law laid down for him, reflecting that ordination and direction of all things, which is the eternal law. The rule, then, which God has prescribed for our conduct, is found in our nature itself. Those actions which conform with its tendencies, lead to our destined end, and are thereby constituted right and morally good; those at variance with our nature are wrong and immoral.”

*** OK, I’m back, and please allow me to repeat myself when I say, “Holy fucking shit!”

I need BJ to help me work my way through all of this stuff, I’m just not smart enough. One thing that Larry told me is that women can’t be priests because priests are stand-ins for Jesus and Jesus was a man. I assumed that to mean that Priests are supposed to only act like Jesus, but I’m again confused because the Pope is a priest first and he is bigoted towards many people and balks when given the chance to do what Jesus would have done.

Here’s my rationale. The only time Jesus EVER got angry to the point of physical acts against another was when he kicked the money changers out of the temple. Jesus was physically angry and assaulted these guys for the act of currency exchange on church property.

Yet this current Pope, and those several before him, have been mealy-mouthed about the priests who have raped and otherwise molested thousands of children while wearing the collar and performing the Holy sacraments. Pope’s have not only approved of the slaughter of millions of non-Christians, they have blessed and financed the missions to conquer. Popes have endorsed the killings and taking of slaves in God’s name, but they don’t want us to terminate a two-month pregnancy?

Have I managed to confuse you guys now? My head is spinning and I haven’t even addressed the Theology of the Body. Wait until you see that one. What I wanted was simple answers to modern issues and maybe in all of this confusion I have them. Maybe it’s one, simple answer.

Just like we Baptists, Catholics make shit up to suit us. Manana, y’all.

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Heart And Soul; Rick Perry Still A Prick

Monday, January 23rd, 2012


So. We were all sitting at the big table for breakfast yesterday morning and I was attempting to express my feelings about Rick Perry’s having quit presidential politics. As I have several times here, I mentioned that I was happy that Governor Dumbass wasn’t going to be elected to screw up the entire country, yet I lamented that he’s now got all of his waking hours to finish the job he started to totally fuck up my state.

My mother is a Baptist right-wing conservative Christian from waaaay back, and her Christian lobotomy hasn’t grown back. Since she routinely stops at the church to listen to the swill that spills from the mouth of The Right Reverend Pastor Browningwell, Mother’s lobotomy is cultivated quite nicely, thank you just the same. The dead space in her brain that stimulates free thought lays disconnected from the rest of her brain.

I was talking about the absolute insanity of Pick “The Prick”Perry’s endorsement of Newbt Gangrenich as he quit, and when Mother had gotten her fill of my rant, she said, “You shut your foul mouth and right now, Butcher Einstein Johnson. I’ll not have you saying such terrible, filthy things about MY Governor. Rick Perry is a fine, fine Christian man and you should be ashamed of yourself for speaking evil about him. You’ll rot in hell if you don’t stop.”

OK, wait. First of all, have I ever told you that is my given name? And for seconds, it wasn’t right then that my mother launched her standard “Mooner will rot in hell for (fill in the blanks)” speech. It was when I started asking if anybody could rectify (justify) the fact that if God told Ricky to run for President—and since the pompous prick does everything God tells him to do—he ran for President, and has now summarily ignored God’s demands and aborted his campaign.

I love it when Rick Perry performs abortions against God’s will. In fact, I now remember that is what I said when Mother went off on me. I mumbled something in replay like, “My ticket to hell has already been punched,” a comment that always brings out the mother in my martyred parent.

“You would see the rightness of Mr. Perry’s actions if you were a good Christian man, Mooner. But you have the Devil in your soul and evil in your heart.”

Now me, I think I’d rather evil was in my soul and that the Devil resided in my heart. I’m unsure why, precisely, but that is how I have felt ever since my mother first laid this trip on my head. We were back to second grade—Streaker Jones and I—and he dared me to moon Mrs. Leticia Browningwell during Sunday School. This was before my little incident with my Boy Scout Leader, so I was still allowing Mother to drag my ass to the Baptist church every time the unlocked the fucking doors. Streaker Jones went wherever I went most times and he was there.

If I remember correctly, we were studying the story about the father who gave his sons talents. Streaker Jones raised his hand and said to Mrs. Browningwell, he said, “Mooner’s got a talent,” at which time I showed her.

I think that was the first day that I sensed that Gloria Muckleroy liked me better than Walley Smalley.

Anyway, I got my ear tugged—first from my seat in Sunday School all the way to the car—and then from the car all the way around the house and out to the tool shed that used to be attached to the side of the barn. The tool shed was remodeled when I dug the deep basement under the barn for Gram’s mushroom growing operations, and what was the tool shed is now her potion storage facilities.

And they say that an ADHD-addled fuckbrain can’t follow the plot line.

After Mother ear-dragged me to the shed and then whipped my ass with one of the switches I had previously harvested for just such a moment, I got the “Mooner, you are going to rot in hell for being irreverent” speech. That was the first time I was told that the Devil would be dwelling in my soul and evil inside my ventricles.

I’ve also wondered if the evil courses through me with every contraction of my rotten heart. Maybe that’s how the Devil keeps oxygenated and fed as he hides in my soul. I must have a huge soul to house the entire Devil. As much as I like pig meat and Carta Blanca beer, I guess I can explain the intensities of those likes by saying, “The Devil made me do it. He likes pork and Carta Blanca beer.”

Maybe this line of reasoning should go unused when I make my pitch to Carta Blanca for sponsorship.

I love my mother, I truly do. She’s honest and hard working, she gives freely to others in need, and she wishes the best she knows for everyone, including me. It’s just that the best she knows is tainted and tinted with the caustic dye splashed around in the Baptist church. Not the Baptist church with the loving, inclusive God, the other church with the mean God, the God that hates gays and Muslims.

Every time Mother gives me this speech, I cook her favorite meal as my reply of unlike kind. She still, to this day, hasn’t connected all the dots. She thinks that I do it to make her feel better for my being an asshole, but untruer words were never spoken.

I do it to show her that the Devil might live in my soul and that evil might hide out in my heart, but I forgive her of thinking so badly of me.

The results of modern psycho therapy at work. Manana, y’all.


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Book Party Update; A Partial Posting- More, Much More, To Follow.

Saturday, January 14th, 2012


So. It’s now a full day and a half after my big book launch party, and my feet are finally approaching reentry into the Earth’s atmosphere. I’ve had a house full of guests to attend so I’ve been unable to attend to business and tell you about the party. I’m sneaking some time now while the others are eating breakfast, so I don’t have much time.

Which reminds me. Last Saturday I watched as Squatlo’s Vols kicked Florida’s ass in men’s basketball. I’m not planning to watch today’s game with his ugly orange and white-jerseyed team takes on Kentucky. My own burnt orange and white Texas team is on TV, so I’ll be tuned in there.

The party was a huge success. It was well attended, the guests were interesting and interested, the food and beverage was tasty and flowed freely, and the entertainment was top notch. Typically at book launch parties the author will read passages from their book—the book getting launched at said party. Not this time. See, I have ADHD and my variety of the ADD part prevents me from reading aloud.

I’m not shy, as many of you can attest, and I’m not completely illiterate. I simply cannot make my eyes follow the words written on a page for the time required to read an entire sentence. Unless, of course, the sentence is, “Fuck you,” or maybe, “Oh,” or something like, “My, what a lovely camel toe you have.”

Wait. Is illiterate an affliction of degrees? Can you be somewhat illiterate or all-the-way illiterate—can you be somewhat illiterate? Or is it a case where you either are, or are not, illiterate? Then, after concluding the answers to that, you would also know about the nuances of being literate.

My personal out-loud readings are burdensome as I skip words and rewrite as I read. When I write, I self edit each sentence dozens of times to insure that my words are as well crafted as I can make them. But I’m the Butcher of Seville when I read those same words aloud. Listening to me read aloud is painful and frustrating. Wait—Barber of Damascus?

The party was attended by some very neat people. My friends and family, of course, who are quite neat personages in their own rights, were all there. But here I’m speaking of the guests not directly-connected to me. The Badgerdog Literary folks and the writers and psycho therapists and such, each attending for their own reasons, are the interesting people I speak of here. And of course Justine and David with WriteByNight who hosted our shin dig.

OK, wait. All of my family attended except for Mother. I didn’t expect mother to attend and took no exception at her absence. My mother has not approved of my actions for long enough now that I can still remember the sting of her disapproval, but I don’t feel it. I admire my Mother for the force of her convictions and I find the steadfastness of her believing inspiring.

I would, however, be happy to state that my mother is a mostly Baptist and stogy woman with the closed-off mind and damaged intellect predominant in her type. I love you Mother, but you need to pull your head out your ass and think. You missed a hell of a good time because you worried what your fucking friends would think.

Nobody was arrested, nobody got TOO drunk or TOO wasted, and nobody had sex out in the open. So it was a great party but not a stupendous party. As I was saying, I chose not to torture my guests by reading my own shit and instead hired a reader. I chose to hire a young, professional reader and I chose a young, professional female reader.

And I chose to have her read Chapter 15 from Full Rising Mooner. Chapter 15 is the story from when I was over to the Sprouts Market there to the Arboretum. The time I saw the woman smuggling a fully-grown camel in her tight Lycra workout suit. I know some of you thought that was a bad idea—you know, having a woman read a man’s writings about a female pocket deli tray.

But you’d be wrong, Bosco, her reading was the hit of the night. And she wasn’t just a hit because of her incredibly near-perfect ass—displayed at the full moon stage as she stood atop a chair. She was a hit because she’s a professional, had spent enough time with me to get the jest of my temperaments, and because she had practiced both the reading and the moon show.

I say “near-perfect ass” not because there were any imperfections therein, or thereon. The only reason it wasn’t perfect is because I wanted to snuggle-up close to it and could not, would not if I could. Her name is Rachel Wiese and there is a Mr. Wiese. I never make married ladies the focus of my amorous attentions. And maybe her husband has a different last name. When Rachel introduced him to me, his name went in one ear and out the other. If it even went in the one ear. I was so distracted early in the evening with ADHD chatter inside my skull I could hardly think.

“Did I buy enough food… is the beer cold… will people come… will they donate to Badgerdog… will they like the reading… will there be a fistfight… will I fuck things up… will I get arrested… will I get tazered (a wish, as SAC Ellen was present)… am I being a good host… how do I write a smart book dedication to another writer who buys my book… what do I write in the book of the sexy lady writer who asked to see my moon show in the privacy of her studio apartment located two doors down from the party… other than the nice, large man standing at the food table, how many homeless people will wander in off the street?”

In the end, I said, “Fuck it, I’m having myself a good time.” So, I swallowed my concerns and washed them down with a giant swig of icy-cold Carta Blanca beer, told the nice lady I’d need to pass on the chance to have her slather my ass with ginger-scented edible body lotion, and autographed the books as they sold.

Actually, the books were not sold. If a person made a donation to Badgerdog Literary Publishing, they got a book as a gift. I was signing gift books, and quite happy to do so. As I have said before, if I can sell half as many books as I’ve given away, I’ll be three-quarters of the way to being a best-selling author!

OK, stop the presses. If I could sell AS many books as I give away, I WOULD be a best-selling author.

But I need to go now and attend to the crowd congregated in my kitchen. Mr. Dave is making omelets this morning and agreed to customize each to it’s eater. Mother was getting all prissy and pissy at some of the ladies’ requests. I thought my mother would feint when Gram said, “I want ya ta make mine an I’ll stand next ta ya an hold yer pecker fer ya. I hate when some of tha pecker gits in tha eggies.”

Gram laughed and clucked like an old hen at her own chicken/egg joke, and Mother almost passed out from the vapors. If I’m right on the timing of things, the Squirt is nearing her turn at Mr. Dave. If Squirt vocalizes her interests about Mr. Dave in front of my mother, I’ll need an ambulance.

Look, I’ll have dozens of photos from the party, I hired Nathan Black to take photos and he’s a good photographer—has this big digital camera like Squattie’s—and he spent the entire evening snapping-off shots. So I’ll write a bunch more and share everything I have with you.

Manana, y’all.

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Focus, Mooner, Focus; Book Launch Party VS Overlord Duties

Thursday, January 12th, 2012


So. Today is the big day! The book launch party for Full Rising Mooner is tonight. I think I’ve got everything in place to have a nifty event—food, Carta Blanca beer, entertainment and more Carta Blanca beer.

Which reminds me. Overlord of the Fucking Universe law alert. It is now illegal to have children under the age of sixteen in beauty pageants. It’s also illegal to tan any child under age sixteen. This ban includes tanning booths, spray tans and intentional exposures to the sun.

I need to start numbering my O, FU laws. Let’s call this one O, FU Law # 7. Offending mothers will be sold to Saudi Arabia as sex slaves. The money from those sales will be put into the Veterans’ Affairs budget for the Reckmonster.

Speaking of the Saudis, do you guys realize that all of this Middle East strife and all of the Muslim terrorism worldwide is the fault of the Western World? The nomadic Muslim peoples of that part of the world were quite content with their life consisting of a goat meat and fig diet, camel farts and sand storms. They spent centuries perfecting, adapting their lifestyle to the harsh realities of their environment, and were quite happy while at it. Proud people with strict rules.

Strict rules are required for people to remain civilized when living in harsh circumstances with limited resources.

Then here we come, first as Christians, crusading and slaughtering them because they were infidels. Infidels who occupied the reported stomping grounds of Jesus. We swept in with our iron-clad armies and we raped and pillaged in the manner practiced by armies of the “civilized” world. Just like the racists of modern times, Christians of the Crusades and Dark Ages looked at the dark skinned Islamics as sub-human creatures—not up to human standards, but not apes either.

The net results of the Crusades were, basically, they kicked Christian ass back to Paris and London, and we managed to plant the seeds of hate that grew into the poisoned tree that is today’s Muslin extremist teachings.

To make the extremist Muslims problematic, our greed for growth and possessions made oil the most valuable commodity on Earth.

Our lust for their oil finances their terrorism of us.

If you think about it fairly, that would be one of those “Even-Steven” kinds of dealies.

I hate what terrorists do. Any terrorist. But I don’t feel any differently about Muslim terrorists than I do about Christians who display the same religious-based ideas. When you attempt to force your religious dogmas on others, or you bully others because they don’t believe as you—that, dear friends, is terrorism.

O, FU Law #8 says, “Terrorist shall be punished in like kind, squared.”

Ugh. It’s difficult being Overlord while attempting to be a writer. I should be spending time getting ready for tonight, yet here I am pondering the world views of a monarch.

Which reminds me of another law. Yoda just shit on my favorite Navajo rug, so O, FU Law #9 states that any person caught running a puppy mill, or any other grossly inhumane animal husbandry operation, shall be caged in five-by-five-five-foot wire cages and removed twice a day for meals of grub worms and corn meal, to take a shit on raw dirt, and a beating. Any time they act up, they’ll be required to fight another offender to the death.

It’s OK to breed animals as pets and food but it isn’t OK to abuse them or harm them for sport.

Ugh, again. I need new products with the O, FU logo. And I need a beer. I’m going to start focusing on the book party now. That should be quite an endeavor, me focusing.

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Overlord Mooner: Quincy Names Mooner Overlord Award Winner

Tuesday, January 10th, 2012


So. I have been “awarded” another dealie wherein I’m named as a big fucking hotshot. This time the namer is Quincy over at Thank Q For Common Sense, and the category is “Overlord Award”[.] Please allow me time to thank Quincy for this vainglorious award. My ego is properly swelled with pride, and well, ego.

Those of you with strong vocabularies already know that an Overlord gets to lord over other Lords and has omnipotence. Said another way, an Overlord is King of all Lords. I’ve been granted the right to make laws and edicts and decisions about anything and everything.

Overlord Mooner. Has a nice ring to it. Which reminds me that I need to get one of those giant, gaudy-assed rings to wear for my subjects to kiss. I don’t like jewelry but I’ll wear that ring. My loyal subjects will want to be able to pay homage properly.

Let’s get started with the laws. Overlord Mooner Law Number One states that: No law or rule shall be made in this land based upon any religious belief. Any lawmaker who attempts to introduce legislation that is religion based will be summarily executed. Do not pass Go and head directly to Jail.

That law of Overlord Mooner needs to be out there to the Universe pronto and post haste. I want all the fuckball legislators to have fair warning on all of this. I don’t want to hear any, “What do you mean you’re cutting my nuts off and feeding me, crying like a little baby, to alligators?”

I want everybody to have a fair chance to straighten up and fly right. Choo-choo-cha boogie and get your ass right back on the tracks.

I’ll try to be creative in methodologies as your Overlord. I’ll attempt to make your punishments fit your crimes, and I’ll find interesting ways to reward those loyal subjects who do good deeds.

Like, for example, all you rapists need to listen up. The punishment for conviction of rape will be that you suffer the same rape as you inflicted, once a day for the term of your incarceration. You aggravate the rape with a beating—you get beat and raped, daily.

I’m concerned about overcrowding of prisons with rapists and religious legislative fuckwads, so I’ll release all non-violent drug offenders right away. Drugs will be legalized in various ways, so those guys will all get full pardons and sanitized criminal records. For the hard drug users, we’ll have colonies where you can waste away in peace if you choose to do so.

Yes, I did say release them “ALL” and I did say “NON-VIOLENT”[.]

I’ll set up thoughtful and caring rehab facilities in each colony to help you break your habits should you wish to do so. The colonies will cost far less than police and prison expenses to prosecute druggies. We’ll tax all drug sales and regulate their production. We’ll start shipping cheap drugs back into Mexico to help with our trade balance. We’ll even grow poppies and ship heroin to Marseilles, France.

I’ll place Streaker Jones in charge. He’ll be my First Underlord of Drugs and Other Stuff. Streaker Jones is a multi-tasker so I don’t want to limit him. I’ll make Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson the First Underthelord of brains and brain repairs. We’ll fund their fiefdoms with the money we currently waste on The War on Drugs.

You know what? Of all the silly wars America has chosen to start and drag the world into, The War on Drugs might be the dumbest of all. More lives lost, more money wasted and we’ve managed to ruin Mexico in more ways than we have Iraq. But here, again, when you try to rule based upon religion, things get all fucked up.

OK, stop. This is not the subject of today’s posting. Having assigned Dr. Sam I. Am to her new post has reminded me of what the actual subject herein was intended to be. I wanted to tell you about my recent psych evaluation. The one wherein I was evaluated by my psycho therapist evaluating the mental health of the Squirt, Yoda and Honor the fucking cat.

Sammie somehow has the idea that she can gain insight into my mental health through her observations of my two small puppies and the fucking cat. As unfair as it is, I’m to be judged based upon the behaviors of three of my pets. At least she chose the three most well behaved. If she’d decided to observe Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry for a weekend, I’d be writing you from the confines of a padded cell over to Shoal Creek Mental Hospital. My giant gay pig and his 350-pound ostrich lover have habits that even unsettle me.

“Well, Mooner,” Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson began my session yesterday. “What we have here is a mixed bag of tricks.”

“Fuck you and your mixed bag of tricks nonsense, Sammie. That’s the same thing as saying, ‘Good news, bad news,’ and you know how I hate that bullshit.” She knows how I hate that bullshit.

Don’t you hate those “velvet hammer” kinds of things? If what you’ve got is bad news, just give me the bad fucking news. If you want to tell me that my pecker is going to fall off because I let the gonorrhea go unchecked for thirty years, don’t start the conversation with, “The good news is that the gangrene hasn’t made it to your prostate yet.”

New law of Overlord Mooner. Anyone caught using the “good news, bad news” method of delivering bad news will have a clothespin stuck on their tongue and get both ears and their nose finger-thumped. Repeat offenders will be executed.

Ugh. Now we need to back all the way up because I have a new first law of Overlord Mooner. I have a new most important law of Overlord Mooner. I am hereby outlawing bigotry based upon race, creed, sexual preferences or religion. Lawbreakers will be forced to live with a family in an apartment building fully occupied with whatever group it is the offender hates on. We’ll manacle them like in A Clockwork Orange, and have their eyes and ears held open with those same wire devices they used on Alex DeLarge. They will be brainwashed until they come to love those they formerly hated.

Those that hate homosexuals will be turned into homosexuals. Unless, of course, like Dr. Bachmann you are full of self-hate. Maybe I need to rethink this one. Homosexuality is a complicated subject, and needs careful thought to adjudicate.

Have you seen those Funny or Die videos of Michele and Marcus over to Squatlo Rant? Priceless.

I’m naming BJ at Dumb Perignon my First Overlord of Uncommon Sense, and Squatlo will be in charge of Political Theory. Reckmonster will be charged with the care of all veterans, and Melanie, Melanie will be over all non-mental, non-military related health care.

Oh, shit on a shingle. My ADHD has digressed us. My psych evaluation—this posting is about my psych evaluation.

Ugh, once more and with emphasis.

As Dr. Sam put it yesterday, the good news is that I’m not headed to Shoal Creek to the loony bin and I can keep the pets. The bad news is, and I’ll quote my psycho bitch here when I say, “The bad news is that Yoda has some deep-seated issues requiring intense therapy, your parenting skills lack insight, and Honor is a cat.”

Then she gave me the bill for a weekend of therapies for three animals.

“Bitch,” I told her, my best under the circumstances.

“Crazy redneck fuckball.” Not her best, but really good.

I need to spend some quality time thinking on this Overlord stuff. Gram’s brewing me a magic mushroom potion formulated to give me insight as a ruler. “I’ll call it Ya cain’t git nothin’ over this here Lordie,” she told me. That and a long stick of mellowing hemp bud washed down with some icy cold Carta Blanca beers ought to do the trick.

Mooner Johnson- Overlord of the Universe. Has a nice ring don’t you think? Manana, y’all, when we’ll write some more laws.

 PS-  Overlord Mooner Special Rule:  Buy my book.  Click over there and buy it!



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You’re Invited To A Party; Rick Perry Still A Prick

Monday, January 2nd, 2012


So. The Iowa straw vote or caucus or whateverthefuck it is the silly Ioweaners call their Presidential Primary is manana. Why they can’t call it a primary is beyond me, other than the fact that they think themselves special. Since they hold theirs first, they get an undo amount of national news coverage, and the candidates spend an undo amount of time campaigning in a state with seven electoral votes.

That’s right folks, Iowa has but 7 of the 538 total electoral votes yet we have spent the last six months with daily intense news coverage there. I for one am quite glad to see this shit come to an end. Me, I’m ready to move on to New Hampshire with its four electoral votes. Woo-hoo!

I’m also ready to get sales for my book moving along. Sales for Full Rising Mooner are moving but too slowly for my tastes. After receiving a stellar four-of-five stars book review from Clarion, I would have thought that sales would spike. Not so.

I also would have thought that all of you content thieves (not contented thieves but thieves of words) lurking worldwide would have bought my book as a way to say “Thanks” for the 1,646,311-plus words you have stolen from me. Mother fuckers. You slimy bastards sit continents away eating greasy potato pancakes or whatever it is you snack on, while your computer bots steal the fruit of my loins. Buy the book and make things right, mother fuckers.

Hey, and from Germany. You two spend so much time sucking the content from this site, my server has blisters on its pecker. And you, Mr., you Romanian shitball, write your own camel toe stories for shitsakes. Go down to your Whole Foods Market and collect your own fucking data. And from the Ukraine and from Bangkok and you, Mr.—you truffle-infused oil sniffing, baguette sandwich eating French stinky arm pitted bastard. Buy my book.

All of you content stealing assholes need to buy the book. It’s the least you can do. What if my book fails and I decide to pull the plug here to Moonerland? Then what? Where will you steal your content if I quit?

Faithful readers should buy the book as well. As of this morning, over the last thirty days I had 6,346 different individual computers logon here to look at this silly shit. That’s down by more than 600 since before Xmas, but that drop is expected during the holidays. And each of those 6,346 computers logged-on an average of eleven times in that thirty days.

That’s not all that many, but if each of you buys my book and we add to that the number of books I have purchased, I’m halfway to becoming a best-selling author!

Anyway, click over there ===}}} to the Bloggie Roller and look at the Clarion Review or the Amazon sales linksters. Check shit out and please at least consider a book purchase.

Which reminds me. For those of you who habitate areas in close proximity to Austin, Texas, I want to invite you to the book launch party for the book. It will be held on Thursday the 12th—that’s ten days from today and next Thursday—at 7-9:00 pm. You can email me and I’ll send you all the specifics. We have but so much room and I need to RSVP for you, so contact me on the emailer and I can get you in. It will be a good time—I give you my personal guarantee.

And why, for the love of God, is habitate not a word. Are you fucking kidding me? If you have habitation, there has to be habitate first. Asswipe Troglodyte Baptist right-wing goat fucking grammar police. I think the one-percenters must be running Webster’s Dictionary. Who decides that shit anyway?

OK, stop. My ADHD has set the train on fire and we smoldering on the tracks. What I wanted to say herein is that a story appeared in today’s Austin American-Statesman newspaper about how the Rick Perry headquarters is (are?) making plans on how to spin a third-place finish in Iowa. That would be assuming that he beats the predictions to finish fourth and places third, and that depends upon Rick’s prayers and church attendance record swaying God to give him more votes than God gives His other preferred candidates. Rick Perry believes that God is in control of the election and that it will be prayer that wins it.

I wonder how little Ricky words that prayer.

“Dear God,

I don’t want to be unseemly, but I need You to make Iowaianian voters vote for me when they vote. I promise I’ll do anything to win the primary straws and I really need those straws so I’ll have some mojo going into North Hampshire. With the seven Iowa electrical votes and then the four if I win that one in New Shropshire, I’ll have, uh let’s see… seven-carry-the-four…

Oh, You can count them, God, and You know I need those votes. And remind me again, what does the Department of Energy do? And by the way, would you please make Juarez safer. It’s embarrassing to have America’s most dangerous city in Texas.

And that Michele Bachmann. Please. How can she call herself a Christian? I’m the only real Christian in the race, God. I hate the fagots and the teachers and the abortionaterists and I hate the whatchamacallits too. You know, the uh, the… Oppsie. But You’re God and You already know I hate everything I’m supposed to hate.”

Which brings up a very important point for me. Something that has bothered me ever since the third grade. See, I stole a quarter from Mother’s purse when I was in the third grade. I was about a quarter short to buy a balsa wood airplane that I could strap a giant firecracker on board. Streaker Jones and I unrolled 1,000 Black Cats and took the gunpowder from them to make this bigger explosive using newspaper and electrician’s tape. We tied a few dozen of the Black Cat fuses together for a timed fuse. We had intentions to build a flying bomb and were dead set to do so.

This would be the same quarter I promised to return the other day when I challenged the Pope to Pay It Backward. I promised to give back everything a Johnson ever stole or got under-priced with threatening behavior, if he would do likewise for the Holy Roman Catholic Church. I have already quietly slipped $23.97 into Mother’s purse, an amount I calculate to be the quarter plus interest, and I mailed a Navajo rug to a woman in Manhattan, Kansas. I didn’t steal the rug, but my grandfather bought it for a pittance from the woman’s daddy, a man down on his luck.

The World awaits the fucking Pope to do the right thing on any subject.

Anyway, I stole the quarter one Sunday morning on our way to the Baptist church. Mother stopped to check on our neighbor, a widow woman, and left her purse in the car with Sister and me. I took the quarter and Sister told me I was going to burn in hell sitting at her left hand. My darling younger sibling already knew she was a lesbian and had been told, repeatedly, that homosexuals would burn in hell.

At church that morning Pastor Browningwell gave the sermon about the talents, and he summed it up by saying that wasting talents was like stealing talents and that stealing would send you to hell. He said that God knew everything and would punish you if you didn’t repent and pray for His forgivenesses.

After church I faced a dilemma—one of the many church-induced dilemmas of my childhood. I wanted to not go to hell but I wanted the balsa wood airplane enough to spend Eternity in hell. I didn’t have a firm grip on how long Eternity was, and I hadn’t yet burned myself badly enough to fear hell summarily. I also thought that God knew everything since that is the very basis of God’s existence as preached by the Baptists. So, I got to thinking.

Why do we need to pray if God already knows everything? If He knows everything, He knew that I stole the quarter, He knew that I had evil intent with the giant winged firecracker and He already knew that I am powerless to repent and stop my bad actions. He is, after all, the know-all/see-all of the Universe.

So why pray? Really, what good can it do? He already knows every fucking thing that has happened, is happening or ever will happen. So why pray?

Which brings up another confusion related to God and religion. If, as the Baptists say, God gives us free will to determine our fates, yet God is in charge of everything and makes everything happen…

Maybe Kris Kristofferson got it right. Maybe freedom really is when you’ve got nothing else to lose. Sometimes I wish the Baptist lobotomy had worked on me. Sometimes I wish that I was one of those brain numbed believers. Life would be so much simpler if I didn’t need to think and understand all of this stuff.

Of course then I’d be a right-wing religious asshole, the same kind of person I actually think will spend Eternity in whatever hell there is.

Fuck it, I’m taking the animals fishing. Manana, y’all.

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Please Buy My Book and Other New Year’s Wishes

Sunday, January 1st, 2012


So. Here we all are in 2012! Happy New Year everyone. We Johnsons somehow managed to survive last night with nothing broken—no broken stemware, teeth and no broken hearts.

The broken hearts part was the break I most feared as we approached this new year. It was a toss-up at to whether it would be my heart broken by either a screw up on my part or if SAC Ellen would be called out to emergency Special Agent duty. Homeland Security is a touchy federal agency at New Years, and Special Agents their most sensitive digits.

OK, that was about as screwy a metaphor as ever I’ve seen. I wanted to start this bloggie of mine off to the right foot to begin 2012. And there would be another grammatical blunder because to the right is nowhere I choose to start any fucking thing. I’m so sick of right wing political bullshit I could scream.

Fuck it, I’m gonna scream. “Arrrrrrggggggh!!!”

But I somehow managed to make it through the entire day yesterday without a major screw up, and SAC Ellen’s Red Alert ring tone never sounded on her cell. So we sexed a little in the late afternoon, and then got down to serious business at something approximating 12:02 am. It had been awhile since we employed the stunner gun as a part of foreplay, and I’m still a little weak-kneed. Scrape-kneed as well.

Carpet-burned knees are one of life’s dichotomies, don’t you agree? Same as those little sore spots you can get on your pecker sometimes after extended sexing. I’ve got this great lotion made from hemp oil that we make over to the hemp factory that is great for carpet-burned knees.

Bottom line, my heart remained intact and that left the worry to those hearts beating coquettishly in the breasts of the ladies of Johnson Manor. Mr. Dave’s dance card was way overbooked after dinner Friday night as preparations were made for yesterday’s festivities. Gram had been hogging his giant-sized manhood because, as she so eloquently put it, “I fuckin’ found ‘im an’ I ain’t tired of ‘im yet.”

But I knew that was a ruse as soon as she asked me to detail her hot red Ferrari. I was wiping the last of the Turtlewax Finishing Lotion off the hood when she came outside to inspect my work. “Yer a good boy, Mooner. I ain’t gonna ask ya fer nothin’ elst exceptin’ don’t tell that gaggle a chickens I’m a heading ta Houston.”

It took me a minute to connect the dots on that one. “Oh, yea,” I said. “Texas A&M has their bowl game down there this morning. You’ll have some prime pickings after the ball game.”

“At’s right. If’n they lose I’ll git a couple a down to their lucksters what I can git all healed up. If’n they win that game, I’ll need me a trailer ta haul my trophies home.” My randy old grandmother thought for a minute. “Tha Aggies are favored, ain’t they. Ya think I outta take the flatbed?”

“No, Gram, I don’t. If you leave Mr. Dave to the other girls, two college boys in the house will be plenty. Now you drive careful and remember to watch your speed when you get near Columbus, they’ve got a traffic sting down there this weekend.”

Gram left and returned just before dinner with two very happy Aggie cadets—both band members. One plays the tuba and the other the trombone, and somehow my grandmother managed to bring boys and musical instruments both home in the Ferrari. When I asked her how, all she said was, “Call Chris tha welder an’ tell ‘im ta pop by Monday mornin’.”

The only people out of bed yet are the Squirt, Yoda, Honor the fucking cat and myself. Not that the house is quiet, if you know what I mean, but it’s just us up and working on breakfast. We’re having cinnamon rolls, apple smoked bacon and the black-eyed peas I cooked yesterday. I cook them with a little of the smoked bacon, onion and jalapeño. I start them with pepper only—no salt—and after softening the veggies a touch with the bacon, I cover them with hot water. Leaving out the salt and starting with hot water keeps the skins soft and the beans intact.

I hate when beans turn into a pot of mush with chewy skins.

I’m cracking an icy-cold Carta Blanca now, and I’m drinking a salute to all of you. Cheers, my friends. May 2012 be a really good one for you. Manana, y’all.

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Mooner’s 2012 Wish List; Fuck Rick Perry

Saturday, December 31st, 2011


So. Today’s last posting of the year shall be what I’ll call Mooner’s Wish List For 2012. I’m down to fifteen hours of freely giving of myself and I’m feeling pretty good about stuff here at the end of 2011. I started thinking about my wishes for the New Year, so I thought I’d give you my list. Here it is:


  1. I wish that my silly sentimentality will grab a rein on itself. It really is OK with me that I cry at the drop of sincerity, but Tuesday I started leaking tears when Gram put an Air Supply cassette on the stereo and I’m All Out’a Love came on. I’m fine if The Beatles or Don Henley or Classical music, or Simon and Garfunkel bring me to my knees in a weeping mess of tears and snot bubbles. But Air Supply?
  2. I wish that Jesus Christ would return for a few months—not the big End-of-Days return, but rather a short visit—and remind the fucking Christians that He was/is all about love and inclusion. Modern American Christians have become so exclusive about every aspect of thought and life that their practices don’t even resemble Christ’s preachings. Now that I think about it, maybe that’s why the Air Supply song brought tears to my eyes. I was raised in the Baptist church and maybe I’m sad at what it has become, at their love lost.
  3. I wish that everyone could sing and dance and run and throw and make money equally. I wish that the only tangible differences among us were in how we think and act, and that our icons and idols were people who were special to us for what they do rather than what they CAN do.

    I wish that I could have been Mr. Dave when he was twenty years old until he was like maybe thirty-five.

  4. I wish I had a wish that wasn’t so wishy. I’m sounding like Oprah Winfrey for shitsakes.


OK, stop the presses. When I started this I thought I had some original thoughts about how to make the New Year a better new year. I don’t. I have nothing new to add to the same tired and trite wishes I’ve had for the last twelve years or so. I want to be happy with the state of politics in America—I really want us to return to be an inclusive society. I want America to mind its own business and mind our stores. Our mice on Wall Street are clearing out the cupboards while the cat is busy playing with other countries’ lives.

I want you to practice any fucking religious beliefs you want to practice just as long as you let me to practice mine. I want you to practice your silly fucking religious beliefs on yourself, and not on me. If you believe life starts when you first think about having sex—lock your kids in the basement until you marry them off to another member of your church. Don’t practice safe sex and don’t terminate any of your fucking pregnancies because that is your choice. But don’t tell others what to do, because a woman’s right to choose her own destiny is what is sacred. A woman’s right to choose is sacred!

If you think that homosexuality is evil and wrong, don’t suck another man’s dick. Don’t play ‘hide the two-headed vibrator’ with another woman. But if my sweet sister wants to marry Anna the Amazon—my ever-so-sexy and likewise sweet ex-wife—then leave them the fuck alone.

Which reminds me. It dawned on me just the other day exactly why Dr. Marcus Bachmann is soooooo very concerned and dedicated to turning gay men into husbands of women. I feel a little dumb for not getting it sooner.

And don’t you hate when a writer hits “Bold, Italicize and Underline” to provide emphasis to his words. I wish I could better communicate than to do that. But I can’t.

If you think that Earth was uninhabited until something less than 10,000 years ago, knock yourself the fuck out.

I wish I knew another word to use for the word fuck. Wouldn’t it be nice if there existed another English word to express all of those same thoughts and emotions and meanings as when you say, “Fuck?” Fuck is my favorite word, and you can go fuck your fucking self and all your fucking neighbors if you don’t fucking like it. Fuck you. But I would get more people to read this shit I write if I had another word.

Anyway, if you are one of those Christians who think the Bible says that the Earth was created sometime between four and ten thousand years ago… OK, let me first say, “Are you fucking kidding me? Are you truly that ignorant or stupid?” And second, please allow me to say, “Fine. If you want to ignore the facts, fine. Home school your own children or take them to your church school.” But leave the rest of us to teach reality in our public schools.

Said another way, I really don’t care what you want or choose to do with your life. I don’t care how you think you make it to heaven, or hell, and I don’t care if you think I’m a hedonistic, sacrilegious heretical and evil bastard. I don’t care about any of that. Think anything you want.

But leave… me… the… fuck… alone! Do not even try to force your shit on the rest of us.

Ugh. Ugh, ugh and ugh once more.

Isn’t it the final eleventh hour somewhere in the World? I need a Carta Blanca beer and an attitude adjustment. SAC Ellen is back in town and there is no way she’s sexing me when I act like this. Maybe I should take all the animals fishing. It’s unusually warm this morning and Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh could use the fresh air. Speaking of two-headed vibrators, my gay pig and ostrich haven’t seen the light of day since they opened their Xmas presents from each other.

So let me say “Happy New Year Everybody”[,] and I hope that all of your wishes come true. OK, look, I hope all of your wishes come true so long as they don’t infringe upon anyone else. If you have wishes that impinge on my rights then I say, “Fuck you, asshole! Eat shit and die.”

Manana, y’all.


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Mooner Johnson Productions Presents- Melanie

Tuesday, December 27th, 2011


So. I’m finally catching up with my stuff and am almost finished doing all the stuff I agreed to do for others. And I’ve already started this bloggie posting with a lie because I haven’t caught up with shit—mine nor that of others either one. Something about this particular holiday season makes me a co-dependent people pleaser who has no problems of his own, because it’s your problems that are mine. Said another way, I become the crazy neighbor lady who tries to make everyone else happy and solve everyone else’s problems because her world is problem free. Then she’s found in an alcoholic coma with her panty hose bunched at her ankles over to the ally behind the Stephen F. Austin Hotel.

I offer to do errands that I hate to do, I offer to do the fucking dishes after spending three days slaving at the hot stove cooking the Xmas meal, and I offer to assist anyone down on their luck with whatever it might be that I can do to help.

OK, I lied again. I love to cook, and big holiday meals are my specialties.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my first-of-ten ex-wives and long time psycho therapist, tells me that it is my guilty conscience that drives me to co-dependency. I don’t know why I do it the other fifty weeks of the year, but I do know why I do it at Xmas. And by-the- bye, I’m only saying “Xmas” because I know it offends some persons who are too fucking stupid to learn why Xmas is not a sacrilegious word. I have found in my personal observations that those offended by the word Xmas are assholes.

And nothing pleases me more than offending assholes. Xmas, Xmas, Xmas!!!

As a child, Xmas was a magical time for me. While we weren’t yet wealthy we had way plenty, so my Xmas days were filled with toys and food and glad tidings. They were also filled with visits to the Baptist church for spacial Xmas lectures by Pastor Browningwell. But I’m speaking of my pre-rape childhood here, so I almost enjoyed church. Almost.

Anyway, as a kid I led a bountiful existence—I was loved, well fed and had plenty of toys and shit. This one Xmas eve, Granddad and Daddy took Sister and me to the hardware store to get something Gram and Mother needed. I think it was a bundt cake pan and all they had was a metal ring pan dealie, and the same one I used to make the buttermilk cake that Melanie found for me.

On our way to the store, there was an old pick-up truck stalled on the side of the Farm-to-Market road, and there were a dozen or so Hispanics standing around it. The hood was open and steaming, and the Hispanic men were all standing with their heads under the hood.

“Looks like those Mezkins need help,” Sister said. Sister had a slight speech problem with long words as a child so she shortened her big words. She meant no disrespect.

“Yep,” Granddad said. “Looks like we’ve got a Mexakin truck to tow this morning.” My grandfather grew up with the word Mexakin because he was a redneck. He meant no disrespect either, and these people took none.

We chained their truck to ours—an old flatbed that I still use—and we towed them to town to the repair shop. Three of the things about my father and grandfather that are ingrained in my soul happened that morning. The first was when Granddad told Mike, the mechanic, that, “Yes, you will fix the Mexakin’s truck this morning.”

Mike blanched at Granddad’s words but did the work. The second thing that became a deep impression on me was when Daddy pulled the wad of bills he had secreted inside his coveralls and gave several to Mike. Daddy always kept a personal stash hidden from Mother’s eyes. When I asked my father why he kept a wad of money hidden from his wife, he said to me, he said, “You’ll be learning soon enough, Mooner.”

The third of the three things I can still remember vividly from that Xmas eve was that nothing else was said about it. I mean other than saying, “I hope that old truck makes it to California,” the paternal units of my family didn’t mention a thing to a soul about their good deed.

Sister and I, of course, carried on and on about the sweet pecan candy we were given by the little girl on her way to California. She had a little patch of cloth wrapped around several cookie-sized discs of the homemade candy that is a traditional Mexican sweet. I could tell that her little stash was as prized as my father’s, and she gave of it to us as freely as Daddy gave of his.

OK, look. I’m way off the reservation. This was supposed to be where I announce to you the next award to my Bloggie Roller. I’m installing Melanie over there ====}}}}}} to the Bloggie Roller today. I was going to do this several weeks ago but I decided I needed to try the buttermilk cake recipe she gave me before doing so. See, Melanie posts a recipe with every installment over there, and what if her recipes turned out to be shitty?

Wait. That would be an unfair assessment if a recipe turned to shit under my care. Following a recipe is one of the things I do worst. But the Squirt helped me with the recipe and Gram gave me one of her, “Will you fucking pay attention, Mooner” mushroom potions. The cake was incredible.

Melanie is a working mom who home-schools her kids. She pulls a night shift in a hospital up in Michigan, schools and raises children, blogs like mad, and cooks like a maniac. She has the sharp wit, big heart and the twisted sense of humor that attract me to a woman. And the recipes she posts will make your mouth water.

Please go give her a look. You’ll be glad you did. Mel’s got kidney stones in addition to her regularly-scheduled life, so she can use your distractions.

Kisses and hugs, Mel.

Me, I’m headed to deliver that last slice of Mel’s cake to a sick buddy, drop Mr. Dave’s laundry at the cleaners for dry cleaning, and then I’ve got a shopping list of shit to purchase from Victoria’s Secret. I’m just glad Victoria’s Secret is having a half-off sale for all the naughties the half-off old women placed on the list.

I’m in serious need of a Carta Blanca beer, so let me go get my shopping done and get back here to drink. Manana, y’all.

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“Pay It Backward”; Mooner Challenges The Pope

Monday, December 26th, 2011


So. Xmas is over and how grateful can we be for that? For all of you shitball right-wing Christians who think that my saying, “Xmas,” is sacrilegious, you dear morons know less about your own obsessions than do I. If you bothered to be certain that “Merry Xmas” is a blasphemous remark before shooting off your silly mouth and making threats upon my person, you’d have been saved the embarrassment of learning the truth post-incident. You’d have likewise escaped the case of puncture wounds to your upper thigh, said wounds perfectly matching the denture patterns of a certain half Chihuahua-half Whippet puppy.

Of course, if said shitballs bothered to check their facts before taking stupid positions on things, they wouldn’t even be right-wing Christian shitballs. They’d likely still be shitballs, but of some other variety.

See, Xmas is the shortened version of Christmas—a code name invented by the Greek Christians to evade additional torments at the hands of the anti-Christian tormentors of their time. The “X” in Xmas is the Greek letter for our C, so Xmas means Christmas, shitballs. It is the same fucking word.

Which reminds me. Did you guys see the Pope’s Xmas routine this year. As usual on Xmas day, his royal highness, La Popie, stood as nearly erect as possible at the golden alter in one of his chapels—as erect as one can stand when wearing fifty pounds of gold thread robes, gold trimmed hat and I’m sure a cutesy red thong—to deliver his annual Xmas mass message. There’s gold everywhere and thousands-of-dollars of fresh flowers ringing the alter area.

We can’t have the Pope seen without fresh flowers, you know, and maybe he should do squats to build his strength. I tried to stand straight holding a fifty-pound dumbbell and I’ll tell you that it requires a solid core strength.

The gold used to weave the finery and plate the alter, the scepters and other artifacts that set the scene of the Pope’s lecture are all items stolen from third world countries over the two thousand years we’ve had Catholics to plunder unfortunate civilizations. In the photo I saw from this Xmas, I bet there was $10 million worth of gold pictured in the cropped picture published in our paper.

I’m talking $10 million of the gold at the market price per ounce and not the value as art and artifact.

There he stood—twin sister of Queen Elizabeth—in the immaculate, perfect framing that only the Pope of the Holy Roman Catholic Church gets to use. And guess what the theme of his message just happened to be. Come on, guess.

His theme was “The over-commercialization of Xmas”[.]

That’s right, that pompous and silly shitball lectured the population of the entire world about our crass commercialization of the holiest of all Christian holy days while standing in and among 2,000-years worth of evidence that the Catholic Church is the crassest Christian organization in history. In response to the old Popster’s message, please allow me to post my response.

Dear Pope,

Hey buddy, how’s it hanging? I hope the holidays have been good to you and yours. Things here have been quite nice recently, thank you, and if God sent Mr. Dave my way to service this hen house, please tell him of my gratitudes.

The reason I’m writing you is that I saw some of your Xmas speech and was moved by your words. OK, I watched your lips move while a very manly robed man translated for you. The translator seemed to be working quite hard to keep his voice low and emotionless. He sounded like Anna the Amazon when she tries to sound like a man, and I’m concerned that she might be manly more than your translator. Look, we really don’t care if you guys are gay, or not. But when you work so hard at looking straight, you cause us to think that all of you are gay and hiding in the massive closets there to Popeville.

“Come out, come out, whoever you are!” Really, we do not give a shit. Maybe if you guys come out of the closet you’ll stop molesting children and take full responsibility for those already molested.

But I digress.

Look, dude. You crazy fucking Catholics invented the commercialization of Xmas. Your entire dealie has been to take everything valuable away from everyone you meet. Since your first years as a club, you started stealing some food, and then a few gold coins—you know, the ones with Caesar’s face stamped on one side—and then things escalated from there. You moved on to stealing people’s land, their gold and other valuables, their livestock and other worldly possessions, and then you started stealing the people themselves, making them your slaves.

You did all of this stealing of commercial goods and services in the name of Christ, or “X” as the Christian Greeks-in-hiding called Him. You, dear man, are the head high muck-a-muck of the organization that is the original instigator of all things crass and commercial about Xmas.

The way I see it you started it, so you stop it. I’ll even make you a deal. I’ll give back every single thing that my family has ever taken from any other person without paying that person full market compensation, if your church will do the same. I mean I’ll give back every single item from forever in the history of Johnsons. I’ll give back that Navajo rug my grandfather bought from that old lady up to Amarillo that one time. He paid $10 for a rug with a current market estimate of $20,000, and I’ll give it back to that old lady. If she’s not with us, I’ll seek out her heirs and give it to them. I’ll give back the the quarter I stole from Mother’s purse when I was seven.

Hell, Mr. Pope, I’ll take Mr. Dave back over to the old folks home and tell him to stay there.

I’ll do that if you return all of the shit you guys have stolen. And if you do it and I do it, I bet we can get a whole bunch of other people to do it. We’ll call the movement “Paying it backwards” and then Steven Spielberg will make a movie out of it and let me write the screen play. We’ll get Jeff Bridges to play me and Chelsea Handler to play SAC Ellen.

OK, wait. SAC Ellen might prefer Sandra Bullock to play her part. Sandra already has experience playing a federal agent. Of course that was the FBI and it was a comedy role. If it was ten years ago, I’d say let’s cast Sharon Stone in the role. SAC Ellen is as steamy hot as I used to imagine Sharon Stone to be.

You claim to be close to God, talk to him for me. You share the same God with the Jews, right? Steven Spielberg is a religious guy from what I hear. I’ll bet he’ll give all of his stolen stuff back too.

Anyway, I just want you to know that you come across as an insincere and ludicrous sack of shit when you do things like that. You know, when you get pissy with the rest of us when we use Christ as an excuse to collect material things. You invented it, and perfected it long before the rest of us gained enough civilization to have any fucking disposable income to waste on fruit cake, Air Jordon sneakers and Xmas lights.

I mean really, has this shit not ever crossed you mind? Dude. Give this a little thought. We could make a lot of money from this idea and not need to steal anything.

And hey, I’m in such a great mood I’ll let you steal this idea from me without any payment of thanks or credit. One last theft to make it all worthwhile.

So until next time…

Hugs and three of those silly European air kisses,

Mooner Johnson

I need to print this letter and go mail it to the Pope. I’ve got his address somewhere around here from when I wrote the last Pope guy about Catholics’ Nazi support back in the WWII. Grab yourself an icy Carta Blanca beer and I’ll see you manana, y’all.

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Clarion 4-Star Review Of Mooner’s Book; A Linkster

Thursday, December 22nd, 2011

So. That little dealie up there ^^^^^ is the linkster to the Clarion book review for my book, Full Rising Mooner. Please click there and see that I did not lie to you and that I fully disclosed the verbiage herein last week.

To those naysayers among my readers, please allow me to say this, “Nanny-nanny boo-boo!”

Soon I will post herein my 30-second book trailer. I just approved the final and it is nifty. It’ll take a couple days for me to get it in a form I can share with you, but you guys will be the first I share it with.

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

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Johnsons Form A Pack; Pact Comes Next

Wednesday, December 21st, 2011


So. There’s a sense of quiet here to the Johnson family ranch, a quiet that I’m starting to find unsettling. Until this week, my life was filled with the calming charms of bitchy women—the whining and complainings typical of a house full of women who know each other only too well.

When I made it to the kitchen to start breakfast at 6 am this morning, I walked into a scene from Betty Crocker’s test kitchens. It was like a TV crew’s arrival was expected to film the perfect breakfast as cooked by a half-dozen mature women. Save for Gram, each was in nice slacks and blouses and was well accessorized, each was in full makeup and each was working merrily. Harmoniously even, and maybe the right word back there would be “accessorated”[.] Maybe they had rings, bracelets, earrings, belts, scarves and other adornments and they were well accessorated.

Mother was at the sink washing pots and pans from whatever it was the others were cooking. She was humming the Baptist hymnal ditty “Love Lifted Me” and was singing the words each time she got to the “love lifted me” parts. I smelled cinnamon and Penelope Paxton-Parades was peeking in the oven, so I figured P-cubed was baking her special rolls, and hers are the best I ever had. Aunt Hilda was at the cook top putting a sweat on some veggies for an omelet, Gnat was beside her frying bacon and sausage. Gram and SAC Ellen were sitting at the big table—the SACster reading the slug of emails she’d already gotten on her laptop—and Gram was watching over the entire operation with a stern appraisal.

Gram and Ellen both had mugs of coffee and I took a sip of Ellen’s. “Ick, that’s pussy coffee. That tastes like old dishwater.”

My comment got me nothing but the sideways glance law enforcement officials learn to give offending perpetrators. “No problem,” I responded to the glance, “I know how to fix my own.”

I put the three heaping tablespoons of ground coffee bean powder into the single-cup filter system I use to make my own coffee, and pored hot water over that. As the liquid dripped through the filter into my cup I became mesmerized with the sound. It was the sound of a thing stream of liquid spilling into a small pond of liquid. You guys all know that sound, right.

It was also the sound made when Yoda pees after waiting six hours and isn’t peeing outside on the grass. “Hey everyone. Good morning to each of you, and thanks for fixing me this terrific breakfast. I feel like the king of my realm.”

“Ain’t fer you, ya little shitball,” Gram informed me. “This herd a ninnies thinks they can cook their way inta Davy’s pants. Harumph.”

Why was I so slow to catch on, and why was SAC Ellen in here with the others?

“We’re just glad to have a man around the house again, Gram, a man with manners and grace.” These words from my mother were said without a pause to the hymn humming. The only change in the humming was that it got louder after she spoke.

A man not me would take offense at Mother’s obvious slam on me with the “man-in-the-house-with-manners-and-grace” comment, but not me. I’m used to my mother’s distaste for all things me, and her tacky attempts to put me down.

“Maybe, said man can write me a check for the extra groceries and feminine hygiene products I’ve had to purchase this week. You crazy old broads are going to bankrupt me trying to get laid by a man I’m supporting. Why don’t we do a fucking lottery for Mr. Dave’s servicings and get my household back to normal.”

“I’ll take seconds on that one, Mooner. They’s all acting like school monkeys.”

I love how my grandmother fractures every tenet of grammar and prose. I could tell that Gram was getting cranky from all the harmony in the house. “Look,” I said, “you ladies need to not make this a competition or else this place is going to become a cat fight pit. I will not allow you to ruin Christmas with your fighting over a pecker.”

“Butcher Einstein Johnson!” Mother was raising her voice at me. “You go stick the Ivory soap in your mouth, and right… damned… now!”

“Oh pull tha stick out yer ass, Mother. Mooner’s right out about this. You girls are gonna fuck this dealie up fer all a us iffn ya don’t quit this shit.” Gram usually sees things my way.

Whoa, Nellie, and hold the horses. Let me pull the plug on this right here. I have been trying for three days to tell you about the new training methods we are employing to house train Yoda. He and the Squirt watched a program on the Animal Channel Monday and were impressed with much they saw. It was all about canines and their territorial pack mentality—how they organize their entire lives based on marked territories.

We three discussed it Monday at bedtime and it was decided that Yoda and I, as Alpha Males One and Two of our pack, would mark the ranch as our pack’s territory. This is a multi-step process that involves: 1. Pissing all over the place to mark our territory; 2. Forcing any interlopers away with extreme aggressiveness; and, 3. Sexing all the bitches we can find—me first and Yoda sloppy seconds.

I get to go first with the bitches as I would be Alpha Male Numero Uno. I would also happen to be the only un-neutered Alpha male in our pack. Not-neutered? But, we decided we wouldn’t worry about the bitches in Part 3. since Mr. Dave seems to have our bitches under control.

The Squirt’s takes on all of this are interesting. As a spayed and neutered female, and the Alpha Bitch of our pack, she has explained to Yoda and I both that our sexual advances are unwelcome. Not a problem for me but Yoda’s feelings are quite hurt. Her ideas about Mr. Dave caught me by surprise when she said, “Maybe I’ll see what all the fuss is about.”

Then there’s her observations as to Yoda’s total lack of sexing skills and knowledge. When I told her to not worry, she told me, “OK, big boy, show him how it’s done.”

Part 3. aside, parts 1. and 2. are going well but with mixed anticipations. Yoda and I have pissed on maybe the first hundred yards of the north property line, the shortest side of our 3,000 acres. I estimate that it will take five weeks for us to mark the entire thing, and I’ve scheduled that. As for the interloper dealie, we’ve managed to harass a couple armadillos, a raccoon, some snakes and lizards, and we chased a turtle off the dock. Yoda is cute as a button when he arfs and growls with his damaged voice box voice.

Our only failure was with the skunk that was sniffing around the tool shed out to the big garden. We discussed it and decided no harm/no foul, and let the skunk live. When Yoda and I returned to clean up after encountering the skunk, Squirt said, “ Tenemos que el nombre de nuestro paquete de, Bwana Mooner. I suggest ‘The Texas Stink Pack.’”

“Very funny, little lady, and we do need to name our pack.” She does have quite a sharp wit, our Miss Squirt.

We’re test driving a few names for our pack. “Terrier Terrors of Texas” and “Two Ten Pound Terrors and One Old Fart” are most favored. I made the mistake of telling the dogs that they could choose the name.

Honor, the fucking cat, does nothing to participate in these festivities save eying (eyeing?) us with a cat’s amusements. She feels no compulsions to join our dog pack nor does she want us to form a cat pack. Would it be a cat pack? Herd of cats, or a clutch? I don’t really give a shit if Honor doesn’t want one, whatever it’s name.

Anyway, before my ADHD takes us off-planet, let me say that I’m headed out for errands and the most important is to stock up on Carta Blanca beer for the weekend. Manana, y’all.

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Burning The Extra Large Rubber; Mooner Buys Dave’s Condom Supply

Tuesday, December 20th, 2011


So. Things around here are moving quite smoothly if you ask me. Mr. Dave, the well-enhanced randy old geezer Gram kidnapped from the Whole Foods market is fitting seamlessly into the fabrics that are the Johnson family women. I’m not keeping score, but my mother would, if appearances bear true, be the only woman over forty to not yet bed Mr. Dave. Mother looks like a kid in a candy store every time she is in his proximity, but she still has that, “I didn’t get any candy yet” look.

My participation in the calming of my household to date has been to pay the living expenses of those sleeping under my roof, cook the dinners, and make a run to the big Walgreen’s pharmacy over to US 183. The one there to Braker Lane.

“Go ta tha one there to Braker Lane, Mooner. Git them Trojan Claudius Maximum jobbies. They’s holdin’ a case fer me at the back desk. Tell ‘um Ramoner sent ya,” were my Gram’s precise words. “An make sure they don’t try ta give ya any a them cut-rate jobbies. Dave needs the real thingies.”

“Who the hell is Ramona?”

I had to ask.

“Oh hell, Mooner, Ramoner’s that gal what was a guy what had that giant pecker an’ cut it off. Terrible waste a manhood. Me an tha P-cubed use ta do tha tag-teamer on ‘im.” My grandmother got a forlorn look in her eyes. “An then he decided he wanted ta be a girl. Said me an’ Penelope hepped him make his mind up.”

Like I said, I had to ask. And let me add, “Of course you and Penelope Paxton-Parades helped him decide.” I can only imagine the damage my Gram and the P-cubed could inflict upon a young man during a three-way.

After my shower with the dogs this morning, they wanted to watch the Animal Channel. We’ve been discussing how to help Yoda learn proper Johnson family potty habits. There was a special running on the Animal Channel about canines, so I turned the family room TV to that station and left them with it while I went to get SAC Ellen. The SACster has just returned from New York City where she helped review the City’s security plans for New Year’s Eve.

We sexed, and thoroughly at that, and made the stop at the Walgreens store. She said she needed a few things and would go in with me. I went to the back of the store to give my password code, “Ramona”[,] to whomever I found back there, while my lover worked her way around the store. I found a nice lady in the way-back at the pharmacist’s counter, “Louise” it said on her tag, so I said to her, I said, “Good afternoon, Louise, Ramona sent me for a package you’re holding.”

“Does this Ramona have a last name, sir? We sort everything here at Walgreens by last name.”

“Nope, just Ramona. You know, she called you to set aside a package for me to fetch for my grandmother?”

“I don’t know anything about a package, mister.” Things weren’t as seamless here as at home.

“Well,” I said, “would anyone here know about a package for Ramona?”

“Hey, Gertie, you got a package for a Ramona somebody or this guy’s grandmother?” This was yelled, basically, at a plump woman doing stock work maybe six aisles away.

“Only Ramona I know,” Gertie blasts back at Louise, “is that real nice young man who had us special order those real big rubbers. Oh, wait, there’s also that Ramona on that Housewives TV show.”

Gertie looked somewhat perplexed for a second, then added, “Except I’ve seen that TV Ramona’s husband, and he don’t need no giant sized rubbers. I got a nose for that kind a deal.”

Now Gertie is walking my way, staring at my crotch with a lazer-eyed stare with every step. “Move your hands, mister. It don’t look like you need the big’uns but I can’t tell for sure until you move your hands. I can help you choose the right size for maximum pleasure.”

“OK, look, ladies, like I said, they aren’t for me… I mean it isn’t that I wouldn’t buy that kind if I was buying for myself, but, well, these are for Dave, the guy from over to Wortham’s Sanctuary. He’s staying at my place and is in need of a supply.”

“Oh,” said Louise and Gertie simultaneously.

Then Louise said, “I was wondering why he wasn’t there to sign for his order Friday afternoon. It was my turn to deliver his order to Wortham’s.”

“Well, I’m here to pick up his order.”

The ladies giggled at some private joke between them. Louise rang up the sale while Gertie fetched the condoms. Gertie returned with a large double-shoe box sized carton that had “Trojan Magnum XL- Extra Large Condoms” emblazoned all over it in bold black lettering. I guess a man who needs extra-large rubbers likes to advertise the fact.

I had Louise put the $400+ charge on my AmEx card. This was when I caught a glimpse of SAC Ellen, as I was signing the credit slip. She stood off to my blind side with her basket clutched in both hands and a smile creasing her face ear-to-ear.

“I’m a Special Agent in Charge for US Homeland Security, ladies,” Ellen said as she walked over and flashed her badge. Have you completed your transaction with this man?”

“Yes,” from Gertie, and, “All I need to do is wrap this box for him, sir,” from Louise.

“Don’t worry about the box, ma’am. I’m going to quietly walk this man to the front of the store, pay for my purchases, and take him away. Please don’t alarm anyone. He’s harmless as long as he doesn’t open that box inside your store. Once that box is open…”

The ladies gasped. Gertie said, “Be careful Special Agent. He does look dangerous.”

SAC Ellen grabbed me by my shoulder and said, “Pick up the box, Mr. Johnson, and please follow me. And bear in mind that I have a stun gun issued me by the federal government and I know how to use it.”

She perp-walked me to the front, hand held on her tazer harness all the way. When we got to the front she said, “Will you stand there quietly sir, or do I need to cuff you to that rail?”

“I’ll be good,” I answered.

This was fun. Everybody sort of stood away from us but not too far. A crowd of people was gathering, looking between the fancy federal agent—purchasing mouthwash, toothpaste, deodorant, cotton Coet Pads, and a large bottle of KY Warming Lubricant—and me, as I held a case of super-duty rubbers.

She paid her bill, turned to me and pointed, and said, “You- in the car,” and she perp-walked me to the car.

When we got to my GTO, parked twenty spaces from the door to protect it from getting dinged, SAC Ellen said, “Get in the passenger side, sweetie. We don’t want to break the spell now.”

I don’t know if there is a federal agent anywhere in America who drives a 1967 GTO to work, but it didn’t seem to matter to the crowd at Walgreens as they followed us all the way out. The SACster started the car with her set of keys and burned rubber as she took off. After a block she started laughing and then me too.

“Oh my goodness but I needed that.” SAC Ellen has been going almost constantly for months and she really needs a break. “Did you see that one lady eyeballing you?

“I think that was the lady I told about last summer when I got tazered at the Barnes and Noble Bookstore.” I’d gotten tazered while doing research in the kiddies book section.

We rehashed the prank from one end to the other and laughed it up at length. The condom box was sitting between us and my curiosity got the best of me. “I’ve never seen one of these things, let’s take a look.”

I opened the box with my pocket knife, and cut one condom from its sleeve. It was in a gold foil-wrapped disk about the diameter of a bread plate. I cut the foil and pulled the condom free.

“Holy shit,”I exclaimed, “I can fit my foot in this fucking thing!” I wear a size thirteen wide shoe.

I stuck my hand inside the rubber and rolled it up my arm where it stopped just short of my elbow. “Holy shit,” was about all I could say. My mind started wandering to just exactly what was going on in my household with an old man in residence who needed, and could still use, the condom on my arm. I began to worry that the Johnson women would fall behind on their chores.

Ellen kept glancing sideways at the big condom as she drove us home. “How old is this guy Dave anyway?” she asked me.

“I need a Carta Blanca,” I answered.

Please think about purchasing my book from over there ===}}} Manana, y’all.

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Mooner Finds Solution At Whole Foods; Trolls With Dried Figs

Monday, December 19th, 2011


So. When I signed off yesterday, Mother and Gram had left for church leaving me in charge of things. Being left in charge of things is normally routine, but our routine is usually sans a randy old fucker with a Japanese eggplant pecker, Grade-A Extra Large, and the excessively high progesterone levels the ladies of the abode have been exhibiting this holiday season.

In honor of old Dave, the giant-peckered old fucker above-mentioned, I’m making this eggplant and turkey cutlet lasagna I invented for tonight’s dinner. I use thin layers of crusty-fried turkey and eggplant rather than pasta and if I must say so myself, it is a downright yummy use of ingredients.

I went to Whole Foods yesterday to shop for last night’s and tonight’s meals, and decided to take Gram’s little red Ferrari. It had stopped raining and I felt like winding through the gears of my grandmother’s little 550-horsepower hot rod.

The Baptist girls were home from church and they gathered with the rest of us in the kitchen before I left. I always take requests before shopping because I hate to hear, “Don’t we have any_____,” and then fill in the blank.

The list was complete and as I had my hand on the door knob to leave, Gram sidled up to me and pulled my head down to whisper to me. “Here,” she said, as she placed a paper in my shirt pocket. “You go stand in tha dried fruit an jerky section there to tha Whole Foodies and show that to any nice men ya see just a hangin’ out.”

I started to reply but she whisked me out with a, “Now git,” and a swat to my bottom. When I managed to get myself seated in the little sports car and start the engine, I pulled my shopping list and whatever it was that Gram gave me from my pocket. I always like to let the car warm up before taking off so that I can take off fast.

The papers in my hand were the list, and a glossy photo of my Gram standing beside this self-same Ferrari in a leather outfit of black with red piping. She was doing that “come here” dealie you do with your forefinger, a wolfish smile on her face. It seems the randy old gasbag who mothered my father was asking me to shop for men who hang out with dehydrated food stuffs at the Whole Foods market over to the Arboretum.

I guess randy old men shop for women at the grocery store same as younger randy men. Me, I’ll hang around the melon section or over with the avocados. I like my ladies not too skinny and round on top. After an encounter with a plump-crotched lady in the avocado section at the Sprouts store this one time, I also find the hunting good in the guacamole pit. We men look for reflections of the women we seek in our chosen sections of the store.

I’ve seen my grandmother nekid, regrettably, and the dried foods section is where I’d shop if I was looking for Gram. I saw her unclothed last summer when she and her best buddy P-cubed picked up some Texas A&M engineering students. The animals and I were all fishing on the dock when the girls brought their captives outside for some sunlight and fresh air. I was treated to the sight of both Gram and P-cubed’s nekidnesses when they decided to take the boys skinny dipping.

I know I should have diverted my eyes, but could you look away if you saw an airplane crashing from the sky?

Anyway, it’s raining again this Monday morning and I still feel pretty good about things. SAC Ellen flies in at noon, so she’ll be having dinner—after a little afternoon sexting delights—and then we’ll be headed to a Christmas party at eight. The stuff being done for the four-of-five stars Clarion reviewed book are still going well, and so is Yoda’s trainings.

He and I were in the shower with the Squirt today after breakfast discussing how I can assist him to learn to not pee anywhere but in the sink or outside, and how to only shit outside. I let the dogs shower with me whenever they want and also whenever I want them too. But no new theories came up in the discussion.

After the shower, I turned the Animal Channel on the TV in the living room and went to get SAC Ellen from her place. She’d left her car at the airport since her schedule is so flighty, and wanted to freshen up before I got there.

OK, wait a big fucking minute because I am fixing to go waaayyy off the reservation. The point of this entire writing today is to tell you that a vote was taken at dinner last night, and Mr. Dave has been invited, and here I’ll specifically quote the language of the proposed vote, “That Mr. Dave be invited to stay awhile to keep the ladies of the house company.”

The vote was fourteen “yeas” and one “abstained” and the abstained was Mother. But her abstention was done with a coquettish smile and flutter of eyelashes in Mr. Dave’s direction. “A proper Baptist lady would never ‘vote” for such a thing,” was my mom’s explanation for witholding her approvals.

“Oh, fer shitsakes, woman, git tha fuck over yerself. I’ll share ‘im.” My grandmother actually won’t share. She’ll get tired of old Dave and move on. She’ll likely come back to him during a dry spell, but she’ll pass him along for sure.

And me, I’m glad to have another man around to soak up the hormones. When things get bitchy at the Chez Johnson ranch, I’ll have a man to share the burdens, tote the bales.

So please, everyone, hoist your Carta Blancas on high with me, and toast to Mr. Dave. Manana, y’all.

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Forgive Me Father For I Have Screwed The Pooch- A Christmas Story

Monday, December 12th, 2011


So. It’s Monday and I’m already crazy with chores and errands enough to last the week. I get extra nuts this time of the year because it’s a tough time for me. OK, let’s back up. For starters, I said, “I’m already nuts,” back there a couple sentences ago, like I had just become nuts early this morning and it surprised me. Not the case. What I should have said is this, “Since I awaken each day already nutty as a fruitcake, the loads of errands and chores heaped upon my strong shoulders by others has made me extra- nutty as a giant fruitcake.”

Christmas is a tough time for me, and most especially this year. Christmas in and of its very self holds the cruxes of my consternations this time of year. I have deep-rooted difficulties with Christmas and all things Christmassy. It’s a love/hate dealie and you know how I hate those fucking dealies, which thought gives me a perfect analogy that will fully-explain my senses on Christmas. Ready?

Here goes. I have the same love/hate relationship with Christmas as I do with Gram. Same as the leathered old gasbag warms my heart while simultaneously chilling my sensibilities, Christmas can heat my heart cockles and chill me to the bone with dread.

On the positive side, I was raised Christian and the Baptist variety at that. For Baptists, the entire fucking year’s church activities are focused on the rousing, thunderous conclusions presented on the day we celebrate the virginal birthing of the one, the only… Jesus Christ.

Wait. I might should have said, “The One, The Only,” you know all caps.

All year long, Baptists tout the future glad tidings about Jesus’ birthday as if His second coming with be coordinated to the same date as his first coming. Even though the December 25th date is arbitrary and totally made-up. That date was selected by big business-directed political fuckballs to boost end-of-year sales.

Which reminds me of a thought I have had ever since the days I reached puberty. As I said, I was raised Baptist and was fully under the iron fist of Baptist dogma until I was quite unceremoniously raped by my Baptist Deacon Boy Scout Leader. Mother dragged my ass, and Sister’s too, to the church every fucking time they opened the doors. Sunday morning, Sunday night, Wednesday evenings and summers for Vacation Bible School.

In Sunday School class—that’s what Baptists call the weekly brain-washing they do to their children every Sunday before morning service—I enjoyed all of the fantastic stories about giant’s slayings and lions’ dens and shit. But I hated all of the preaching that went with it. I especially didn’t cotton to the teachers telling me to “don’t do this” and “don’t do that”[.]

When I was maybe ten, and it might have been eleven, I had a lady Sunday School teacher. Can’t remember her name, but I do remember her as scary looking. I was already growing faster than everybody else so I was a big kid. But this woman was huge. Wait, her name was Mrs. Frieze. Wow. Wow, wow, and wow again! How the fuck did I remember that, and wait until you connect the appropriateness of her name.

Mrs. Frieze had an only son who was, if memory further serves me, in his late twenties. Her son had left the Baptist church to join the Catholics as a priest. Since all Baptists believe that the Catholics are heathens and not real Christians, everybody in the whole church knew why that “young Frieze boy” had become a priest.

“Frieze boy’s a homosexual. Poor Mrs. Frieze, only son done turned queer,” was the mantra on the issue.

Mrs. Frieze was treated with the same care and feeding as all the other unfortunate women at our church. Widows and in particular war widows, women who lost a child and divorced women who were divorced because their husbands were scum, and then women with family in jail were all afforded special treatment by the members of a Baptist church.

Mrs. Frieze had a Mr. Frieze, a smallish man to his wife’s bigness, and no deaths of jailings of close relatives. But Mrs. Frieze had suffered a fate far worse than those. Her son had turned into a homosexual AND he’s become heathen-more and joined the Catholics, and become a priest at that! What worse fate could God enforce a woman to endure?

Anyway, Mrs. Frieze was my Sunday School teacher and I now think she was placed with the ten-to-thirteen year old boys because her son had become a queer. That’s what most Baptists of my church called him, “Queer.” Said with a sneer and as if there was a taste of shit in the mouth. I have always been unsettled by the word queer. I’ll need to talk to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson about that.

As our teacher, Mrs. Frieze was determined to be one, a dutiful teacher and therefore she would brow beat the lessons into us. She would rise to her full height and get into our faces as we sat in our uncomfortable metal chairs when she drove home her points about the various things we could do that would send us, and I’ll quote Mrs. Frieze here when she often said, “You’ll go to hell, straight to hell and do not collect $200.”

The “$200” part was funny for maybe the first hundred times I heard it.

This one Sunday she decided to lecture us boys on which sins would cause us to become a queer. What I remember her telling us as reasons were if we didn’t get active in sports, if we played with dolls, if we spoke like a girl and, of course, if we masturbated. Having had a wet dream but not yet connected the dots, I asked what masturbating was. I remember a quite disjointed description and one that would likely be pretty fucking hilarious if I could replace it to words at this time. All I do remember is that I got the gist, so immediately after church was over and I was returned by Mother to the house, I attempted to use the lesson learned.

I rubbed and rubbed my pecker with my dry and chafed hands and ended with a glorious yet somewhat scary conclusion, and squirted onto the rug in front of the bathroom sink. As a young boy, I made but a perfunctory attempt to clean my residues, a mistake I later regretted.

Then all that week I had wet dreams. I connected my sin of beating-off with the wet dreams and I went to the library and read up on wet dreams and masturbation. What I discovered is that both are normal, and the wet dreams impossible for a boy to avoid UNLESS he eases the pressure of his ejaculate-filled system by masturbating. I practiced masturbating for several months using socks and vibrators and finally my beloved Ivory soap.

And then I got to thinking about Jesus.

Me thinking about Jesus and all things Jesus has caused many of life’s most difficult times on me. Wondering about if Jesus masturbated with a dry hand, a soft woolen sock or with spit was likely the pivotal time of my Christianity.

This subject was a tough one for me, a burden that was heavy on my heart. In Sunday School this one morning, and I think it was Easter morning, Mrs. Frieze was talking all about redemption and Jesus coming back from the dead and rolling the heavy stone from in front of His grave all by Himself—a job requiring at least fifteen men not Son’s of God. She was telling us about how our souls would be saved and we could avoid burning in hell if we would just, blah, blah and blah.

But me, I had a one-tracked mind and having a one-tracked mind is highly unusual for me. So when Mrs. Frieze took a breath in the middle of her lecture, I blurted out, “Mrs. Frieze, do you think Jesus masturbated or do you think he just evacuated his ejaculates with wet dreams? I mean, his family was poor and they likely didn’t have a washing machine and I just know he only had one set of sheets for his bed. I know I don’t like sleeping on crusty sheets, so I’m thinking Jesus masturbated.”

I got a stunned look I took for approval, so I went on. “Do you think He used Ivory soap?”

OK, I’m way distracted from my point. I like Christmas because of the actual idea of Peace on Earth, Goodwill Towards All Men. What I really do not like is what Christians have allowed to happen to it. To sum up my thoughts let me point to the American Family Association who is boycotting any business that doesn’t specifically use Christmas as the slogan for sales.

Are you fucking kidding me? These “Christians” don’t like it when a company DOESN’T employ crass commercialism of Christ’s birth to make profits? They only want you to buy from companies that do?

I’m not pissed enough to say fuck Christmas, but I have decided to only shop where I don’t feel the merchant over commercializes the holiday. Limiting options, but options.

Which reminds me. The Squirt’s oral extractions went well and she feels much better. I’ll post some happy pics of her whenever I can figure out how to take good pictures. So far each one I take makes her look like a ball of brown fur in a film noir. She won’t let me post anything without her approval, and chastised much as Reckmonster did for the pic of her I put up.

Oh well, ces’t la vie and fuck it. I’ve got work to do and Carta Blanca beers to drink. Manana, y’all.

PS- Please consider the purchase of my book, Full Rising Mooner. It got a real live actual four-of-five stars review by Clarion. You can get it in paper form or for your Kindle. Kindle’s a better deal. Just click over there +++}}}} to the linksters I have provided for your convenience.

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

Thursday, December 8th, 2011


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I moved on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Rick Perry Requests Sex Change; This Story Is Different

Wednesday, December 7th, 2011


So. Here’s the dealio. When I got back I promised to catch you up on all things Johnson family—both events that occurred before I left to Floriduh, things that happened while there and, of course, those things happening now that I’m back, in real time as they actually happen, or soon thereafter happening.

OK, wait. That last sentence couldn’t have been a “both” conjunctioned constructure, as both would imply two somethings, and I listed more than two somethings. Way more than two somethings as you are soon to discover if you can force yourself to keep reading this shit and drivel.

I should have said, “…on all things Johnson family—numerous events, which included, but are not limited to…,” and then I could have blah, blah and blahed about said numerous events. But like Gram always says when she tells me, “Oh, who gives a shit, Mooner?”


First, for all you cat lovers, the fucking cat came home, and in the middle of the night at that. That would explain why I now sit in the chilled, dark hours—steaming cup of Costa Rica’s best at my side—writing you about the fucking cat. I would be sleeping soundly and comfy-cozy under my down comforter, if not for Honor.

Honor left yesterday in the am to go “bird hunting” and didn’t return as scheduled. Scheduled meant “before anyone started worrying about her”[,] and Mother, of course, started worrying early. That meant I needed to go looking for Honor, a pursuit many people have said is a futile effort on my part, and futile the search was. We looked high and low, walking, and then driving the 3,000 total acres that comprise our modest spread.

And look, don’t be too impressed with the 3,000 acres thingie. A large Texas ranch will comprise tens-of-thousands-of acres and a big one one-hundred-thousand or more.

But searching 3,000 acres as you look to find a shoe box-sized cat—with fur the same color as the winter and drought-dried under brush—is a chore. The old flat bedded work truck we use for ranch chores has a big stereo system and bull horn intercom we use for both entertainment while we work, and communications as well. Squirt was as adorable as it gets as she called, “Here kitty, kitty, kitty,” in half a dozen languages as we drove the property. Her sweet voice booming through the big Bose speakers sometimes brought tears to my eyes.

Then, again, it might have been the chilled air tearing my eyes. But I’m finding myself more, and more, auto-tearing sentimentally with the silliest of shit. Oldies music, thoughts of good friends and good times are cranking up my tear ducts routinely. Hell, Tuesday morning I started weeping like a widow woman when I awakened to discover I could still get a nighttime woodie.

Squirt’s verbal skills will be a recurring thematic content contributor in today’s posted writings, and I want to say here and now, that the Squirt is the number one, most adorable ten-pounds of dog meat ever. In all ways, adorable, and I need to find some synchronyms for the word “adorable”[.]

We drove and drove and found signs of Honor—evidence, in abundance, that Honor had passed—but no actual Honor was discovered. It seems Honor is fleeting and hard found. Little piles of hunted birds, mice and rats lay stacked in pyramid heaps like the stacked-stone mile-markers used by the surveyors who penned the first, original surveys of central Texas. The birds were all grackles—cockroaches of the air in our country. Grackles are the only bird I let her kill without eating the resulting bird carcass. Even I don’t like smoked grackle, and I’ll eat most anything.

Anyway, we drove and looked and Kitty, kitty, kitteyed for several hours and found nothing but signs of Honor passed, which fact earned me the full-blown wrath of Mother’s martyred soul when we returned with no Honor.

“God will find a way to punish you, son,” were the first words of my mother’s lament. “I wish I knew what it is I did in my early years to deserve a child who mistreats animals the way that you do.” This said as the Johnson family shared a big pot of chicken soup and jalapeño cornbread I had made for removing a part of the chill from the cold weather that invaded Austin while I was in Floriduh.

“Oh, fer shitsakes, Mother, leave tha boy ta his bothers.” Gram to the rescue. “It ain’t but a fuckin’ cat, an Mooner loves it like it was family. Now sumbody grab me another cervezer, an Mooner, pass me tha cornbread. Ya baked it too dry, but iffn ya slobber it with butter ya can git it swallered. Soup needs salt.”

See what I mean about that whole love/hate/hate/love dealie with my grandmother?

But Mother was undeterred. “I could have been a Broadway star, and I was saddled with this.” Here my mother did that motion with both palms opened starting from her bosom, where she opened her arms in what would seem to an outsider to be a gesture of welcoming.

With the finish of the motion, both of Mother’s arms were fully outstretched, open palms shoulder height. She looked like a Baptist preacher encouraging the sinners to come to the front of the church to accept Jesus as their Saviour, the finishing punishment delivered at the end of every Baptist service.

“I could have been a star, but God placed me here instead. Forgive me, Jesus, for I have sinned. I pray that some day you will shed your glorious light in my life and release me from this burden. It isn’t enough that my other child is homosexual…”

“Aw-right, Mother,” my grandmother interrupted. “That’s enough a that shit ta last me a lifetime. Now ya put me offn my grub.” Gram had had a belly full of Mother and dinner both. “Shut yer snotty yap an be grateful yer son puts up with yer shit.”


“Now, Mooner, git out there an find the fucking cat. I’ll kick yer fat ass up ta yer ears iffn ya don’t bring Honor home.”


Anyway, another few hours of nighttime searching revealed no new clues and we turned-in to bed at just after midnight. Then, at 3:23 am, I was awakened by sounds of furious purring as my balls were shredded by the tiny pin pricks of kneading cat paws. My kitty had returned home and appeared to be none the worse for my wear.

Sometimes you can’t find Honor, no matter how hard you try. Sometimes, Honor finds you. Now I’m crying again. I think I need help.

Shit. Shit and ugh. I didn’t mean to spend today’s twelve-hundred words on the fucking cat, I wanted to tell you that the morning I left for Floriduh, Rick Perry awakened me with his tearful proclamation that he wants a sex change operation. Squirt did the interpreting, my giant flightless bird did the sniveling and blabbering. I did the open-mouthed gawking of a stunned father when told by his son he was, “Born with a woman’s heart.”

Ugh. And shit.

Where will I find a vet who does ostrich sex-change operations? But we don’t have time for all of that now. I guess we’ll save it for manana, y’all.

PS- Please click over there ===}}} and check out my book, Full Rising Mooner. Especially you silly shitballs from middle, eastern and northern Europe, the countries formerly known as the USSR, and you other fuckers who only visit me for camel toe stories. The mother of all camel toe stories in in the fucking book. So buy it already.

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I Say Floriduh, You Say Tomahto

Tuesday, December 6th, 2011


So. Call me crazy, but I think the Republican Party’s slate of presidential candidates is funnier than a three-peckered cat at a rocking chair convention. Each rises to the top of the heap as if fired by a rocket ship, then soon explode in a fiery ball of tears and spilled guts—the results of self-inflicted wounding. I can hardly wait for BJ and Squatlo to post the latest videos from J. Stewart and Rachael M. and Colbert. This is seriously funny shit, guys, and we were here to watch it live, and in real time. We’ll look back on these times and say to anyone who’ll listen, “I was there.”

BJ has been posting music videos over to his place at Dumb Perignon aka Un-Original Thoughts, which is available for your viewing pleasure by clinking onto the linkster over there ====}}} to my Bloggie Roller, and at the very top. BJ has great taste in music, and pork products as well, and I find myself downright nostalgic when I visit over to his place.

Squattie, also over there ===}}}, has recently posted some of the sillinesses of Fauxed-up Newbs. The heros at F-uped Newbs have decided that the Muppets are commies and anti-capitalist instigators training our kids to be moronic liberal future voters. To hear the pompous, big-haired Fox announcers speak of this horrible Muppet affair is hilarious. Sad as well, but hilarious.

Which reminds me. I have spent numerous hours over the last week working on the thirty-second video trailer for my book, Full Rising Mooner. And having said that, I find myself reminded that when I went to the Amazon site that sells self-same book, a situation that occurred when I clicked on the linkster over there ===}}} marked “Full Rising Mooner- Amazon Sales Linkster”[,] I discovered that there are six different places to buy my silly fucking book.

At first I was impressed with myself, and quite so. “Look at me,” I said to the Squirt and Yoda, “not only am I a published author but I’m on sale in six different places.”

The two adorable puppies were each perched atop my desk—their standard position when wanting to bug me. Squirt sits and gives me the steely-eyed stare she’s perfected from watching old Oz reruns on HBO, her brown eyes burning holes through my soul. Yoda takes a more direct approach as he romps across the desk, stomping on my keyboard and stuffing his snout into whatever drink I have sitting desk side. They wanted to bug me for their “pick-snack”[,] what they call their before bedtime morsel of food.

“Holy shit,” Squirt exclaimed when I got her eyes diverted to the computer screen. “Someone is charging $47.00 for your silly fucking bibleo!”

She was right. “Anyone willing to pay forty-seven bucks for my shit needs to contact me directly.” If someone makes ridiculous profits from Full Rising Mooner, it should be me. And that reminds that I also saw where there are three books titled “Full Moon Rising” and by three differing writers, all for sale at the same time. That, dear friends, is ridiculous.

We logged off the Amazon sales site and back into the video trailer linkster so I could make final choices and click the “SUBMIT” button. I had to choose photos, short videos, music, and “style” selections from the multiples of each given me by my video team. They did a nice job of choosing choices for me, and the dogs and I did a nice job of selecting final choices.

I love the music we chose and if they will tweak the visuals as we requested, we’ll have us an award-winning thirty seconds of book trailer magic. I’ll post it here as soon as it’s ready.

The weather turned brutally cold while I was in Floriduh, and Yoda fought with Gram about taking his shits outside. Everybody peed in the sink and Gram remembered to flush with adequate frequencies, but the funky-looking bat wing-eared puppy seems to have a strong dislike for standing in icy-wet grass. He left several loads on carpets, and always Navajo carpets.

I’m either worried that Yoda has a Navajo prejudice, or proud of his good taste in woven art. Raising kids is a series of risky decisions and I try to never jump my conclusions and act foolishly. So I scolded him for shitting on his tastefully-chosen spots.

Oh, and get this. I got an email from this fuckball down to Floriduh—some shithead calls himself Gator Bill. Seems Gator Bill takes offense to my calling it like I see it by saying “Floriduh”[.]

To rest my case, please allow me to paste Gator Bill’s literal wording: “You Texas shits think your so fucking smart. If you dont stop calling us DUMB and RIGHT NOW I’m coming to Teaxs to kick You’re ASS!!!! I’ll feed you’re dogs to the gators and fuck you in the eye sockits.”

Hey Billy… Floriduh, Floriduh, Floriduh!!!

Seems Gator boy and I suffer the same needs for editing.

Anyway, I’m headed out to take my collection of animals on a walk. Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are both rather pasty-faced from spending so much time in the closet. My pet pig and ostrich need what little sun is peeking from behind the clouds. I’ll likely need to carry Yoda since it’s still cold, and I’ll have to find the fucking cat. Honor left the house early this morning to hunt birds and hasn’t shown herself since.

You should hear the Squirt calling for the cat. “Vinir aqui gato, gato, gato. Kommen hier kitty, kitty, kitty. Come the fuck ici votre asswipe chat!”

Some people say I’m a bad influence on my little dog, what with all of her cussing and rude behavior shit. But I limit her Carta Blanca beer drinking and refuse to buy her cigarettes. In my world, that’s good parenting.

Anyway, manana, y’all, we’re walking.

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