Archive for the ‘Child Abuse’ Category

Thanks, Harvey Weinstein; Forcing Open Eyes Wide Shut

Thursday, November 16th, 2017

So. I’m sitting here to the keyboard writing because the weather has fucked my day all to Hell and back. Ever since getting diagnosed with the ass cancer I’ve made changes to my daily routines designed to improve both my physical and cognitive health, and to hopefully improve my attitudes towards Life, the big L life, and likewise designed for me to be more tolerant of lives, as in life forms. I decided that when facing the Big C a man might ought to rearrange his orders, and alter his cadences, so as to march forward into the fog. When setting my new schedules I included an early morning dogs walk, time at the gym, reading time, meditation time, study time for poker improvements and then use of that knowledge to make money up to the big casino across the Red River, time slots for meals and rest and social intercourse.

In the rambling run-ons above, notice I said nothing whatsoever about having allocated slotting for social intercourse of the sexing it up variety. As I see self-manipulation in much the same way as I do any other body cleansing activity, like blowing a snotty nose, rather than an event requiring specific time allocations masturbation is a matter of either convenience, or inconvenience, as each individual among us can choose to see it. I will say, herein, that I have seen aging as an interesting modifier of opinions as it relates to self-love. It seems that a month doesn’t pass that I hear someone unlikely speak of masturbation, and usually they are of my general age.

Additionally, as there are no actual sexing partnerships hereabouts, if and when opportunity should arise I’ll be required to slice time from other allocations already having been made, practiced, and accepted.

Hearing myself say that, I’m guessing sexing time should come straight out of exercise allotments. As out of practice as I am there will certainly be much physical efforts required.

That said, and before my ADD sinks this boat faster than Titanic’s iceberg, you’ll notice that I mentioned not any time slots for writing. And why isn’t it “icebUrg”, with a u and not an e? When I started writing my thoughts down to share with you guys all those years ago, it was done strictly as a much-needed therapy to ease the pressure inside my skull and also as a method to avoid another stay over to the loony bin, and not for pleasure—mine or yours. Ever since our divorce, my psycho therapist and first ex-wife, the lovely and charming Dr. Sam I. Am Johnson, has used threats of extended stays over to the crazy house as a means to manipulate me into doing what she wants me to do. While many of you might read that last sentence as a sign of my lack of understanding as to how psycho therapy supposedly works, I’ll herein inform you that for starters, fuck you, and as a finish maybe after 35-years of intensive theraporizing, you too might see things from my world view.

The reason that I’m writing rather than dogs walking is that quite simply put, my therapist isn’t the only important female manipulating the ever-loving shit right on out of me. The following early morning conversation shall provide for your enlightenment.

Me: “OK kiddies, let’s harness up…Let’s lock-n-load your furry asses, let’s rock-and-roll. It’s time to walk, hoochie-koo!!!”

The Squirt: “Fuck you.”

Me: “Huh?”

The Squirt: “I said, fuck you.”

Me, after thinking if I had forgotten some promise made to the small, brown puppy: “Why the attitude little lady? It’s 8 am and time for your walk.”

The Squirt: “What part of ‘fuck you” is confusing you, buddy boy? I’m not walking in this fog.”

Me: “It’s not that bad, sweetie pie, I can almost see the sidewalk from the front door.”

The Squirt: “Who gives a shit, asshole, there’s coyotes and skunks running the neighborhood and I’ll not walk under the threat of an attack. And there’s been a bobcat sighting. I’ll die by my own hand but I will not be eaten alive by some giant fucking cat! And don’t you dare ‘But, sweetie,’ me.”

So here I am, and that reminds me that I’ve been thinking a thought that you need to fully hear-out before deciding whether or not I should be re-placed in confinements over to the loony bin. Think what I’m about to say all the way through before committing either your mind, or me.

I might believe that having elected Donald J. Trump as President could be the best thing for America since the repeal of the Volstead Act. Enacted in the same year as women got the vote with the, I think, 19th Amendment, the year 1920 AD, I firmly believe that the ignition and repeal of Prohibition was way more important in starting and ending the Great Depression than any other single factor. I think cutting us off from our drinks depressed us, and giving them back had this huge yoyo effect, and affect, upon our economy.

I mention this only as a modifier to my Trump hypothesis and not as an effort to belittle any other historical facts with which a scholarly debate on importance might be based. Me, for my part, I think the outlawing of adult beverages was a powerful blow to public psyche, and it’s re-legalization an even more powerful boost than even the wars since.

Again, my thought serves, herein, only as a marker to demonstrate the historical context of my premise. If you have confusion over that premise, imagine mine.

I think that the average American Joe will finally start to see the two-faces of conservative politics and begin to act more in line with their personal interests as results of current politics. I think the ways in which Republicans are talking out of both sides of their mouths is becoming so gaudily obvious that even the dumbest-most can see it. To see Hannity attack Hollywood sexual perverts while coddling Judge Roy Moore, the Alabalamba Senatorial candidate dickhead, is but the latest two-faced demonstration. Watching conservatives minimize the entire Russian situation after the Benghazi dealio, and now the tax reform plan that promised middle class benefits yet is nothing more than a rich-get-richer charade, might actually give white low-to-middle-class voters reason to rethink their votes.

To cinch the saddle tightly to my topical horse, I present you with Mr. Harvey Weinstein, serial sexual predator. As enough women have come forward to sink old Harve’s boat, likewise many more men and women have publically stated the sexual misconduct of other “Hollywood” types. And how have we liberals responded? With ridicule, denouncements, and expulsions. Once enough credible reporting has been made, we have marked those men as pariahs.

To a man, we have castigated them from their lofty positions and deemed them as unacceptable as is their behaviors. Correct responses if you were to ask me.

But how have the conservative Christians responded to Donald Trump and Judge Moore’s sexual predatories? Trump was a locker room talking boy who meant no harm, and those women who accused Trump and Moore are all—each and every one of them—liars. Moore’s own pastor quoted Bible verses that sanctified his deviant acts misusing Bible verses to portray Moore as if he were a prophet, and the airwaves have been jam-packed with Christian leaders twisting Biblical nuances to find ways to exonerate Moore’s evil acts.

I see the event of Harvey getting called out on the red carpet as the opening of floodgates against sexual oppression and perversion, and also as a watershed moment to define important differences between the general conservative and liberal sociologies of our country.

So Fuck Walmart, sexual deviants, and two-faced assholes, one and all!!!

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Rotten Apples Can’t Fall Too Far From The Tree; Creepy Crawlers And Other Silly Shit

Thursday, August 27th, 2015

So.  I just got back from a four-day trip up to Colorado.  The intentions were for this trip to be a short respite for the dogs from their daily grind, a chance for me to get my sweaty self in some cooler air, and I fully intended to play a lot of poker.  As the old saying goes about good intentions, our road was paved to Hell when the six-hour drive took—and almost precisely—ten hours.  Santa Fe to Denver is six hours any way you cut it, except and unless our fossil fuel-warmed planet decides to shit all over your plans.

Just south of Colorado Springs, my front seat companion says to me, she says, “That looks like a string of taillights ahead, Mooner.  You better not get us stuck in a traffic jam…  You know the goat dog gets sick in stop-and-go driving, and he got into the compost pile just before we left.  Ate two of the rotten apples you let roll off the heap to the edge of the fence.”

The speaker was Squirtie Girl, my darling puppy harnessed beside me as our copilot, and the goat dog would be Yoda, eater of all things organic and not so organic, who was tethered in the back seat. The severe hail storm that never fucking happens in Santa Fe that happened a month ago banged dents and gashes in what apples it didn’t strip from the trees.  I thought the remainder left clinging to their branches would make it to my kitchen to be washed and eaten, but as the sugars developed so, too, did the rot.

“How the Hell did he get to them through the fence?” I asked Squirt.

“You watched too much news about that shithead who tunneled his way out of a Mexican prison,” she replied.  “He dug a ditch under the fence where you left a gap in the underground wire.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Yoda.  I’m not the one who beat you and slit your throat, I’m your savior.  I’m the person who has made your life better.  Why am I punished with your cleanup?”

In reply, my chastisement was met with a crooked grimace, an emotional whimper and a lick to my hand.  The white-haired hair brain was formerly incarcerated in Oklahoma’s version of Guantanamo Bay for dogs—this puppy mill run by lowlife scum, Christians one and all.  They beat much of the good sense from his tiny skull and cut his vocal chords to quiet his bark.  What is left is a dumb and soft spoken dog that has become my beloved third son.  Gram has talked me off the ledge several times as I packed for a quick trip to Oklahoma for some retribution.

“You ain’t never been in a single Okie jail, Mooner, don’t know any Okie lawmen neither.  Me, I ain’t breakin’ yer ass outta no Okie hoosie cow.  Talk bad ‘bout um over to yer blogeration an’ let it go.”

Good advice from my grandmother, and a clear sign that I still have the ADD.  Since taking the trip to the Coors Beer and Legalized Pot State with the dogs, my focus is worse than that of a Brownie camera.  Remember Brownie cameras?  Only person I know who could make good pics with a Brownie might be my buddy Squatlo over to The Squatlo Rant.  Brownie cameras are what took America’s middle class photos for nearly seventy years, and likewise what made Kodak an everyday name.

Of all the family photos I possess, it is a pic taken by a Brownie—a medium close-up of three ADHD-addled Johnson men—that is most prized.  My grandfather, father and I had just finished painting the barn and were celebrating with icy-cold Carta Blanca beers.  Arms on shoulders, beers held forward, toothy grins all around.  I was thirteen and it was mid-July, maybe a month before the pedophile Baptist deacon Boy Scout leader raped me in the back end of an Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser.

That photograph holds a bundle of mixed metaphoric emotions for me.  It reminds me to be grateful in my own life and to be thoughtful when looking at the lives of others.  And it makes me ever vigilant for pedophiles.

The string of taillights, as things turned out, was caused by a line of severe thunderstorms that covered Colorado’s landscape (and highways) from fifty miles north of The Springs, all the way to our final destination.  An hour of stop-and-go was all Yoda could take before disgorging a belly full of Costco Organic Kibble, two rotten apples and what looked like the remains of a baby sparrow.  I think the neighbor’s cat left the sparrow, but who really gives a shit?

I cleaned the mess from the plastic cover I place under Yoda when we take long road trips, held him tight while scratching his head, and got back on the road to creep our way to Denver.  Which reminds me.

America is starting to give me the creeps.  Our political scene has become a fucking reality show for the benefit of, produced by, and paid for by billionaires.  Billionaires whose amazing greed is so vast that they want ever more $Billions.  $Billions they wish to strip from the crumbling infrastructure of natural and human resources of our once great country.  $Billions stolen from we “commoners”.  $Billions that half of our populace seems willing to give them—hell, eagerly give them.  Some almost beg the rich to steal from them.

It’s fucking creepy, and that reminds me of something else.  I have a slogan for the new female sex-drive drug:

“Puts the recreation back into recreational drugs!”

Someone needs to monitor Bill Cosby’s Medicare drug program—audit his purchasing activities.  Makes me wonder if this new drug works like the mystical Spanish Fly myth from back to the 1960’s.  I guess Cosby’s Roofies served as an actual Spanish Fly on all those women he (allegedly) drugged and raped.

Which brings up a question.  How is a rapist like Bill Cosby any different from Jared the Subway Pedophile?  Children are vulnerable because of powerlessness and inability to understand what is happening, the self-same conditions that are the side effects of a Roofie.  And that brings to bear another reminder.

To the best of my memory, it seems that America was founded and settled by people who, A. Wanted to get away from the established religions of their European homelands so that they wouldn’t be forced to abide another man’s religion, or, B. Wanted to get away from the feral, oppressive class systems whereat the wealthy and well-born exerted great economic and political power to keep commoners under control.  Those countries had indentured servants and slaves, feudal class societies, and a few very rich with many poor.  People were executed for professing to the wrong deities.  There were no middle classes in those societies.

Now, here to modern day Murca, we seem to be willingly pushing ourselves to become what we were founded to escape by killing our middle class.

And that reminds me that I seem to be doing a lot of writing about fuckhead Republicans and dog puke.  Instead, why haven’t I told you that my blood pressure has been in the one-teens over the high sixties with pulse rates in the upper fifties?  Why haven’t I mentioned that I’ve had six conversations in-a-row wherein Mother has been sweet as apple pie?  Why haven’t I told you that God paid me a visit and told me that everything is going to be OK?

Why haven’t I focused my attentions on the positives in life?  OK, I have no attention, what with the ADD and the giant grasshopper hanging to the rough stucco wall outside my office.  He’s a really big sumbitch, which raises a question that I had in vacation Bible school.

We were studying the locus blight from the Bible and were told that the grasshopper invasion was a terrible thing.  Earlier in the summer Buddy Tanner’s dad had come back from The Philippines, whereat he was on a temporary duty assignment for the Air Force.  Buddy shared the various food-grade bugs his daddy brought back as a gift to show cultural differences.  Candied and fried and pickled ants, grasshoppers and worms.

“That doesn’t sound so bad, Mrs. Browningwell,” I instructed.  “Even if the grasshoppers ate all the crops, like you said, they could have eaten the grasshoppers.  The fried ones taste like salted peanuts and the chocolate-covered ones aren’t any different from a box of Whitman’s Samplers.  This sounds like a whole lot of bitching about nothing, like that Noah and the Ark thing.  Do you really expect me to buy that load of crap?”

Second year in-a-row I was early dismissed from Bible school.  And that reminds me to say, “Fuck Walmart!”


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Antimatter Matters?- Mooner’s Latest Scientific Treatise

Saturday, March 9th, 2013


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ugh! Being an employee is tough.

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

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

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

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

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Mooner Proclamation: All Catholics Are Assholes

Wednesday, February 13th, 2013


So. Another wonderful day in paradise and the politics of the world grind on. And on, and on. The President’s State of the Union Address last night was full of hope and plans to create better options for middle class America. Many of his proposals were specific and many require the consent of our dysfunctional Congress.

Of course, the Republicans had their airtime to rebuke the President, this year in the face of Senator Marco “I’m So Nervous My Kidneys Have Bonded to My Sphincter” Rubio—a man who seems to have gone to the Mitt Romney School For Two-Faced Political Gibberish. Marco actually blamed Obama for the recession and accused him of not giving specific plans, and told various of the Republicans’ great lies.

It was while watching the red-faced, dry-mouthed Rubio speak that it dawned on me that all of this bullshit was orchestrated by someone, somewhere. Somebody is pulling the strings for the Repubbies and keeping them on the straight and stupid. There is a man, or men, somewhere who is managing the talking points for these guys and guiding the public face of the right-wing Christian conservatives.

Who? I want to know who it is. Who is so powerful as to take the /-300 conservative US legislators who were stepping all over their dicks and clitorissi a month ago to demonstrate that they “finally got it” about American voters, and turn the entire bunch back into the brain dead shitballs of November 1, 2012?

OK, stop. Maybe that should have been “clitorises”. Clitoratti, maybe. For a man so in love with them, you’d think I’d be better informed.

Then there is this entire Pope dealio. As the only high-ranking church official to ever attempt to arrest and defrock even one rapist priest out of the Catholic church, I see this guy—regrettably—as one of their best. This is a sad, sad statement to say that one of the best men in the Catholic Church is among the best because he wanted to do the right thing once out of a thousand cases. This Pope is a prick, his predecessor was a prick, and his likely successor will likewise be a prick. Until they put a Pope in place who provides local prosecutors worldwide with the Church’s files on pedophile Priests collected by Pope Bennie the Rat Turd, all Popes will continue to be pricks.

We now know that the Church has known unquestionably that the rapes and the cover-ups have been committed by Church officials from the lowliest Parish Priest all the way to the fucking Popes. Multiple Popes have continued the cover-ups. In truth, almost every Catholic Parish worldwide has harbored these criminal abusers. The evidence is so voluminous that it would topple many free governments.

Yet with all of that knowledge, the Catholic Church chugs on, filling its pews with loyal Catholic asses and it’s coffers with the coin of its blindly faithful.

Anybody out there a Catholic? Care to justify to us precisely why you are still a Catholic. Anybody care to tell us how you can pray and worship through the hierarchy of an organization that, basically, aids and abets the mass raping of your faith’s children? Can any Catholic out there provide an understandable rationalization for remaining faithful to your Pope and his silly edicts?

Other than that old tried and true lie about how you take the good with the bad, how do you fucking stand yourself as a Catholic. How can you sleep at night knowing that your monetary tithes, Catholic School tuitions and bake sale proceeds have often gone to feed, cloth and shelter men who raped your faith’s kids. How do you live with the knowing that you—Mr. And Mz. Ordinary Catholic—are funding people who ruin children’s lives in the name of your God?

For many years I have held only the Priests and Cardinals and the fucking Popes to blame for this crime against humanity. No longer. With all of the proof that your church has actually hidden and protected the perpetrators of child abuse—fuck that. The Holy Roman Fucking Catholic Church has encouraged pedophiles to enter and stay in the Priesthood and the everyday members are now fully aware. You have the proof that it is still happening.

Knowing this, I, Butcher Einstein “Mooner” Johnson, do hereby make the public pronouncement that I hold all practicing Catholics responsible for the centuries of rapes and abuses committed on your children by church officials.

Fuck all Catholics!!! Every one of you. How dare you call yourselves Christians and men of God when you support and fund these crimes.

Has to be clitorissi. Clitoris, the dictionary claims, is believed to be from the Greek word meaning, “To shut.” Therefore, I’m convinced it’s clitorissi, and it seems somehow appropriate as I’ve been shut out from them for quite some time. And why is it only “believed” to be from the Greek. Eve had one for shitsakes, it isn’t a newly-evolved appendage. We should know more about them.

Which reminds me. Has anyone heard from the Reckmonster?

Manana, y’all.

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Contemplations On The Dark Side; Godsmack For Dummies

Monday, January 21st, 2013


So. As if there didn’t already exist enough evidence that we have too many of the wrong guns in America, a child of fifteen years murdered his entire family over the weekend in another gruesome assault rifle massacre. As this kid’s father was a dedicated Christian chaplain, my first thoughts upon hearing a few details were, “This is a child abuse scenario.”

Upon sleeping on it and with additional information, my thoughts this early am are that, “This is a child abuse scenario, and maybe this incident will help stimulate actions to better control gun violence in America.”

Then again, I can just hear the Fox fucking News commentators:

“Well, Bill, if only those little girls had had their own AK-47’s locked and loaded in their bedrooms, the dead headcount would have been reduced.”

Asswipe right-wing conservative gun-promoting goat fucking shitheads.

Which reminds me of the dream I had last night. The Squirt has had loose bowels since her visit to the vet Saturday morning. This visit was to check for a bladder infection and they gave her an enema to clear the obstructions for a clean pic of her innards, but her system didn’t take well to the glycerin they pumped up her ass. The little puppy’s constant need to go outside last night somehow disturbated my normal sleep patterns, causing me to have one of those in-and-out dreams—you know, the ones wherein you pick up where you left off each time you get back to sleep.

This dream was a real corker. It was a sex dream, nekid dream, and God dream all balled-up into one convoluted pot of peasant stew. In this dream, God showed Himself in several formats: As one of my former fathers-in-laws, an alligator, the hood ornament on a Mini Cooper, and at last as Allie McGraw.

OK, stop. Is it “fathers-in-laws” or “father-in-laws” or “fathers-in-laws” when you have ten of them? OK, and what if one of them is a retired cop and one an attorney? This particular father of an ex-wife was a fine man and the Chairman of the Austin Public School Board when I graduated High School. My diploma was signed by this quite good man. I might have learned something from him if I’d paid attention. Then again, paying attention is not one of my attributes.

I’m a good watcher but I can’t pay attention for shit.

Anyway, this dream started with me as an employee of this giant company filled with coworkers from my actual life. My boss was God in the form of the ex-father-in-law, I was still married to first wife Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, and in my section of the interesting dream business office were numerous assholes I’ve known over the years, the most pivotal, dream wise, was Pastor, the Dishonorable Dr. Browningwell.

Dr. Shithead Browningwell is Mother’s Baptist preacher back to Austin, or at least he was her asswipe pastor before she enrolled and entered the retirement home there to San Antonio. I think Mother only watches him on TV and speaks to him on the phone these days, yet that limited contact seems to keep my mother’s venom sacks filled with angry poisons.

God Boss wanted me to move to Vicksburg, Mississippi, to work with a branch of the company that made movies and did event coordinating. “Look, Mooner,” God told me, “I need somebody I can trust to go over there and run things. The guy I have there now is a liar.”

“Look, God” I answered, “I love singing the Mississippi song and living there would provide me many opportunities to do just that, but I don’t know shit about movies or event planning, plus you know that I can’t follow instructions.”

God morphed into an alligator—one of those alligators from the old movie Fantasia. Man do I love that movie. There was this time way back in the early 1970’s when they showed Fantasia at the Alabama Theater in the Montrose section of Houston, Texas. It was their Saturday Night Matinée dealio and a bunch of us dropped some acid and went to watch it. Fucking alligators scared the shit out of Patrick and he almost peed his pants.

“Dumbass is way far better than liar as Branch Manager, Mooner. At least I can turn my back on you.”

God was right up in my face as He said this and His breath was something awful. “Your alligator breath smells like rotten potatoes and iguana shit, Sir. Can’t you back off just a touch?”

“No problemo, son, now get dressed and go pack your bags,” God said, and He disappeared.

OK, wait. I have forgotten to tell you the other times when the Squirt awakened me during this dream. The next time was just after I realized that I was dreaming life as an actual employee of a company. See, except for when I was a kid throwing papers or doing dishes over to the Wishbone Fried Chicken Restaurant, I’ve always been my own boss.

First time I fell in love with a black woman was when I washed dishes there to the Wishbone. I was twelve and working the 3:00-to-11:00 pm shift that summer, and the head cook was a woman named Ruby. Ruby was an onyx black woman who always wore a black-and-white checkered apron over her dress, and she tied the apron in back with a perfect bow. The apron’s bow ends always dangled over the curve of her round butt, and often one, or both, of the strings would nestle into the dress’ light crease at her butt crack.

As I was twelve and Ruby was a woman, and I’d never been up close and personal to a black woman’s quite tight and rounded ass—what with the neatly-tied apron strings marking targets for my eyes—Ruby’s ass was a major source of excitement for me. Before my second day of work, I rummaged through the cupboard at home to find our last bar of Ivory soap to take to work with me. Since I had already learned the dangers of unexpectedly stiff peckers this one time at school, I wanted to do what I could to work-off my teen angst while on breaks from the steamy dish machine and Ruby’s steaminess.

“What c’hall doin’ in there, Mooner boy? They’re runnin’ outta spoons in the dinin’ room,” Ruby said to me that day as she banged on the kitchen’s bathroom door .

I hurried my business with the Ivory soap, rinsed myself and went back to washing spoons. Ruby made the world’s best banana pudding and we were always running out of spoons. I guess my face was flushed and I likewise had some stiff pecker residue bulging the front of my shorts, and I also guess that Ruby both saw and analyzed the situation accurately.

“Well looka there, Mildred, looks like Mr. Mooner Johnson has got him a thing for the dark meat.” Mildred and Ruby looked at me askance and started laughing.

“Mmm-mm-mmm,” Mildred said. “I’ve never crossed the fence myself, but if that one wasn’t so skinny… We need ta get him filled-out—put some meat on his bones. Fix that boy a plate a chicken, Ruby.”

OK, wait just a second. This was early 1960’s Texas, where racism was still the prevalent weather, so these women’s words need to be read in that temperament. The fact that they would banter with a white boy was a sign that they were strong women and comfortable bantering with me. For my part, I thought they were making fun of my pecker size until I got home and told the story at dinner.

After listening to me recount the event, Gram said to me, she said, “Ah, Hells-bells, Mooner, they wasn’t talkin’ ’bout yer little pecker, son. They want ya to get some muscle on yer skinny ass. They don’t wanna hurt ya.”

Then the entire table laughed at humor I failed to see. It wasn’t until years later that I understood what Gram meant and, luckily, I’d filled-out.

So, I was getting dressed in my dream and wearing a clown outfit that was way too small for me. Dr. Sam was acting as my valet and trying to get the funny pants buttoned. She was pushing at my pecker through the flimsy clown material in attempts to move it away from the buttons. This is another time when the Squirt awoke me to go take a crapper. “Wake up, shithead, time to head out.”

After washing her adorable furry, brown backsides, I went fast asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. The dream started once more and I found myself standing at the rear of one of those 4-door Mini Cooper cars where Sammie was attempting to stow my giant clown suitcase. The case was brown leather with fat leather straps to hold its bulging sides shut, and the leather was blackened with hundreds of shuttings and stowings before.

There were tattered stickers and stamps from many ports of call plastered all over it, one of which stood out to me. I peered at it around the fat, bulbous and red clown nose glued to my face. “Catch-22 and then Catch Some More,” it read. It was written in Russian Cyrillic script, but I somehow knew its meanings.

“But looka here, Sammie,” I told my ex-wife and psycho therapist valet, “God knows that Slaughterhouse Five is my favorite movie. Catch-22 is several slots down the totem pole.”

“Not about your favorite movie, Mooner, it’s about my favorite movie.” It was God, again, and His voice was coming from the front of the car. I quickly realized He spoke from the hood of the little car in the form of a Jaguar hood ornament—a visage misplaced on the Mini.

“Jaguar’s the wrong image here, sir. You might try for something more fitting,” I said. “Oh, wait. Maybe I should have said you should look for something fitting more.”

I guess that even in my dreams I make marked attempts to be grammatically accurate.

“OK, big boy, how do you like this look instead?” And with that, God transformed into Allie McGraw draped upside down—feet on the roof, long legs draping the windscreen, and torso lying sideways on the hood. Allie-God’s head was resting on Her hand and Her nails were painted red talons at the end of slender fingers. She wore a filmy gauze gown that provided us a view of her spectacular stuff.

“Holy shit, God,” Dr, Sam I. Am-Johnson exclaimed in my dream. “I think I might be a dream lesbian.”

That remark would mark the moment I was reawakened by the lump of brown fur and loose bowels I call Squirt. She was on my chest and in my face, pressing her nose into mine. “Wake up asshole, I think I’m gonna explode!”

“And I might spend too much time in contemplation of sex and my pecker.”

As I took too long to get dressed and take her outside, the poor little puppy had to stop in the hallway to cut loose. “My fault, little lady, don’t worry,” I told her, “let me clean the carpet and then I’ll get to you.”

“Forget your silly rug, asshole. My bottom is on fire. Hose me off and do it now!”

I met some new people Saturday night and one of them asked me what it’s like to have the ADHD. Maybe this helps.

Manana, y’all.

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Be Carefull Who You Bunk With; A Thirteenth Birthday Story

Thursday, August 16th, 2012

So.  Today is my birthday and I awoke early this morning and found myself in quite a mood.  I’m old enough to not really care about my birthday, but I’ll likely not ever age to the point of forgetting events that occurred on my thirteenth birthday.

As a child, and until my thirteenth, birthdays were a wonderful time for me.  Cake and candles and cards and gifts and parties and all that brouhaha made my birthdays some of my favorite days.  I would look forward to them for weeks as I wheedled and charmed my way to better gifts and bigger parties.  I would do extra chores and be extra polite and promise to not be a disruptive little shit.

In the mid Twentieth Century ADHD and its little brother, the ADD, hadn’t been invented.  My crazed antics were considered to be “behavioral issues” the result of my free will rather than something mostly out of my control as a child.  I would promise to behave and  would do everything I could to be the best boy possible in those pre-birthday weeks because my birthdays were always terrific days with many great memories.

Until my thirteenth birthday.

I got my first BB gun on my tenth birthday and a bow and arrows on my eleventh birthday.  My first bicycle was at age six, roller skates at seven.  I was first kissed meaningfully on my ninth birthday and I touched a breast in a quite meaningful way on my twelfth.  Life and birthdays were truly wonderful days for young Mooner Johnson.

Until my thirteenth birthday.

My thirteenth birthday was fifty years ago today.  On that birthday I was at Boy Scout aquatics camp up to the Texas Panhandle with one other scout from my troop.  My thirteenth birthday fell on the last day of this camp and my mother was going to pick us up at noon on the last day.  She would drive from my cousin’s house in Amarillo to arrive by noon and take my buddy and me back to Austin.  We would stop at Underwood’s BBQ in Brownwood for dinner and roll into Austin at about 9 pm.

So you can imagine our surprise when our Boy Scout Leader, an insurance agent and big wig Deacon of our family Baptist Church, showed up at the camp late on the afternoon of the 15th of August, 1962.  The day before my birthday.  My thirteenth birthday.

He drove an Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser station wagon–white cream body with a candy apple red top. I always thought he was a great man–church elder, Boy Scout Leader and respected family man.  He had a successful insurance business and was great as a Scout Leader.  Under his guidance I was not quite thirteen and was already a Life Scout (the last rank before Eagle Scout),  I was to be awarded my 20th, 21st and 22nd merit badges (21 were required for Eagle), and I had been evaluating community service project options to fulfill the final requirements to become an Eagle Scout.

My thirteenth birthday was to be a very special day for me.

“I told your mother I would pick you boys up on my way back to Austin from Dallas.  She was able to go home from Amarillo yesterday,” he told our surprised and curious faces as he exited his Vista Cruiser.  I loved his car–it had every possible option and he had turned the back into a camping-out bedroom.  All us scouts though it was a neato car.

My first thought was that aquatics camp is NOT on the way from Dallas to Austin.  I had just gotten my Pathfinding Merit Badge earlier in the summer so I knew that as a fact.  I remember thinking that thought in that instant and I have rethought the curiousness of his words many times since.  I sensed something amiss but was too young and too excited to be only one day from completing the next-to-last steps to become an Eagle Scout.  I was to complete these steps on my birthday.

My thirteenth birthday.

Our Leader left us to the rest of our day and he went to pow-wow with other adults.  He told us he would return after dinner to our camp to spend the night, and we could tell stories until late.  He promised we could stay up until midnight because we both had met all the requirements for the badges offered that summer at aquatics camp.  He would pilfer some marshmallows and we’d tell stories and gorge on sticky burnt sugar.  “And I have a special surprise for you–I’ve got an ice chest with Coca Colas hidden in my car.  Don’t tell anybody.  Shhhh.”

OK, let me stop right here because this morning’s Santa Fe New Mexican had a couple stories I can’t let pass. The first says that a man in Sparks, Nevada was in a theater watching the new Bourne movie, shifted in his seat causing his legal firearm to fall out his pants where it hit the floor and shot the man in his ass.  A fitting result if the bullet had hit his balls of whacked his pecker off, if you ask me.  But what if that happened in a large theater instead of in tiny Sparks, and what if that theater had been–as many NRA right-wing Repubbies have recently wished–full of legally gun-toting fuckbags?

Next, the New Mexico tourist industry will lose $50 million of business this year due to Global Warming.  Most of that loss is due to fewer ski days on the state’s beautiful ski ranges because of higher temps.  “Oh, Mr. Republican VP Candidate Pookie Ry-an.  Hello, Poo-kie!”  That quote there was to be read like you were sing-songing it.  Please go back and sing to Pookie Ryan for me.  It’s my birthday, so induldge me, for shitsakes, so do it.

The third and most interesting was that New Mexico has been named the second clumsiest city in America when it comes to cell phone usage.  It is estimated that over 30% of all New Mexican cell phones will be damaged this year from being “dropped”.   Here, again, I have personal knowledge to verify the veracity of this prediction, and once again the evidence comes from a visit over to the Ace Hardware.  I got out of my car last week and this guy was standing outside the Ace store fumbling and cussing at his cell phone.

“Chinga tu madre’, you fucking I-Phone sonofabitch!”  And “BOOM”,  “Down goes I-Phone, Down goes I-Phone!”

Did you know that an I-Phone, when hurled with same force one would use to remove a dirty baby diaper from one”s face, will make a sound not unlike the crack of a .22 cal. pistol as it smacks into a concrete sidewalk?  To me, another instance to cause a rethinking of that whole gun ownership dealio.

Anyway, my buddy and I returned to our camp after our tasks and duties and dinner where our Leader had things all set up.  He had the fire going, ice chest of Cokes and marshmallows and sticks at the ready.  We told stories and recapped our two weeks at aquatic camp and ate and drank sugar to the buzz state.  When we all seemed to be sagging, Scout Leader looked at his watch and said, he announced, “Well, it’s after midnight, boys.  Why don’t one of you bunk in comfort in the Cruiser with me.  Mooner, you’ve never had the honor.”

To place perspectives, when that Baptist Deacon Boy Scout leading, respected family man and successful businessman said, “… it’s after midnight…” those words meant that it was now officially my birthday.

My thirteenth birthday.

My Boy Scout Leader gave me a very special birthday present after I accepted his invitation to bunk in comfort, a birthday present that has affected my life immeasurably every day since.  It wasn’t a present of money of toys or a card.  He didn’t impart great insight or tell me the secret of living a successful life.  Instead, he gave me the worst present any adult ever gave any child.

He raped me.

Fifty years ago today, on my birthday, my Boy Scout Leader molested me and almost ruined my life.  Screw that, because he did ruin giant pieces of it.  And he did it on my birthday.

My fucking thirteenth birthday.

Now look, everybody, and I mean friends and foes alike who trip over this post.  I don’t want sympathies and “poor sweet babies” for something that happened a half-century ago.  What I want–my birthday present from you–is for you to be ever-vigilant and watchful for any abuse of a child.  In my youth, 90% of all molestations went unreported in any way and very few of those offenders were punished unless a child’s family saw to the punishment.  Tell kids to report to you any strange behaviors of any adults when alone with them.

And understand that the vast majority of those assholes are friends or family or a respected authority figure.  Like a Baptist Deacon or a Boy Scout Leader or a respected family man or an uncle or auntie.

Having said all of this, I suddenly feel pretty damned good.  It took me forty years of healing and thirty years of intense psycho therapy to get here, and I didn’t even acknowledge to anyone the fact of it until ten years ago.  In this last decade I’ve managed to be able to speak of it and even in an open forum such as here in Loonyland.

But I’m a lucky one and I know it and am mightily grateful for it.  Life has given me a terrific birthday present.  Happy birthday to me!

Manana, y’all, from beautiful Santa Fe, New Mexico.


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