Archive for the ‘Chelsea Handler’ Category

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

Tuesday, September 27th, 2011

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Figures,” I answered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure, Mooner, take a taste.”

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

Manana, y’all.

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

Monday, June 27th, 2011

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And up pops my site! Hoo-yah!

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

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Kate Middleton Joins Moonettes; Sarah Palin Camel Toe Wins

Wednesday, December 22nd, 2010

 

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

Cheerio, Prince William. Cheer-i-o!

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

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

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

Like Prince Charles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was unsettled, however, thinking about the shackles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I actually selected Sarah Palin over my other ladies.

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

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

Manana, y’all.

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Celebrity Camel Toe Mystery Dim Sum and Other Tasty Delights

Tuesday, October 26th, 2010

 

So. Monday night’s dinner was my medical enforced last supper, part of preparations for Wednesday’s second medical procedure on my already abused butt. I love food and I love to eat, so this meal was important.

Menu selection should have been easy. I’ve been such a shit to everyone lately, bitching and complaining about my problems, I figured nobody would want to cook for me and I could just fix what I wanted.

As usual, I read things wrong. When I got back from walking Rush Limbaugh, Rick Perry, the Squirt and my bruised ego yesterday afternoon, I secreted the pig and ostrich back into the closet, and Squirt and I sat on my bed to discuss dinner plans.

Squirt was lying on her back on the bed in the same pose as when she sits like a bunny to speak, except lying on her back. I asked her what she would like for dinner and after a bit of thinking, she got an embarrassed look on her face and whispered, “Je voudrais profiter de fleish von nguruwe, bwana Mooner.”

We both snuck a look at my closet to be certain the door was tightly shut.

I whispered back, “We can bacon wrap some quail and grill it with the last of that sausage Scott gave us. Would that satisfy your pork cravings?”

Now her tail starts its mad wagging and she says, “Oh si, Senor Mooner. Oui, oui, oui.”

“You’re a funny little shit, Squirt. But remember, pork’s not good for you, so you only get a couple small tastes.”

We headed to the kitchen to start our dinner plans expecting to find it empty. Instead, Mother and Gram were there and neck deep in food preparations.

“We planned a surprise for you Mooner honey,” my mother beamed. “I’m roasting a pork shoulder and Gram is making Chinese side dishes.”

I felt tears start at the corners of my eyes. “I’ve been such a pain in the ass I figured you guys would leave me to my miseries. This is so sweet.” Then I added, “I don’t deserve this.”

“Yer right about that shitbird,” snipped my Gram. She’s doing something with a stack of egg roll wrappers, three cutting boards of chopped and diced foodstuffs, about a dozen bottles and jars of condiments, and a hammer.

I walked over to wrap my arms around her. “I’ve been a little out of sorts. Thanks for understanding.”

Gram shrugged off my hug and said, “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner. I been wantin ta cook up some a this damn soon shit fer quite awhile. Now git out tha way.”

I kissed the top of her pointy head. “I think it’s dim sum, Gram. The Chinese call it dim sum.”

She glared and pointed the 12-inch chef’s knife in her hand at my chest. “Then that makes it all tha more propriated fer yer dinner. Dim sum fer a dim wit.” Then she laughed at me.

“You aren’t that funny old woman,” but said laughing. “What’s the hammer for?”

Mother jumped in before Gram could answer. “You don’t want to know, sweetie.”

I decided I didn’t.

The dinner was terrific- Mother’s pork roast with a spicy wild plum sauce, and than a smörgåsbord of Gram’s dim sum. The little packages were tasty, and quite interesting. One was a long, thin strip of fried dough, filled with mystery meat. This one I attached to the hammer, and didn’t ask its filling’s origins.

But this one was a dough package masterpiece- delicately shaped bundles with a familiar shape.

“Them’s my interpolation of one a them giraffe knuckle thingies you been dreamin’ about, Mooner.” Gram held one up to admire. “Had trouble decidin’ what ta fill em with, so’s I used calf balls and chicken butt meat.”

They were tasty as well. And suggestive. I had another celebrity camel toe dream last night, no doubt the result of Gram’s suggestive dim sum. I was sitting in a chair at Wolfgang Puck’s place out to Los Angeles. The chair was quite comfortable, but seemingly too short for the table. My eyes were at a level only a foot above the white linen tablecloth.

“Don’t worry about that, Mr. Johnson,” Wolfgang Puck told me. “This is my special camel toe dim sum mystery sampler table. Tonight I’ve prepared you a little moose knuckle du jour of Chelsea Handler, Sarah Palin, Kathy Griffin, Oprah, Demi Moore, Hilary Clinton and Lindsay Lohan.”

“Oh, goody.” I clapped in delight.

“The mystery is that you must do your sampling while blindfolded and then take a test. There’s no charge when you guess right.” Wolfie sounded like Bob Barker.

“What happens if I guess wrong?” Even in a dream this seemed an appropriate question, but all I got in reply was a wicked laugh.

I was right on all but two. I mixed up Mrs. Clinton with Sarah Palin- a likely mortal mistake outside my dream world. Here, it only cost me $125.00 each for the mistake.

And Wolfgang even bought a case of Carta Blanca beer for me. It was a special night. I asked for seconds of Chelsea and Kathy, but just as they arrived back to my table I was awakened by the symphony of snores rattling from my closet.

“Today is going to be a great day!” I exclaimed. I had decided that today was to be great, my gracious act for Monday’s blessings.

I walked to my bathroom to brush my teeth and start my daily routine. Then I noticed it was pitch black outside and checked the time. The bright red digital numbers of my alarm clock read 2:49 am.

“Fuckballs!” was all I could get out.

Manana, y’all.

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Sarah Palin Flashes Wang; George Takei Says Oh My!

Tuesday, October 5th, 2010

 

So. I had another memorable dream last night, another camel toe dream. Another celebrity camel toe dream where I’m a judge at a contest.

This one was unusual in that the contestants were both women born as women, and women by choice of lifestyle. Of the naturally born women, we had Sarah Palin, Chelsea Handler, Kathy Griffin and Oprah- you know my usual lineup in these dreams. Newcomers included Cher, Kim the Atlanta housewife and Lindsay Lohan.

The remaining contestants were lifestyle by choice girls, none of whom are known to me. For some reason this dream was not populated with any local drag queens, a fact that needs to be discussed in depth at my next psycho therapy session.

Squirt was the emcee for the show, a show in itself.

“Karibu kila mtu… Willcommen ein und alles. It’s so good to see all of you aqui en la Oficina General de la Armadillo del Mundo.”

Me, I was thinking that maybe it should have been, “la Oficina Central del Mundo de la Armadillo,” but like Gram says, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Folks all knowed she was talkin bout tha Armadilla World.”

I remember the first time I attended a concert there. It was Bette Midler, the Divine Miss M. She was there with The Harlettes, and Barry Manilow was her piano player. I love her early albums and that was a great concert. Of course, the Armadillo World Headquarters was torn down years ago.

Fucking progress.

After Squirt welcomed everyone and introduced we judges, she announced the swimsuit competition. “Cuminciamo festeggiamenti di stasera with the Badenzug Wettbewerb.”

George Takei and I are the judges and I think appropriately so. I’m drinking Carta Blanca beer and George is sipping from a glass of blood-colored wine. All of the contestants are working the runway and striking poses to best display their pocket meat. But George and I are too involved in our discussion over what guidelines to use for judging to be doing any judging.

“Look, Mooner,” George starts. “I have a problem giving equal credit for a wang toe as I do the true camel toe.”

“I don’t see why,” I responded. “A toe is a toe, if you ask me.”

“But the boys have a chance to manipulate things in ways the girls do not.”

I tried to figure what George meant, so I asked. “What do you mean, George?”

“Well, Mooner.”

Let me stop here and say that when George says my name, it tingles my danglies. That rich, round robust sound of his voice is very sexy.

“Well, Mooner, a man can arrange his things in multiple ways. Manipulate his package presentation, if you will.” He said “manipulate” and “well” like they were the most important words in the English language.

So, I fumbled around in my pants, and using my pecker as a centerline, wedged my balls into a camel toe shape. When I pulled my white hemp fabric undies tight in the front, George said, “Oh my!”

I think that I am in dream love with George Takei. We don’t ever have dream sex or anything ribald, but I always have the sense of deep affection for him.

Anyway, after looking at my experimental camel toe, I bow to George and we decide to give the women a 17% point premium to square the curve.

We have an uneventful contest through the preliminaries and choose our finalists. Squirt announces that Sarah Palin and Chelsea Handler will rep the naturals, and that Paula Softstone will represent manipulated-meat.

I didn’t want to let Palin into the finals based upon principle alone, but George convinced me otherwise. “Be a bigger man, Mooner. It’s got some cottage cheese, but it’s still a honey.”

Then Sarah and Chelsea start fighting, like they always do in my dreams, ripping at each others’ clothing. Chelsea grabs Palin by her bikini bottom and tugs it off.

“Boing!” was the sound, and “Gasp!!!” was the crowd reaction. Turns out that the manipulated meat faction had two representatives.

“Oh my!” George said. Then he laughed that hilarious chuckle of his. “She’s got quite a wang!”

That’s when I woke up, so I can’t tell you who won.

Manana, y’all.

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Will Rush Limbaugh the Pig Break His Addiction to Hallucinogenic Drugs?

Wednesday, June 9th, 2010

So. Yesterday when we left off I was attempting to tell you the story of when I went to the Barnes and Nobles Bookstore to do research for Dixie’s children’s book. I was deep into it when Dr. Sam I. Am killed the time on me.

My own time was killed because my watch quit, and since Scott the watch guy is in Colorado fishing, time continues to stand still for me. I like to know precisely what time it is and that need has no specific origins. I know it’s kind of silly, but knowing the time to-the-second is important to me.

Anyway, by the time I got back to Dr. Mean Britches’ office for my afternoon therapy session, I had bigger problems than hashing over events that are now ten days old. It seems that Rush Limbaugh the pig had figured how to open the combination lock on Grams potion pantry out to the ranch and overdosed himself on Gram’s hallucinogenic concoctions.

The pantry is in the barn and sits over the top of Gram’s main mushroom cellar. She grows the mushrooms that serve as the foundation of all her potions down below and then she brews the finished products in the pantry. It seems that Rush Limbaugh has developed quite a sweet tooth for sour cherry juice, one of the many carriers and flavorings Gram uses in her blends.

Dixie tells me that Rush told her he blacked out standing at the back door to the kitchen while he waited for Beetle Bob to throw him some scraps from breakfast. Next thing he knew Gram was firing at him with her double-barreled twelve gage as he ran from the big garden. Beetle Bob is one of Mother’s charges and a paranoid schizophrenic of serious proportions.

“Iffn I ever catch him I’m gonna shoot yur fuckin hog Mooner Einstein Johnson. I walk inta my pantry ta git some bottles a my new church lady potion ta take over ta tha sociable an yur pig has gone an tore tha whole place to hell an back,” this from an irate Gram.

And then, “Einstein my rosy red ass. Only a mormon ud be dumb enuff ta let a pig run loose to a working ranch.”

“That would be moron Gram,” I told her. “Mormons are religious folks like the Baptists.”

“Who gives a shit Mooner. Morons is as Mormons does.”

Maybe I could have said that better but I’m unsure.

“Lemme say it this way Mooner. Don’t mind yur snot nosed hog havin a little cherry water. He just needs ta ask,” she instructed me.” And then, “But he got all halli-juicinated and rooted up my en-tire okree patch.”

“You got tha name a that pig right onna furst try Mooner. Ignorant fat pig what’s addictolated ta high quality medications and cain’t keep is snotty fuckin nose outta a lady’s bidness has gotta be named Rush Limbaugh.”

Then she finished with, “An if he furts my ass agin, I’m shootin you!”

“Look Gram,” I tried to say, “For starters I tried to tell you not to even start dosing that hog. Every time he gets a snoot full he gets to be a hand full of trouble. And he only sticks his nose up your ass because he likes you.”

To maybe end the conversation I said, “If he didn’t like you he’d eat your clothes hanging off the line like he was doing when he first got here.” My Gram still hangs her clothes on a line to dry in the sun.

Wait a minute, my ADHD is fritzing the bejesus right out of me. I was meaning to tell you what happened over to the Barnes and Nobles and I keep getting side tracked. But have you ever seen a 650 pound pig when he’s got a couple gallons of magic mushroom tea under his belt?

I wonder what his hallucinations are about. Does he envision pens full of pretty little piggies in frilly dresses that melt into pink puddles with frilly dresses or does he maybe hallucinate to the meaner side of things.

I don’t think I actually hallucinate any more since I’ve been on my Gram’s potions since my first breath. But even if I did, how could I differentiate my imaginations from my drug-fueled imaginings? Think about it.

I’ve been married and divorced ten times; my grandmother drives a 550-horse power Ferrari around town like she owns the roads; I have been arrested at least a hundred times for everything from jay-walking out to California to murder here to home. I have been incarcerated against my will at least a dozen times over to the Shoal Creek Loonie Bin and have by now spent almost two years time over there. My dog talks to and back-at me and now she is teaching the Squirt to do the same, and I have a significant case of the ADHD. The ADHD puts multiple thoughts in my head at the same time- some real and some imagined, and that is very confusing.

OK, wait again. All of my thoughts are real but some of the thoughts are of imaginary things rather than real ones. What I’m talking about is sort of like how some of your dreams are about things that happen in your real, awake life and some are not.

Which reminds me. I had this dream last night and it was from the celebrity camel toe series of dreams I was having with some regularity. The stimulus for this dream must have been having watched the Kathy Griffin special there to Bravo TV. Kathy talks about this Oprah TV show where Oprah is wearing these real tight jeans that give her a camel toe that, as Kathy put it, “You could saddle-up and ride.”

She was also saying, “Shitballs and fuckballs,” often, and Gram wanted to put a hit out on her for stealing from me. “I lik Kathy Mooner, but she shouldn’t be stealin yur words thatta way. Maybe I should call tha man up ta Dallas and send him a tainer.”

Maybe I should interpolate for you. Gram thinks Kathy, or Kathy’s people, have been reading my blogger dealie and using some of my stuff in her act and that would be a terrible enough offense to call the hit man up to Dallas and give him a retainer in case Kathy doesn’t stop. That would be the same hit man who is holding a $250,000 retainer to insure that I don’t marry Gnat. The whole family likes Gnat too much for her to fall prey to my matrimonial machinations.

Me, I’d be happy just to meet Miss Griffin. Ive seen her numerous times when she comes to town for her shows and I like her. Watch her reality TV show and specials as well. Which is what led to me having this new dream.

So. In this dream I’m stranded at the border between Mexico and Arizona. I’m stranded because I don’t have my passport and I’m stuck straddling the big new fence they built- one leg dangling over each country with my shorts stuck in the bob wire that caps the fence.

On the Mexican side below me stands Oprah and Kathy Griffin and on the other side stands Sarah Palin and Renee Zellweger. Each woman is enticing me to jump to her side of the fence by wagging her camel toe at me. They somehow seem to know that I am both a major admirer of and an experienced judge of, camel toes. Especially those of the celebrity varieties.

Now look, I am not proud of the bulk of this dream but I feel compelled to tell you, so here goes. On the Mexican side, Oprah shows me the camel toe that Kathy mentioned in her TV special and I am mightily impressed. Kathy is impressed as well because she tells me, she says, “Look Mooner, I withdraw from this competition because Miss Winfrey’s far out classes mine.

This is when I realize that Chelsea Handler is straddling the fence with me and she is attempting to distract me from my task. She’s in this leotard and tights and she’s tugging the fabric to emphasize her toe and I must admit, it is massively impressive. I reached out and ran my index finger along the raised fabric edges and Chelsea squirmed and giggled.

But I am a man of honor and I run a fair contest so I removed my finger from Chelsea’s ridges and began my inspection of the American crotch meats on the Arizona side of the border. I examined Renee first and I swear to you I couldn’t see a thing. That poor girl was so skinny she couldn’t have mustered a visible camel toe with a vice and a pair of needle nosed pliers.

“I’m sorry Renee,” I told her. “You need to go eat something before I can even rate you.”

Renee starts crying and snuffle-snotting like women with hurt feelings do, and Chelsea is laughing. “Don’t worry Mooner, I’m not laughing at her,” she informed me. “I’m laughing at the look of disappointment on your face.”

Then she said, “Just like a man. You get four Class A camel toes to choose and it’s the fifth one that gets away with your heart.”

“Not true, Chelse,” I replied. I call her Chelse in my dreams. “I’m just feeling sorry for her.”

And that’s when Sarah pipes up and says, “I haven’t got all day Mooner so look at what I made for you. I call it “You can see Russia from the porch on my coochie.” With that Sarah Palin whipped her cute little skirt from her waist with a flourish.

I woke up this morning with the taste of down feathers in my mouth and was craving borscht soup. I had chewed a hole in my pillow, which explains the feathers, and Sarah let me rock in the chair on her porch- speaking to the cold beet soup.

I’m not apologizing to you for my sexual dreams about Mrs. Palin anymore. They’re dreams for shit sakes.

But, as I sit here writing about this to you I am thinking the following things all at the same time:

  1. Will Rush Limbaugh the pig kick his drug habit?
  2. Have I convinced Gram to leave Kathy Griffin alone?
  3. Will I ever be allowed back into a Barnes and Nobles Bookstore?
  4. Is Chelsea Handler as tender in person as in my dream?
  5. Am I communicating with my audience?
  6. Does anybody give a shit if not?
  7. Will the Carta Blanca Beer folks ever send me a case of beer for my being their biggest fan?
  8. Did I remember to take the bag of groceries with the whole Sockeye salmon I got on sale from Sprouts out of the trunk of my car?
  9. Would I have actual sex with Sarah Palin and would it be as good as in my dreams?
  10. Other stuff and things.

See what I mean about the whole hallucinations dealie? Which one of those thoughts is not normal to you?

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Water Wise Sprinkler Hints; Dixie Writes a Book

Wednesday, May 26th, 2010

So. I’m driving to Dr. Sam I. Am’s house to pick up Squirt and take her out to the compost plant. Dixie has her classroom set up out there and I need to ferry the little rat dog back and forth. I’ve got my portable tomato kitchen with me and it is full of tomatoes picked last night. They still aren’t as wonderful as they will be, but they are really good.

Did I tell you that Dixie wants to write a children’s book? I have been assigned the job to research book formats so I’ll be spending time in bookstores doing discovery.

It was early, like 6:30 am, and the sun was just lighting everything up on the drive to get the dog. Sammy lives in a nifty neighborhood called Spicewood/Balcones Country Club over off US 183 and Anderson Mill. I think it’s a diamond in the rough kind of location with 35-year old houses and stuff. The City of Austin annexed the whole shebang a couple years ago so the neighborhood is on the City’s outside watering schedule. Today being a Tuesday means the odd numbered addresses can water their landscapes.

Which is the root cause of my consternations.

I’m entering the first residential street and of course every house has its sprinkler system going full blast. Very few houses have taken the time to install the proper sprinkler heads for the right job, and most every system is watering big patches of street.

But the worst of all is the seven busted sprinkler heads I counted as I drove to Sam’s house. Three in one stretch of six houses were sending a full-gutter’s worth of water racing an eighth of a mile downstream into the storm drain. There was enough water getting wasted to water my big 20-acre veggie garden out to the ranch for the summer.

Guys, please! Spend the time and effort needed to protect our water resources. There is only so much clean water and we are wasting most of it. Fix your fucking automatic sprinkler systems.

Please.

Broken sprinkler head number 7 was three doors down from Sam’s place, so I sent Dixie to the door to fetch the Squirt and give Dr. Sam I. Am her bag of tomatoes, and I headed down the block to explain Water Wise principles to the neighbor. I’m halfway there when I hear Squirt’s yapping and as I turn to look, here she comes.

She stops at my feet with a skid, looks up at me with this lopsided gin of hers and says, “Mox nix, Mooner. Mi mamacita no est under der neighbor gruben, capice?”

“I wasn’t gonna gruben the neighbor, Squirt, I was simply going to explain that if I came by later this week and he’s running his system with that broken head spewing water into the street that I’ll drown him in the wasted water.”

Squirt just sat there making this silly snickering noise she makes, shaking her head.

“You’re right,” I relented after a few seconds of thought. “I’ll let Sam handle it.”

Anyway, so we walk back to my car, today we’re in my old GTO Tri-Power mean-ass goat, and before I can get my canine troops boarded, Sam hollers from her door for me to come look at her swimming pool. “It’s got some green stuff growing and the sweeper dealie looks sick,” she informs me.

When I get to the back yard for a look-see, sure enough Sam’s got some algae on the sides and the sweeper is immobile. “I’ll take the sweeper to the shop and get it fixed and brush the sides of the pool free of the green. Once the sweeper is back there shouldn’t be any more trouble.”

So now I’m brushing the sides of the pool with the nifty brush on a long pole and getting into the rhythm of pushing it down the side from top to bottom, lifting the pole, stepping 18-inches to the left, and then repeating. Repeating often.

Dixie and Squirt are under foot, Squirt all full of herself and her newest learnings and Dixie full of a teacher’s pride. Squirt is conjugating verbs in all the romantic languages and counting in what I think was conifer. It sounded like conifer to me- all whispery and full of the “shushy” sounds big fur trees make in a breeze.

I’m brushing and lifting and stepping a foot-and-a-half to the left and listening to the chattering of Squirt, and Dixie’s hinting and cues, and my mind starts wandering to this dream I had last night where Sandra Bullock and Chelsea Handler were fighting over me again. It was a vivid dream now vividly remembered.

Next thing I know I’m tumbling ass-over-tea-kettle into the deep end of the pool. When I surfaced, angry at falling in, I looked at the two dogs with my best steely stare. Dixie says to me, she says, “Don’t even think of blaming us Mooner. You got one of those dreamy looks on your face and stepped square into the pool. So do not try to blame us.”

“You’re right, Dix,” I admitted. “I can be pretty dumb sometimes.”

What I’m actually thinking is that the mornings after I have celebrity sex dreams I should avoid sharp objects, computer keyboards and power tools. I’m distracted enough with the ADHD and don’t need to daydream in risky situations.

It was actually refreshing as we have hit summer and even the mornings are warm and I didn’t have on so many clothes that it was hard to swim to the side and get out. As I’m stepping out of the cool water, I think, “Oh shit- my wallet!” I grabbed my wallet from my soggy pocket and checked it. All was OK there.

Next, “Oh shit- my new phone!” It, of course, was ruined. No problem, I’ll just get Gnat, my assistant, to get a new one. “Don’t worry guys,” I told the dogs. “I’ll call Gnat from the car.”

Sam gave me a towel to dry myself as best I could and another to sit on to protect my leather seats. The GTO is a total frame-off redo by a famous car restorer/remodeler who doesn’t want me to name him here to the bloggie. Everything was restored and updated and he did a terrific job that will never be credited to him. All of the electronics are modern and I have this nifty computerized security system with the Formula One computerized starting system like Gram’s Ferrari has.

I got the dogs loaded, Dixie belted in and Squirt in a small traveling cage. I took my key from my pocket and inserted it into its slot and pushed the Start button. Of course nothing happened because, like my phone, the electronics in the key system fried in pool water.

“Fuckballs!” What else says it better? Luckily I had a spare, but those things are expensive.

Now I had a point to all of this jabbering but I don’t remember what it was. Maybe I was going to tell you to be sure and keep spares if you have electronic car keys. Maybe it was empty your pockets before cleaning a pool.

No wait. Please everybody- fix your automatic sprinkler systems and stop wasting water.

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Sarah Palin Wants to Taser Mooner Johnson (Part 7)

Thursday, May 6th, 2010

I have just awakened from a dream or maybe it was an hallucination where I was being chased by a pack of crazed women with Taser guns. SAC Ellen was there with Chelsea Handler, Sandra Bullock, Kathy Griffin, Sarah Palin, Oprah, Sarah Silverman and some others. All of the women are women I would have sex with if I were unencumbered, and all of the women obviously wanted to have sex with me.

Otherwise they would have chosen a weapon different from a Taser. Please don’t make me tell you the whole story about the world class boners I get when a woman Tasers me. I’m too weak to tell the whole thing.

And don’t start in on me about Palin because there is no reason. I don’t like to admit it, don’t like that it is true and I plan to get some extra therapy to try and understand why I would have sex with a brain-dead, right-wing religious shitball. One who can’t string ten words together without tripping over her own feet at that.

I am embarrassed to know it about myself but this bloggie is all about truth and full disclosure so I’m truthfully disclosing that I might boink Sarah Palin. Like Gram always says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Truth is as truth is.”

Besides, my hope is that this was not a dream and that I was simply hallucinating about the Palin sex part. I feel less responsible for my thoughts in hallucinations than those in dreams. Like the story I was telling yesterday when I conked out on you. You know, from when we were down to central Mexico that one time.

So, we were served this fermented liquid agave juice by the barkeep/sheriff and after a few jelly glasses of that and the cold Carta Blanca chasers required to wash away the slime coating our mouths, we were led outside to join the festivities. Our host drags us all over the little town introducing us to each group of people- mostly large family units with generations of grandparents down to grand babies. In some cases there were great-grand babies. He started with the first grouping, which was camped at the side door to the bar/cantina/jail/post office/general store and then wormed our way in a big circle through town.

As we walk from group-to-group and we have an empty glass, someone refills it with the sticky goo. And luckily, every Igloo cooler we encounter has Carta Blanca chilling on ice. Everybody is happy and festive and getting just a tad drunk. Of course we boys have been eating mushrooms for the last few days so the alcohol is providing us a layered high to add depth to our already magicalized central nervous systems.

So, we walk and walk and drink and drink and meet and meet and meet some more, when we get to the last family group, a herd of maybe twenty people set up to the front porch of the main building. Three elders, a handsome woman of maybe forty years- the sheriff’s wife, two young husbands and their wives with four kids, and eight young girls. The girls, I think they were from maybe twelve through nineteen, were all dressed in peasant blouses, rainbow colored skirts and sandals.

None wore makeup but each had a bright bow in her hair, dangling silver earring’s and a beautiful smile. They were stunners to a one, and one look left no doubt that they were their mother’s daughters.

And their proud papa left no doubt that he was just that. Papa.

We were welcomed to their camp with hugs and kisses, and then each of the three older girls took one of us boys by the hand. I think I got the second youngest of the three and she led me to the cooler where she refreshed my glass of slime and got two fresh bottles of Carta Blanca.

Her name was Blanquita, I’m reasonably certain, she was eighteen, I pray to God, and she liked me. At least she was enamored with me. She walked me back through the little town while holding my hand and pointed things out with glee. She yammered and yammered away in Spanish and I got maybe every eighth word or so, but I was becoming likewise enamored with her and didn’t care what she was saying.

I only cared that she was saying it to me.

After awhile she started sipping my drinks, slowly at first, and finishing the last of each glass and bottle as we neared the next refueling stop. I though it was cute the way that she would drink the dregs of each serving and then offer-up the fresh ones to me with a, “Salud!” and a kiss.

As the evening went along, her sips became gulps and the kisses morphed into gropes. We ate copious quantities of goat and pig and rabbit, all of which was perfectly roasted. People who grow animals to roast know best how to do the roasting. It was a dream date.

Somewhere along the line I must have passed out because the next thing I know I’m dreaming I was getting married and I’ve got Streaker Jones whispering in my ear.

“C’mon Mooner, wake it up.” This accompanied by a sharp shake of my shoulders.

“Wake it up damit!” And more shaking.

“Leave me alone Streaker Jones,” I told him. “I think I’m in love here. I do, really I do.”

“Thas tha problem Mooner, now git it up. And don’t be wakin tha girl.”

Tha girl would be the mostly naked Blanquita who lay comatose and wrapped around me like an octopus on a sea urchin. “Help me get untangled here and I’ll get up,” I told Streaker Jones.

“An be quiet Mooner. Can’t wake tha Sheriff.”

So I got untangled and stood on unsteady legs. When I started to speak, Streaker Jones shushed me, and that’s when I noticed that he was carrying the unconscious body of Woozie over his shoulder.

“Git yur keys out yur pocket and let’s hightail it to tha Paller.” Streaker Jones called my 1963 Impala Super Sport the Paller.

My God I’m getting weak and dizzy again. I better take another break and eat some garlic. You guys check with me later.

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Sandra Bullock, Chelsea Handler, Kathy Griffin and Oprah Fight Over Mooner Johnson (Part 2)

Thursday, April 29th, 2010

So. I’m asleep in my bed last night and I’m dreaming about Sandra Bullock, Kathy Griffin, Oprah Winfrey and Chelsea Handler. I am the judge of the Miss Celebrity Camel Toe contest between these four of my favorite women, and the contest is heated. Likewise, my dreams are heated due to my garlic and onions diet.

If you don’t keep up with things here to the bloggie, I am on this diet to get some respect and appreciation. I will not take a bath or brush my teeth while on this diet until I get me some. Respect, that is. SAC Ellen impressed upon me that I won’t be getting any loving until I end this personal habits routine. Actually, what she said was, “Mooner, you smell like the dumpster at Quality Seafood on a hot August day. Call me when you eat some meat and take a bath.”

I think that means I won’t earn her respects until I get my respect.

There’s five categories of competition in the big dream contest: an evening gown, khaki pants, swimsuit, and exercise gear competitions as preliminaries, and a final “open” category. The ladies are each in their finest fettle, and each has won one event. Oprah Winfrey stunned the crowd, and the judge, in her sequined Valentino number. Cascades of shimmering light escaped Oprah’s well-defined toe. The light was like the beacon atop a lighthouse- both as a warning and a summons as to what might lie beneath the sea of organza fabric of the fancy gown.

In a surprise win, Kathy Griffin won the exercise portion of the show, looking absolutely ravishing in skintight gear from Doe Skins. I knew she had been working out recently, but I hadn’t seen her since her last Austin Tour stop. Her well muscled look was as captivating as was her pouty pose.

No surprise to anyone, Chelsea Handler won the swimsuit competition by a mile. Since I’ve seen her naked, I knew Chelsea has magnificent womanly charms to display. In this dream competition, she showed both her hidden charms and her sense of humor as she flashed me a luscious moon on her pass down the runway.

Sandra Bullock won the khaki pants event by a camel’s nose. I really wanted her to win the whole thing, but her heart just wasn’t in it. She withdrew after her first place finish in very fashionable slacks. Men can be such shits. This I know with the absolute certainty that comes from my being a shitty man.

So. With the score tied at one win each, the final Open event was going to determine the winner. Each of the three remaining contestants had chosen to pose in Lycra tights covered with flowing robes. The final pose-down was done like one of those body builder dealies with the contestants jostling for position to get the Judges’ attention. Soon a cat-fight developed and I stepped on stage to break it up.

Next thing I know I’m all tangled up in in the womens’ robes and I fart. This giant, raucous and ugly garlic and onion fart. The ladies stop fighting because they are gagging and I fart again- this one worse than the first. Chelsea says to me, she says, “Mooner Johnson you inappropriate shit, I’m gonna torch you off if you fart again.”

Of course I fart again and wake up screaming. I’m all tangled in my bedsheets and Dixie is lying on my face. Through sweat-filled and matted dog hair that fills my mouth I say, “Wuth thah fuhh, Dithee?”

Dixie says to me, she says, “I can’t decide which end of you smells worse, Mooner, your ass or your breath. I just decided to try and smother you to end my misery.”

“Well you just ruined the best dream I’ve had in weeks,” I told her. “Now get out of my face so I can dress for our trip to Sprouts.”

My dog aggravates the shit right out of me but she is right. I’ve got a touch of the BO from not bathing for three days now, but you can’t even smell my pits from my other ripenesses. Maybe that would be “ripenings”.

I’m dying to brush my teeth and I’m so sick of this garlic and onion diet I could slit my own throat. I’m sitting there to dinner with the family last night and my Gram is tormenting me. She’s waving every forkful of her sweet bean tamales in my face.

“Mmmmmmmm,” she says. “Wouldn’t little Mooner love a bite a my tee-mallies?”

She’s administering this torment like I’m a baby who won’t eat without a little food tease.

This morning my mouth feels like the French Army bivouacked in it. I love that word, bivouacked, but the feeling is just awful. And my breath would melt a block of ice sitting in the next room.

But it is the farts that are the killers. Dixie and I needed to go to Sprouts and then to the body shop, both over to US 183 near the Great Hills/Arboretum area. The trip to the grocery is to get some more grapefruit, and the need to go to the body shop is a recurring need.

See, my Gram learned how to drive in a 1903 John Deere tractor while plowing a four section sized farm up to the Panhandle. To you non-farm informed, that means she was driving a big, open farm tractor with a top speed of maybe six miles-per-hour. And all of this driving was done on perfectly flat land that was a big rectangle that was one mile wide and four miles long. I don’t know where you live, but here to Texas a section is a one-square-mile chunk of property.

And since my Gram never really learned how to drive a tractor at six miles per hour on flat land, she’s hell on wheels driving a 550-horse power Ferrari at a hundred in the Hill Country. She did learn how to plow though. Dixie and I took her little Italian hot rod on our errands this morning because she plowed it into a bunch of those orange plastic barrels over to FM 2222.

Since Gram routinely plows into stuff, I have a standing appointment each month with the body shop I keep on retainer.

It’s a wonderful day here so Dixie and I were driving with the top down, which provided benefit other than driving topless. I was farting so much and they stunk so bad, that I might have asphyxiated us with the top up.

When we got to Sprouts, Dixie waited outside and sniffed around. She’s such a dog. When I got inside the store was pretty crowded and I had to pick my way around people. I guess something besides grapefruit was on special because there were people everywhere.

You know how when you are in a big crowd and you need to fart and you kind of hunch into yourself so you look smaller. And then you release the gas in little fits-and-starts as you walk. You guys know exactly what I’m talking about.

So, I’m taking advantage of the crowd and venting my blue vapors as I serpentine through the crowd. I hear gasps and, “What the fuck is that smell?”, and other comments. But I’m always a few yards away by the time my stinky gas slithers through peoples’ nostrils and attacks their brains like a computer virus.

I walk all the way to the back of the store to release my pressure so I can take my time standing still to the grapefruit display. It takes me some time to select produce because I take my time picking and I didn’t want my gas to get me into a predicament. I choose 40 perfectly chosen grapefruit, placing each selected orb carefully in my hemp cloth tote bag that sits in my little baby grocery basket.

Sprouts has these little baby carts that I like for short-list visits. I’m finally satisfied that I have both the correct number and quality of fruit so I start for the checkout line.

The store, like I already said was packed, and I was having trouble maneuvering the cart. So, I decided to ditch the cart and just carry the tote bag. I reached into the cart and with both hands, grabbed the straps of the tote, lifted the heavy bag and, “Phggrrraaaaappp.”

I ripped one of those farts that would win a contest on the Howard Stern Radio Show over to Sirius Satellite Radio. It was noisy and long and had multiple layers of volume and sounds. And brother was it stinky.

Eye-watering, lose your lunch, extinguish all smoking materials stinky. Standing trapped in a crowd of already teary-eyed shoppers who were nauseous from my earlier eruptions, the looks in the eyes around me said it all.

It really was one of those, “If looks could kill moments.” This one crazy old bat slugged me with her purse and then tried to choke me. Next thing I know I’m in the Manager, Harry’s, office, sitting in his side chair with my clothes ripped and torn.

“Sweet Mother of Jesus, Mooner. I had to give everybody their groceries for free and shut the store down,” my friend Harry informed me. “They will do tests to be sure, but the Haz-Mat Team says I’ll need to disinfect the walls and repaint.”

Harry is a good Catholic boy and honest and open minded. Until I met Harry I thought any two of those traits were mutually exclusive.

“Here,” he says as he sips the bottle of Hornitos tequila and then passes it to me. “Take a big slug of this and don’t fart in my office.”

“Hells-Bells, Harry. I didn’t do it on purpose, it just slipped out,” I told him in my manly-most voice.

“Don’t crybaby Mooner. You’ve got plenty of money to pay for the damages. Your real problem is that my boss, Regional Director McCoy, told me I would have to ban you from the store if you cause another incident. And I’m in love with Patty, so I can’t date everyone you pissed off this time.

Harry is dating Patty Pritchett, the woman whom’s camel toe created the incident here awhile back. Maybe that might be who’s camel toe. No wait, I know who’s it was, so let’s go with whom’s camel toe.

I had the happy pair out for Easter dinner to the ranch. They are a cute couple but I see trouble brewing in the east. See Patty’s a Wiccan and Harry’s momma is an old-school, Latin-is-the-only-language-for-mass kind of Catholic girl.

Gram says we need to call Patty “The Wicc’ster”. Says she “sensed” it.

I say Patty cast a spell on Harry’s heart because he’s taking Patty home to meet Momma.

“What do you think I should fix for the big dinner Mooner?”

“I’d say sacrifice a lamb for your mother and a rooster for Patty. That way you can be sympathetic to both tribes.” I offered him the animals but he passed.

Holy shit but I am digressing all over the place. My point is that I don’t know how much longer I can wait to be respected. I’m going down to the Long Center to the Chelsea Handler stand-up show tonight, and if I have another farting incident in a packed theater- I could cause a stampede and get arrested. Again.

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Psycho therapy is seriously screwed up; Religional too

Monday, April 19th, 2010

First let me say I am starting to worry about Delores. You guys know who I’m talking about right? Dr. Saint Johnswort, the psycho therapist with all the early comments here to my blog. She wrote these very interesting comments in story form and each was filled with interesting stuff. I’m getting concerned that maybe I hurt her feelings or pissed her off.

That’s what I typically do. Since she seems to agree with my political positions, I likely hurt her feelings.

It might be all of the talk about Chelsea Handler’s camel toe. The entire camel toe dealie has gotten out of hand. Now these other sites are calling me to be a celebrity judge and asking me to “grade” the pocket poochies in photographs they send me. Go to www.guidespot.com/guides/celebrity_camel_toes and you can see what I mean.

I have agreed to do the grading but not judging. I think I have the skill set to grade but lack good judgment. When I was discussing this issue with Dr. Sam I. Am in my therapy session this morning and I told her about my thoughts as to the grading/judging stuff, she says to me, she said, “Well Mooner, looks like maybe therapy is doing you some good after all.”

“Whatthefuck does that mean?” I questioned.

Her only reply, with that shit-eating psycho therapist grin on her face was, “Think about it Mooner. You will figure it out.”

As much money as I pay for therapy, why do I have to figure everything out for myself? Seriously, what is up with that?

We don’t put up with that shit from anyone else. When I go to the auto mechanic because I can’t figure out what is wrong with my engine, and after an hour he says, “Well Mr. Johnson, I got this figured out and that will be $175.00.”

And then you say, “Well, Otis, what’s wrong with my car?”

And Otis replies, “Well, Mr. Johnson, what do you think is wrong?”

Then you say, “Are you fucking kidding me Otis?”

And then Otis says back to you, he says, “No, I am not kidding Mr. Johnson, the only way your car will ever get fixed is if you figure out what’s broken and how to fix it.”

After I finished bashing Otis in the head with his own 9/16ths open-end wrench- this one a Craftsman from Sears, I tell him, “After you figure out why I smashed your nose you can decide where to get it fixed.”

I don’t go to Otis’s shop anymore.

Anyway, maybe it is my ADHD/ADD or maybe I’ve sucked down too many Carta Blanca beers, but Sammy’s logic escapes me.

And look, I know it is “Dos Equis” beer and not “Dos XX”. But really, who gives a shit?

And did you guys know that Buddha is having his birthday? Like maybe he would be 9,485 years old today if he was still alive. And I have been spending quite a lot of time thinking about religion lately. Have you noticed that all religions are regional? What I mean to say is that all of these different Gods visit only small geographic areas when they visit.

Lends serious credit to my “One God” theory.

Theorem?

And since the two words, religion and regional, have just the one letter’s difference, do you think that just maybe this entire religion thing is just a typographical error?

I mean think about it. Back to when the only writing paper man had was a rock and his pencil was a chunk of sharp iron ore, we didn’t have any erasers. A scribe had to be mighty careful what he wrote down.

So maybe all of the ancient talk about “religion” was all started by some lazy scribe who misspelled “regional”.

Is that too deep for a bloggie post?

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Now Hiring; Cleaning House

Friday, April 16th, 2010

All righty now, let’s do a little housekeeping. It is Friday and half way through the month so I want to clear-up a few things with corrections and additional information to insure your reading pleasure.

First off, I am not a writer for the Chelsea Handler E! Entertainment conglomerate, nor do I write anything for anybody else. As my Gram likes to tell me, she says, “Mooner, if I’d a wanted ya ta put words in my mouth I’d a gargled with pig shit.”

Then she’ll add, “That wud leave a better taste in my mouth.”

Knowing where my Gram’s mouth has been- I think mayhap she doth protest way too fucking much. Like I would want to pen dialog for my grandmother. Imagine what words would have escaped old Billy Shakespeare’s plume had he encountered my Gram. He’d title it, “Lady Mac Goat Bladder.”

Gram and the P-cubed spent another weekend locked up to a dormitory over to UT. That’s the University of Texas at Austin for my out of town guests. Last Friday we were cutting some of the spring calves away from their mothers out to the ranch- Gram, Streaker Jones, SAC Ellen and I. The SACster had never been around cattle before and thought it might be fun.

Is fun for like maybe a half-minute until you see the look in those little calves eyes as you rip them from their Mommy’s breast. I mean literally from their breast. Gram kept telling me to, “Hurry yur shit up, Mooner. Stop yer grabby assin with Miss Ellen an grab them calves fer me.”

Then she added, “P-cubed and I got us dates over to the UT.”

When I asked her if the computer majors had called for an encore she told me, she says, “Nah, we’re takin tha car and lookin ta find somethin sportier.”

Sounded to me like she was taking her Ferrari to look at trading it for something faster. I told her, “Look, Gram, you don’t need anything sportier. What you’ve got is already more than you can handle.”

“Mind yer own beeswax, Mooner.”

Anyway, this last weekend Gram and P-cubed took the Ferrari down to the Drag to troll for some college men and ended their journey in one of the athletic dorms. Little did I know that she was looking for something sportier than computer guys. That saddens me deeply.

I love UT athletics and to think that she might have scarred the psyches of my football team, well that is just too much for me to handle. I did call Deloss Dodds, he’s the big-time boss man for men’s athletics over to UT, and I offered to pay for Dr. Sam I. Am to come over and help straighten things out. He said he’d think about my gracious offer.

As for my Gram, she’s had a smile plastered on her face that looks like it was branded on. And she keeps doing this cheer, she goes, “Hit um agin, hit um agin- harder boys, harder boys!”

Gives me the chills to think it over. And the drizzle squirts as well.

Anyway, next I need to talk about the lack of development here to the bloggie and attached webber site. Or is the attachment a reverse-ways dealie? Whatever, there has been no development other than my stumbling over the map locater that shows you where visitors come from when they click onto the map.

I was looking for a bed and breakfast place in Alpine, Texas for the SACster and me to stay when we drive out there in a few weeks. I’m clicking around with my mouse thinking I’m making reservations for the two of us for three nights- with the full breakfast option, and the next thing I know I’ve got the map locater and a visitor from Kathmandu.

So. I have spent weeks looking for one, or more, persons to help me with this stuff. You know, design a logo, finish construction of the website, and make the bloggie spiffy. I have interviewed numerous designers and graphic artsy-fartsies, but none have suited me because none has found me to be suitable.

I was bitching about it over dinner last night. We were having cabrito- that’s roasted goat, sweet bean tamales and Mother’s pan fried potatoes. That’s Mother’s one dish best done, regrettably, and we have it often. I bought her a semester to one of the big cooking schools but she has yet to enroll.

Why are women so hardheaded? I mean really, what is up with that? If the dish I cooked best hit the serving plate looking like dried pinto beans and chewed like granite gravel, I’d take myself some lessons.

No amount of salt or pepper or ketchup helps smooth the path for that grit.

But Mother did have a pretty good idea about my need for some help. “Mooner, why don’t you see if you can put your blog to some useful purpose and use it to find some nice young people to help you?” Then she added, “Use young people, Mooner. Students would be best. That will be a mutually beneficial relationship.”

See, a good idea, right. Students will have fresh ideas, they were all weaned to the computer and Internet, and they know what’s hip in today’s culture. And I can get students to work for less! I’ll let them use their efforts for class credit and I’ll give them credit here in ether space. I can help to promote their careers.

So consider this an invitation to apply for work. Tell your friends that I have some work and stuff. Maybe I can even use students for some product development.

Apply by posting a comment.

SAC Ellen asked me why I don’t just go to UT or Austin Community College directly to find student persons. When I tried to explain to her that I have been barred from those avenues of pursuit, she just held up her hand to my face, like a policeman does when he signals you to “Stop”, and said, “No need to go on, Mooner. I get it.”

I guess we two have been dating long enough for us to have that ESP thingie that couples sometimes get.

The camel toe posts have turned-out to be the most popular things to attract visitors here. That surprises me. I thought it would be my erudite dissertations on politics and religion.

Actually, anymore- politics is religion. Wait, maybe that should be politics are religions.

Since I wrote about camel toes, I’m getting approached constantly by women asking me to evaluate their pocket meat. I am A-OK with that so long as I can perform the evaluation you desire without the need for any actual touching of the evaluated camel toe. SAC Ellen approves of my evaluating with eyes only. No touching. Woman carries a gun girls, so don’t push the issue.

And this word to my gay friend Lloyd. You packing your Size 40 ass into a 32-inch Speedo does not produce a camel toe. So don’t be asking me for an evaluation. Even I think that’s a tad inappropriate.

Oh, and I almost forgot. The woman who was part of the great teaching team for bloggers is Nettie Hartsock- nettie@nettiehartsock.com and not the other Nettie. That one is Nettie House, Editor of Shit Happens, the newsletter for my compost trade organization.

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A Last Warning; Right-Wing Militia Shitballs and Jesus

Wednesday, April 14th, 2010

Why is it that people are so polarized these days? When I started this bloggie my intentions were to talk about what things are buggerating me to distractions, tell you to make donations to the Capital Area Food Bank, and then to sell some stuff to make a little cash.

I did not start blogging to attract any unwanted attention to myself, and for sure for any attentions I do attract, I intended to have those attractions be attended to here to the bloggie.

Wait, even I don’t understand what I just said. Let me try that again.

Please respond to me by making your sentiments known to me by posting a comment here to the blog. No phone calls, no letters and for sure no personal visits. This is my last warning that Streaker Jones handles my personal protection.

Look, I am sorry if you think that erudite discussions about camel toes are inappropriate. I am sorry if you think my left-leaning bias is offensive and I am sorry if you don’t like divorced men. I am sorry that you consider me to be, and here I will quote the Right Reverend Browningwell from over to Gram’s Baptist Church, “… that Godless heathen fornicator, Mooner Einstein Johnson.”

I am sorry for anything and everything it is about me that you don’t like that seems to anger you so very much. I am sorry.

However, I am not sorry to you, but rather my sorrow is for you.

It is one thing for us to harbor differing ideas on sex, war, drugs, marriage, sexuality and sexual orientation, Chelsea Handler’s camel toe, charities, or anyfuckingthingelse. I mean really, even the Apostles had differing religious beliefs and they were all taking the same walks with Jesus and heard the actual words coming from the actual mouth of the Son of God. Right? Yet even with all of that first-hand exposure, those guys managed to get things screwed-up.

Why can’t we just agree to disagree?

And, “Mooner,” you might say. “What the hell happened to get you off on this rant?”

A good question.

Streaker Jones was out to Mooners Compost Plant and we were inspecting the newest batch of compost we made for his mushroom farms. We decided to tweak the recipe just a touch by adding some expired-date Carta Blanca beer to the mix. The beer was from this warehouse the two of us bought recently. It was stacked floor-to-ceiling in old-fashioned wooden cases. Only reason the beer was there was the owner died without any heirs. Carta Blanca doesn’t expire under normal circumstances. But this was a terrible waste unless we can use it for special compost successfully.

Since beer is full of microbes and yeasties and a full matrix of spoor-supporting nutrition, we decided to use it for Streaker Jones special mix.

We’re out to the compost pad checking temperatures and checking quality and smell and such when a pick-up full of armed men came racing through the plant, dusting-up the air, and came to a screeching halt where we stood.

Streaker Jones spotted them first, and after just a quick assessment of the situation he said to me, he says, “Mooner, u git b-hind me an zip yur lip.”

So, I zipped it and stood in his shadow as the men arrived and the six of them scrambled out of the cab. The truck was one of the big Ford Extended Cab F350 “King Ranch Edition”- a monster. It was black and had all the rims and flags and bumper stickers a person would expect from the crew the truck shit-out its doors. It even had the snarling, slobbering pit bull in the back.

“We’re lookin for Mooner Fuckface Godless Johnson, mutherfucker. Whur is e?” This from the leader, a man of maybe fifty years- pot bellied, chaw-juice stained lips and teeth (maybe nine teeth), and holding some variety of assault rifle. These first words spoken as the six men fanned-out in a semi circle facing the sun. Each man carried a nasty looking gun.

Streaker Jones replied, “Mooners not taking company boys. Pack up and head out before you get hurt.” I noticed that the pit bull silenced and started shaking like a chihuahua as soon as Streaker Jones started talking.

Of course these dumb right-wing religious fuckballs aren’t as smart as their dog and don’t think clearly enough to think at all. So the speaker says, “OK boys. Rough em up fer me.”

I didn’t see everything that happened in the next three seconds because I had my eyes closed. I sometimes lack enough stomach to watch the killing machine that is my best friend.

When Streaker Jones says to me, “OK Mooner, you kin open yur eyes,” I did.

“Did you kill them all?” I whimpered. All six were in one big body pile. I saw no blood but no movement either.

“Nope. They’s jus gonna be wishin theys dead’s all.” Then he added, “You know who these shitballs are, right Mooner?”

I told him, “Well Streaker Jones, they look just like I imagined they would when their leader called me with the threats after he logged-on to my bloggie yesterday. I recolated his voice.”

“Tell Javier to bring tha loader over. We’ll put em in the bucket and dump em in tha pond. That’ll wake em up.” Sometimes my best friend has a mean streak. That pond holds the runoff water from our operations. It is nasty water.

“You’re right about that Streaker Jones. Wake them up and inoculate them with a few million possibly undesirable strains of bacteria. Sounds like a plan.”

Now I know you thought I was digressing on you with my ADHD or the ADD that infects my soul, but I am not. See, these assholes were from one of those new religious militias that want to eliminate Jews because the Jews crucified Christ.

I did this presentation to one of Sister and Anna the Amazon’s lesbian groups meeting where I discussed prejudices. I happen to have some very strong ideas about prejudice and I am told that my perspectives are interesting and somehow, this bunch of militia asswipes heard about my views.

Anyway, I was invited to speak about prejudice, and specifically the prejudice Christians seem to have against homosexuals. After a few minutes of discussion on that specific subject, my mind wandered to the militia groups that hate Jews for, “Killing our Lord and Saviour.”

In a nutshell, in my opinion, the Christians should be grateful to the Jews for killing Christ, if that was even the way things went down. Personally, I think you could blame the Romans if you wanted, but in reality the killers were greedy, fearful individuals. You know, men who were afraid that Jesus was going to take something from them.

But look here. The prophets said that Jesus was going to be put here to full-fill a prophecy, that He would be killed for being different, and that He would rise from the dead to clear the path for the rest of us to have Salvation. My Baptist church preaches to me that this sequence of events was God’s plan. God’s Master Plan in fact. Fail to perform any of the key parts and the entire plan fails. Right?

Then why are these brain-dead Bozos mad at the Jews for doing what it was that God programmed them to do? If God wanted the Jews to kill Jesus shouldn’t we Christians be grateful? Are we not asked to be grateful for the blessings bestowed upon us by others?

Hell, if I was in charge of holidays I’d have a holiday called, “Thank God for the Jews Otherwise I’d Have a Bitch of a Time Getting to Heaven Day.” Maybe I’d need to shorten it to “TGJOHBTGH-Day.”

That’s still not catchy enough but you get my point.

These militia types are angry because they are not Jews. That’s all. Their minds lack enough functionality to understand that no two people are really alike in any way. But because they don’t think well, or thoughtfully, they are afraid of anything some shitwad preacher or talk radio host or celebrity tells them to be frightened of. Or about.

When I asked Streaker Jones how he managed to incapacitate the six armed men without spilling any blood, he said to me, “Careful plannin, Mooner.”

Now that is a man who knows how to think.

OK, two items to clear up. First, I am not paid by Carta Blanca. I would love for them to sponsor me, but no, at this time they do not. They know how to reach me if they do. I love Carta Blanca beer- plain and simply.

Second. Well, second I have forgotten what else it was that was second. Maybe I’ll remember later. Isn’t ADHD/ADD fun?

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Chelsea Handler has a great one, George Takei said “Oh my!” on Howard Stern first

Monday, March 29th, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh my!

Maybe I’d need to credit George.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let me know if I can help with the club.

Now, I need to go. Mooner

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Forbidden Fruit and How To Be A Man: Sometimes It Hurts To Be A Man

Wednesday, March 24th, 2010

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

Maybe that should be “dichotomousi”.

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

Sammie hates it when I separate the “psycho” from their “therapist”, but that’s my lifetime-best joke.

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

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

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

Anyway, her hair had a sprinkling of gray, she was in great shape- not ripped and bulimic looking, just sleek and smooth. She had a pretty face and inviting eyes. And there, doing the pocket Rumba, sat the plumpest, juiciest-looking most robust camel toe I have ever seen. I mean ever! This thing looked like the woman was its caretaker, not its owner. It was incredible, and I don’t use the word “incredible” lightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A very, very good question. Now, don’t shut down on me because you think I’m inappropriate. Go with me on this for just one more minute. Think about this with me.

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

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

Supposition Number 3: if she is totally unaware that she could play a stunt double for the butcher shop in the movie Rocky, then wouldn’t she want someone, like me, to let her know? Kind of like that dealie where you walk up to a stranger and say, “Look, I don’t want to pry into your personal business, but you have a booger hanging out your left nostril that looks like an African night crawler running from a fish hook.”

You know, that kind of situation.

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

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

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

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

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

So I wait for like a minute, maybe less, for lady and manager to arrive. I think Sprouts has excellent customer service. That circumstance would take at least three minutes if we were to any HEB store. The lady tells the manager her side of the story, shows the camel toe to him after he asked to see the evidence, and told her, “Thank you, Miss. Give me your name and contact info and I will make a full report, and handle things from here.”

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

We get to his office and he closes the door, using the same stiffened finger points to a chair to the front of his desk, and says, “Sit.” Then he sits down behind the desk and opens the drawer to the desk and pulls out a pint bottle of Hornitos.

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

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

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

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

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

Harry and I are now friends and he is coming over for Easter dinner out to the ranch. We’re having ham and potato salad and beans and guacamole. When I asked him who he was bringing for his date he said, “You’ll see.”

Mooner

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