Archive for the ‘Environmental Issues’ Category

Phipp, Phapp, Phrrp- A Story Of Childhood Memories

Saturday, February 15th, 2014


So. Something has been happening to me over the last several months, and this particular something has had a quite unsettling effect on my countenances. The affected countenances run the gamut of a person’s varied composures and tolerances from one end to the other.

OK, stop. That first paragraph of this morning’s writings might be one of the most perfect strings of words I’ve ever produced. If I got it right from the grammatical perspectives, that is one amazing paragraph of human communication as related to the human condition. If I effected proper usages and affects—and you, as a reader, properly interpreted my meanings—then we, together, have had a mutual human enlightenment.

I’m finding mutual human enlightenments between people engaged in interpersonal relationships as difficult to encounter as actual apologies.

Take, for example, memories. I can remember with great clarity every aspect of certain childhood memories, yet can’t remember shit about six minutes ago. As, for example, Big George Martin, or “BGM” as everyone but his wife called him. BGM was my granddaddy’s best buddy from their youth, and a man of massive appetites. BGM lived his life to the fullest in every possible way—food, drink, information, adventure, friends and life in general were all consumed by him in gluttonous quantities.

BGM was that jolly old man we all knew as a child. I think everyone had a man or woman like BGM who populated our lives in youth. Always happy, unafraid of anything and happy for the encounters, and not a single bone of shyness. Old BGM could fart the gaseous swill that can only come from the residuals of a dozen-and-a-half of Mrs. Garcia’s sweet bean tamales—a fart that would empty a church full of cripples at an Ernest Angley Miracles Concert—a feat accomplished when The Right Reverend Angley visited Austin’s Capital City Church of God back to the early 1970’s.

And for those of you donning the uniform of the Appropriateness Nazis, back to the 1970’s we called handicapped persons cripples, and did so without bigotry or insensitivity.

The smell of those farts moved like the unhinging of the lid on a crate full of cockroaches and dropping them dead center of the second row on the cushioned seat at the old Church of God. The balled mass of ten-thousand crustaceanous rats would roil for a second and then scream off in every direction and crawling all over everyfuckingthing. Roaches in your clothes and hair and all up in your face. Then you’d walk a hundred feet from the drop site to shake all the roaches off, inspect yourself carefully to find no residuals, and walk out to the car only to have a half dozen jump from your hair and into the upholstery.

And before the dreaded AD-and-HD drag us so deep into the swampy waters of my thoughts, it was not Streaker Jones and me (myself?) who dropped the crate of cockroaches in the auditorium of William B. Travis Junior High School just after the second act of Mrs. Browningwell’s Ninth Grade Health Education play she entitled, “Good Christian Girls Don’t Do It!”

Maybe it was just the horrible memories of those nasty, gassy things, but I could sometimes smell the BGM fart odor hours, days later. Sometimes a dish would be cooking in the kitchen days later that would contain a whiff of some small essence of BGM’s fart, and I’d skip my dinner.

I don’t skip many dinners.

“Oh, my… heh-heh-heh,” old BGM would laugh after one of those farts. “Sorry, ladies, that ‘un just creeped out on me. Any a y’all need ya a tissue?”

Those creeper farts were incredible. I can still vividly remember the smell so strong you’d consider puking, the eye-stinging pungencies. My mother would swear she needed a shower after she was in the room when BGM farted.

Old BGM swore that those nasty-ass farts had a life of their own—that he never knew when they were going to debut or what they were going to smell like. “Ain’t ate nuttin but oatmeal an’ raisins all week, children. Mrs. Martin, she’s got old George onna diet.”

“Nuttin bout boiled oats inna smell a that rascal,” BGM once told us at a picnic. “Asides, them suckers jump right on out—give a a man not the warning once.”

As I’m running out of time and must head to work, let me summarize the intentions of this bloggie posting. The evolutions that are my personal aging processes have decided to include my morphing into “Old Stinky Fart Guy”. I’m becoming Big George Martin.

“Run, everybody,” has become the two-word combination most often shouted from my lips. And when I say, “Everybody,” I also mean me, myownself. My old geezer farts are so stinky even I can’t stand them. I used to have farts with olfactory complexities that would rival those of a fine wine. These fuckers cause temporary blindness.

I farted inside my truck yesterday afternoon at just before 3:30 pm—an effort aimed to leave the offensive gas behind and not unleash it on the crowd standing to get food from the food pantry next to my office. I farted and then jumped from the truck and slammed the door, and flapped the tail of my shirt on my way to my office. Safely inside, there was but a trace of odor left on my hand that waved the shirttails.

At 4:45, my coworker and I called it a day and were discussing a project we were contemplating. I unlocked the truck, opened the door and sat backwards into the truck seat still facing the other man. “OK,” I said, “we’ll discuss… Arrrrrrg!!!”

I jumped from the truck and ran his way. “Holy fucking shit!” I cried. “I’ve become Old Stinky Fart Guy!”

I’m hoping to develop an immunity to my new self quickly. I’m thinking that these farts might be a particularly effective weapon at the poker table. If I can learn to sit through the pungent fog, I’ll have the best bluff move in the game.

“I’m all-in… Frrrrrrrrrrt!”

Ugh. It’s a bitch growing old. And fuck Walmart!

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Wee Willy Koch Plays Cowboy; When Does A Horse Have Two Assholes?

Saturday, August 25th, 2012

So.  Here we all are on a fine Saturday morning in America.

America.  Land of the Free, Home of the Brave.  Right.  Free–if  you’re rich enough–to buy the US Supreme Court, the US and States’ Congresses, and enough pristine Colorado wilderness to build yourself a real-live old western town like our boy Koch.  But Brave?  My dictionary defines brave as, “Possessing courage and valor…,”  and has something to do with Honor.

How Brave is it to send the truly Brave among us to fight wars started by and based upon,  lies?  How Brave is it to use bald-faced lies to push your religious-based political agenda?  How Brave are you to lie to get ahead?

How fucking Brave are you when you grab your banana-clipped automatic weapons and shoot up women and kids in the name of white bigotry?  How Brave are Glen Beck and Savage and the other assholes when they wind up their Nazi toys to do their killing?  How Brave is it to hate based upon nothing more than a difference?

America.  For amber waves of grain; For purple mountains majesty.  Right.  Amber-stalked, dead corn and soy beans and amber-bleached animal carcasses spread across our drought-plagued infertile plains.  Amber is the color of the gold lining the pockets of the oilmen and financiers who profit from the greenhouse gasses that cause the extremes in weather that cause the droughts.

As for your majestic mountains…  Better not have coal or gold or uranium or another valuable commodity buried within its geo structure.

Which reminds me.  Tennessee’s state song is Rocky Top, or at least it seems to be.  Do you think those 100,000 plus Volunteers are thinking about the dozens of their rocky topped mountains that are getting dug into flattops by the coal industry as they sway and sing at Neyland Stadium?

America.  American Industrial Might.  Right.  Man walks into a bar in Detroit and says to the bartender, he says, “Say, barkeep, I’m a foreign journalist and I’ve just flown in to do a story on American Industrial Might.  Where would you suggest I start?”  Barkeep says, “China.”

America.  America, where all men are created equal.  Really?

Ugh.  I’m getting all pissed off with the state of things in my beloved country.  The story about that asshole William “Wild Bill Willie” Koch building his own old west town in the back yard of his Colorado home has hit me hard.  Go read just one of the stories and see if you don’t get pissed as well.  Motherfucker has enough money to pay for all that excess of greedy ego and he still wants to manipulate our political processes to gain more.

There is a group of Christian-based robber barons who want to take us back to the 1800’s, when labor unions were dreams and a man could buy any fucking thing he wanted.  That, dear friends, is why Wet Willie Koch is so fascinated with the Wild, Wild West.  He wants to buy the fastest gun in town and be the land baron.

I guess Wild Willie wants to play gunslinger and shoot up Dodge City.  Maybe that’s what it takes to get his pecker stiff at age 72.  Me, I hope his little adventure turns into a true life Westworld.  I can envision Yul Brenner’s The Gunslinger character staring him down, and…

Wasn’t Yul Brenner a scary fucking human being?  If he had been born anytime in history before 1850 he’d have been a military dictator.  If he were to give me that stare and say, “Eat that plate of cat shit, boy!” I’d be forced to reply, “Just one plate, sir?”

America’s infrastructure is crumbling–roads, bridges, dams and all the rest are in a terrible state of repair.  We manufacture less than we consume.  Our forever free and quality public education system is getting ruined by extremists.  We are losing the important personal freedoms gained by Americans starting with our Revolution to gain freedom from England, and from slavery, and the Suffragettes, and segregation and women’s reproductive rights.

Women’s Rights.  There’s your oxymoron if Mitt Romney can steal enough votes to become President.  Do you realize that in more than thirty of our glorious states, if a woman who gets pregnant as the result of rape and decides to have the baby, she is REQUIRED by new laws to take that child to visit the rapist father while he’s in prison?  That’s right, a rapist get’s visitation rights to his little love child in the majority of our states, and the mother is required to produce the child to the prison gates.

Are… You… Fucking… Kidding me?

What has happened?  How did we get here?  Why is the Jesus of peace and love now used as a battering ram to oppress all differing views?

Which reminds me.  Last night I worked late with the stone masons to lay the flagstone walkways out back here to our Santa Fe casita.  I finished too tired to get cleaned up, so I just washed the red dust off my hands and face and headed to a fast food joint for a greasy dinner of fried fish and chips.  It was just a half hour before closing time and there were but two families seated in the otherwise empty dining room.  One family rose and left as I got my tray of food and the other–a family of Native Americans–were seated in a booth next to the table I chose for myself.

There was a mother-grandmother, and I’m thinking two of her sons and a granddaughter and grandson.  She was dressed classically in Navajo fashion and her grandson of maybe seven years called her “Shímásání”.   That’s how I knew them to be Navajo.  For some weird reason I know the Navajo word for Gram.

She spoke to her family only in her native tongue–quiet, hyphenated rhythmic speech with emphasis on almost every other syllable.  It made me tear up to hear her speak and the reverential treatment she received from her family.  I sat, enchanted, as my tears peppered the fried fish fillets like the sprinkling of malt vinegar I’d just applied. I felt a passion and respect for this woman and her history.  I started thinking about that asshole William Koch and wondered how long I’d need to practice to become a gunslinger so I could go face him down at high noon.

That’s when it hit me.

I haven’t had a psycho therapy session in over three weeks!

Manana, y’all.



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Returning To Austin; How’s It Hanging?

Tuesday, July 10th, 2012


So. I admit I’m remiss and haven’t kept my promise to check in with you guys. I’ve been accross to New Mexico for ten days and just arrived back to the ranch in Austin. I feel like an asshole for not checking in with everyone, but I have some excuses. Not that excuses are worth a shit in any context, so maybe I’ll call my absence precisely what it was.

The effort required of me to communicate while gone was more than I was willing to pay. Therefor, and therein, I’m an asshole.

So I’ll apologize here and now and rather than excuse myself, as assholes typically do and I’ll give you the basic travel log of my last ten days. First, I have an old, funky laptop that refuses to connect to just any wireless connection. When you add my lack of tech skills to a balky computer, you get a frustrating mix of dropped connections and half-assed effort. During the first few days in Santa Fe, I spent hours hunched over in coffee shops trying to logon and write missives on both my, and your, places of business. Worthless efforts one, and all.

Squirt told me that if I didn’t buy a new laptop when we got home that she was going to, and here I’ll quote the pint-sized puppy, “… kick your Texas ass way up onto your shoulders.” She’s a cute little shitbird when she makes threats, and she did have a good point.

Second, our home hunt has been furious and successful. On Monday we saw 19 various homes and on Tuesday we viewed another ten. Home number sixteen on Monday was an amazing 1940′s adobe bungalow that we fell deeply in love with. We got it under contract Thursday, inspected it Saturday with all the experts and hope to have it closed by the end of July. More to come on the house if things work out.

Third, this was Squirt and Yoda’s first trip outside the Lone Star State, and New Mexico has, well, enchanted them. I’ll not start effusing about our newly adopted half-home and my pets’ love affairs therewith. However, having said that you need to know that last Thursday night was the first of the free weekly concerts held on the square in town, and we had a blast. Each summer the City provides free concerts on the square downtown and I can see myself making most of them.

We stood in a crowd of fewer than a thousand and watched Joe King Carrasco do one of the best live shows I’ve ever seen. Seriously. The pint-sized singer was a dynamo and even more energetic than when I first saw him in the 1980′s. He was off the stage and into the crowd on every song, and the crowd was remarkable. It was like a huge family reunion where only Uncle Stanly was too drunk to dance, and Mother’s third cousin from back East, Madalyn Morrison, Funky Chickened her house dress up to her waist to reveal a not altogether unattractive bare ass.

I was just a kid and Madalyn was doing the Jitterbug, but the memory of her dancing with this Navy man she brought to the party still sticks with me. She would have been mid-twenties back then and I was just arriving at that age that boys reach.

And let me say that I had no idea Joe King has such mad skills on a Stratacaster. Holy fucking shit. Squirt danced all night with a Bull Mastiff named Hulk, and Yoda danced with an assortment of women who each said, “Oh, isn’t he just the cutest thing.” I have to admit that the bug-eyed little shit has got some moves. Must be his Whippet blood.

Honor the fucking cat climbed a tree to get the best seat in the house and me, I danced with the entire crowd. Joe King’s music is infectious and you can’t help but boogie. I bounced and white-boy gyrated for a solid 90 minutes, and Friday morning I got out of bed with that comfortable all-body ache that happy exercise gives you. Like when you spend a whole night sexing with an energetic lover—starting on the granite counter top out to the kitchen, moving to the cedar bench outside by the fire pit and only then heading to the bed and its cool Egyptian cotton sheets—and awaken the next morning with your nose in the crack of her ass and a vibrator with run-down batteries glued to your thigh.

Maybe the vibrator was stuck to her. Can’t swear which it was.

Anyway, we toured the Santa Fe Opera and saw some local sights, Saturday the home inspection in the am and then off to hunt Peyote buttons for the fucking cat. We packed our bags and headed to Streaker Jones’ daddy’s birthplace—exact location not any of your fucking business—and hiked for a few hours to gather cactus fruit. We took our collected produce to Streaker Jones’ cousin’s place and he blessed the peyote and made some tea in the old style. Laughing Coyote is a medicine man in-training who traded for our remaining buttons, and we got some chunks of uncut gemstones and a gunny sack of pasole. Pasole is corn nuts before they are fried and a terrific food. I love them in salad with celery, onion, hot peppers and cider vinegar dressing. We drank our Peyote tea, cracked a few Carta Blanca beers and put the new Joe King CD into the player.

That was Saturday night. I awoke Monday at 11 am in suitable condition to drive us back to Austin and gathered the troops for the 11-hour drive. The Squirt was, predictably, at the foot of my sleeping bag and Yoda was likewise curled into my left armpit. I got the dogs up to pee and brush their teeth and went outside to pee myself. We slept in an old Air Stream trailer that’s parked under an ancient cottonwood tree at a spring-fed oasis. Coyote—he asked us to call him Coyote—requested that we, “Return our water to a good use,” so we all peed on the parched soil at the big tree’s waterline.

So, I’m standing, naked, with my eyes closed and trying to get that first swollen-bladder pee to start, when I heard the sound of a hundred Mourning Doves cooing on the dry, light summer breeze. The bird music soothed me and helped relax my urinary tract. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and started blindly pee writing in the powdery red dirt at my feet. The sounds of my water hitting the soil blended with the doves’ voices and, I must admit, created a symphony of Nature. As it was my first emptying of the day, it was somewhat dramatic and provided a two-minute track of splats and coos.

When I opened my eyes I looked around me to take in the wide spaces of southern New Mexico. Or was it Mexico? I took a deep breath of dry, desert-flowered air, blinked and then looked down at my pee writing. I stared at what I had written. Actually, I think I gaped.

“God is in Honor,” it read.

“Whatthefuck?” I asked the world. “Has anyone seen the fucking cat?”

I started to panic as the last memory of Honor I had was when she walked off to find God late Saturday night. Everyone seems to walk off to find God when first imbibing Peyote. I typically go looking for God every time I eat Peyote, but God has been visiting me so often lately that I didn’t feel the need this time.

“I’ll shoot that fucking cat if he kills my doves, Mooner. Better get him down.”

Coyote was looking up at the Cottonwood tree and pointing at Honor, who was hanging upside down on the branch beneath the flock of birds. “Oh, don’t worry, dude, that’s how she sleeps sometimes,” I told him. “She’ll get anchored with her claws and hang like a bat.”

Anyway, I didn’t seem to miss much news when I was gone save that Mitt Romney raised millions from the billionaires, the Episcopalians did right by same sex marriage, and Katie Holmes finally cashed her paycheck.

Maybe now Tommie C. and Johnny T. can de-closet themselves and get married in the Episcopal Church. It’s 2012, you two, so set yourselves free. Or has your silly church got you brainwashed?

Stupid question, Mooner. Manana, y’all.

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Mooner Proves Global Warming; Fuck Rick Perry Anyway

Thursday, May 31st, 2012


So. Either Global Warming is a factual existence creating unusual weather patterns across the globe or I’m becoming a crotchety old bastard with little patience for the heat. While the truth is that I’m becoming crankier as the calendar pages flip, it is truer still that the weather is more extreme and unpredictable than ever before.

As a scientist, my musings re: Global Warming are not based solely upon the mountains of research and measurements made by other distinguished scientists worldwide. Streaker Jones has taught me that empirical scientists use data gathered by others only for doing comparisons to their own collected data and observations. Just because some guy over to Poland tells you it hurts to zip your pecker in a metal zipper, you, as an empirical scientist, must test his theorem before making rash statements thereupon.

To review my studies re: metal zippers versus penile flesh and skin, go over there ====}}}}} and buy my stupid fucking book, Full Rising Mooner. You’ll find that study contained in the pages of Chapter 21 as I recall. Which reminds me that some of history’s greatest scientific discoveries have been made at the cost of the scientists’ health. Like the guy way back who first put an unopened can of pork-and-beans in the campfire or that guy who flew with feathers waxed to his fake wings and got too close to the sun.

Sometimes scientists are required to make sacrifices for their art. And let me tell you that science is art—art at every level from sub-molecular to universal. If art is the creation of beautiful things or thoughts, then science is art. And like regular art, the beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. Just like Jackson Pollock is a sloppy house painter to me yet a critically acclaimed virtuoso to others, Einstein’s Theory of Relativity is a stunningly beautiful string of thoughts that led to atomic bombs.

OK, I’m not getting ready to tell you that I’m on Albert E.’s team in the science league, but I have been making some calculations and observations that prove Global Warming is factual. As a thoughtful scientist, I have used a non-typical double blind testing/evaluation method to prove my ideas. The first series of tests involve the garden—plant date changes, rainfall and temps and so on—and the second set involves my scrotum.

When I was a boy, our garden was run by my grandmother under the auspices of the Farmers Almanac. Gram would study the Almanac and tell us what to plant when, when to water or fertilize and how to plan harvest chores. When you can and preserve an acre’s worth of tomatoes every year you need to do some planning.

For years, hell decades, Gram’s predictions and plans were spot on. Save an occasional freak storm, the Almanac was a dependable guide. Now the Farmers Almanac is so undependable it’s best used as toilet paper. And it makes shitty toilet paper.

You can’t depend on any historical data for rain or temperatures or bugs or blights. We usually plant the bulk of our summer garden in late March. Miss the last freeze, average date March 8th, and catch all the historically great spring rains. But the last eight years have been drought years and our last freezes have come in January.

For that fucking matter, our typical first 90-degree day has moved from May back to March. This year I planted summer veggies starting February 10th and we had a week of 90-degree weather in early March that wilted everything to the ground. Most all of it perked back up when we got our spring rains six weeks early, but see what I mean?

It’s too hot in May for the tomato blooms to set because they need overnight temps under 70-degrees. We’ve only had two nights under 70 since the last week in March. At the breakfast table this morning we we enjoying a plate of sliced Cherokee purples with our scrambled eggies when I read an article about the effects of Global Warming on several endangered species. New readers should know that I took the newspaper from Mother’s hands because, simply said, she’s an asshole.

After reading the article to the table, I made a comment about how Global Warming has effected the big family garden. Gram pointed a finger skyward—a hint that she wants to speak as soon as she has swallowed most of her mouthful of food—and then redirected the knobby digit my way.

“I blaimt you fer tha problems inna garden, Mooner. Wasn’t ’till I give it ta you ta wrangle afore it got all fuckered up.” Gram speared another slab of tomato and dropped it in her mouth, chewed, and with purple tomato juice on her lips added, she said, “I was gonna kick yer skinny ass fer ya an then I recollected ’bout how all them seals was getting’ squished when tha gravy was fallin’ off inta tha ocean. That’s tha blame onna oil men, Mooner. That shit ain’t yer fault.”

I answered, “Well, the glaciers are melting alarmingly fast, Gram, but it’s not just the oilmen causing the problem…” I stopped without adding additional reasons for Global Warming. I needed to quit while I was out of the doghouse for a decade of under-performing homegrown produce. And speaking of the garden, I got up from the table and headed out to smash stink bugs.

The black, hard shelled smelly little fuckers have arrived a full month early this year and they’re into everything. Only effective way to kill them is to slap them between your bare hands. (Be sure to wash afterwards and don’t touch any sensitive skin with those dirty hands.) It was while killing stink bugs that the second observational tool of my Global Warming studies came into play.

Like I’ve said, it’s hot and terribly humid here and especially so today. We’d been out to the garden for a couple hours and the sun had started beating down, heating the water-soaked air into a fetid stew. I was sweating head-to-toe and all my clothes were soaked. I was in the rows of okra and there were a cluster of stinkers at my ten o’clock and three feet over my head. As I reached to slap the buggies, I felt a tug on my thighs and then the sound duct tape makes when you peel it off a balloon.

“Bbrrruuuupppt,” the sound, followed by, “Sonofabitch that hurt!” almost shouted by me. My scrotum had stuck to my leg again and reaching to squish the stinkers had ripped it loose.

Now, as a scientist I’m required to not jump conclusions when the evidence is thin, but you notice I said that my scrotum had stuck to my leg again, as in another time after a previous time. The additional observational weight to my conclusion was observed last Saturday night. SAC Ellen was in town and just for the one night. We had a nice dinner but sat outside in the heat because my date has been, “Somewhere cold.” Anytime she leaves the country she won’t tell me where she was.

National security can be aggravating.

Anyway, she owed me a blow job from her last visit, and she offered to pay up before we got to the serious sexing. Seeing as I’m always up for a blow job, I said to her, I said, “Sure,” and I slipped out of my shorts and undies and splayed out on the bed. SAC Ellen started working kisses from my neck down to blow job country, doing little lip tugs at my skin as she went. I felt her secure my scrotum with her lips and then the pressure as she tugged. She tugged repeatedly and started to grunt with the effort.

“Holy shit, Mooner, your nut sack has rooted to your leg. We need to call a plumber.”

We laughed and discussed creative ways to unstick things and then debated whether she’d want her mouth on any of it when they came unstuck. So I hopped up and showered and returned to successful relationships, and I woke up Sunday morning thinking about how Global Warming had negatively effected my sex life.

I think I’m on to something here. I think I have discovered an entirely new area of detestation caused by Global Warming. But before I can make any bold statements I need to find more hard evidence. Have any of you guys had Global Warming effect your sex lives?

Manana, y’all.


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Electric Lawnmower Magic; Squirt Shows Management Skills

Friday, May 11th, 2012


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What I do have is a voice and a vote.

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

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God Drops By; Question Answered

Wednesday, May 9th, 2012


So. This is just a quickie bitch about yesterday. Two news items from yesterday caught my ADHD-addled brain and stuck like a sharp-barbed treble hook. I’ve tried to shake them out of my head but can’t, and I’m hoping that writing them here will allow me to free my brain for more important thoughts.

Thoughts like the sex dreams I used to have about Bella Abzug. I heard her speak when I was young and was impressed her words and her face. Katy, from over to Lesbians In My Soup, did a story about what makes a beautiful face and her words struck the flimsy chords that serve as my memory. I thought of Mz. Bella and those dreams. You need to go to Katy’s place and check her out—she’s a mighty good read.

I could also be thinking about the wedding planning for the pending nuptials here to the Johnson family ranch or I could worry and obsess more about my weather-torn garden. But alas, the state of North Carolina has grabbed brain cells and won’t shake loose. For, you see, the fine people of North Carolina passed a strong anti-gay man/woman marriage dealie yesterday and when I read that in my newspaper I thought to myself, I thought, “What kind of person would favor that sort of stupid legislation?”

I was reading the paper early and while on the crapper so I had only myself to ask, and was spared the pain of having Mother read the story to us all at the breakfast table while she’d gloat. My mother is a gloater.

I’m looking at the other stories and unable to focus because the question is stuck in my head—who would favor that legislation? What kind of people populate North Carolina in the majority who have that kind of idiocy?

I finished my business and was lowering the newspaper to exchange it for rolled, perforated paper when the second article caught my eyes. “North Carolina man straps children to hood of car for ride home from liquor store” was the headline.

Now me, if there is actually a capital-G God, this was that God speaking directly to me. I might have actually heard his booming basso profundo, its rich tones sonorous and commanding. God said, “Mooner Johnson, my child, you seeketh knowledge and I have laid it unto your eyes. Behold the Truth, my son, as I am want to admit my plan got all fucked up over to North Carolina. Can you believe that many assholes can congregate within the borders of one tiny state?”

“Well, God,” I’d answer, “it isn’t your fault. But doesn’t it piss you off that they blame you for their immoral and ignorant acts?”

“Truly it does, Mooner, and they shall pay. Heaven and Hell are interchangeable destinations, dude, and have I got a program for assholes.”

I doubt God would disclose His plans for assholes but that just gives me something to think about. And hey—God called me dude. Manana, y’all.

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Mother Nature- Myth or Magic; Fig Jam And Other Natural Disasters

Saturday, March 24th, 2012


So. Another day in short-term paradise. It’s absolutely beautiful here to Austin, Texas, and that scares the living shit right out of me. I’m starting to bear (bare?) convictions that Mother Nature is seriously pissed with the human race and that She has decided to make a point. I think She’s starting to fight back for our last 2,000 years of soiling Earth’s pristine nature, and the punishments will be viscious.

Which thoughts have at this very instant inspired an idea. What if Mother Nature is the one, the only, true and everlasting God? What if the Heavenly Spirit manifested Herself in the form of Earth Mommy? Since all the christian right-wing fuckwadders claim that it is their god who makes all the natural disasters happen, what if they are right about just that small part of their dogma?

If I imprint my mind with the basic supposition that God is Mother Nature, then I can more easily justify many of the bible’s more ridiculous stories. Burning bushes, parting seas, and great floods can actually make a little sense to me. I can see a pissed off Mother Nature bringing seven year plagues whereas a god of much larger scope would only bring natural disasters if he were an asshole. That god would be blaming humans for exhibiting the same flawed nature that god himself had created.

Only assholes punish others for their own mistakes.

Like Schmidt Rommel’s Etch-A-Sketch, maybe the Great Flood was Mother Nature’s most recent method to cleanse her sacred Earth of mankind’s ugly art. I’m not sure how we managed to fuck things up so badly all those years ago, but we must have done some sort of polluting. We hadn’t yet discovered oil and oil-smutting machines, and our worse water and soil pollutions were over-grazing and whenever some drunk bastard pissed upstream from the encampment.

If she was angry enough to flood the entire world back then, how pissed must Mother God be now that we have totally fucked things up? Which reminds me of something. It appears that the Feds are finally going to ban the practice of adding antibiotics into animal foods. What, in the hell, has taken so long?

Oh, that’s right, the Ag lobby is pretty fucking powerful. Greedy asswipe, right-wing corporate farming shitballs. Me, with how the mega-super-sized corporate farms are medicating and gene-altering our livestock, I’m thinking Mother Nature might be wise to stockpile another two each just in case.

Then again, where would a person even find and original chicken? I wonder what the first chicken looked like. If I bore rick santorum’s ideologies, I would wonder if god had invented all the animals and other shit by first casting the male of each species. Since I don’t think like that sanctimonious little prick, I’m left to imagine a few million years of evolution between chicken and egg.

OK, maybe a million years egg-to-chicken. But like my Gram always says, when she says, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Pass me one a them ranch eggies an a chicken taco. No, dammit, I said a chicken taco not a porkie one.”

Sister and her wife, Anna the Amazon, were over to make us all breakfast this morning. My sister makes Huevos Rancheros as well as they can be made, and I taught Anna how to make breakfast tacos when we were married to each other. Anna was, and still is, a terrible cook. But I taught her the taco tricks and Gram taught her how to can figs. She makes the most of those two recipes and Sister told me once that she thought she might hang herself if she had to even look at another jar of fig jam.

Not me. I can’t get enough of good fig preserves. Or jam—I never can remember the differences. Which reminds me. My good buddy, BJ from over to the Dumb Perrignon, is planting a fig tree up to Murphreesboro, Tn., and he needs an idea as to which varieties would do well there. If any of you guys have a suggestion, please let him/me know.

Screw it, I’m going fishing. Manana, y’all.


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Coffee Shop Giveaways; Bye-Bye Ricky, You GFA

Thursday, January 19th, 2012


So. I have just a few minutes to devote to writing today because I have a luncheon to attend. The US Compost Council is honoring one of the finest women on the face of the planet here in Austin. Barrie Cogburn, head landscape architect and high muck-a-much at the Texas Department of Transportation (TxDOT), is the honoree, and I wouldn’t miss this dealie for anything.

Barrie, along with Scott McCoy of the Texas Commission on Environmental Quality (TCEQ), fostered the use of compost to solve erosion and re-vegetation problems here in our state. Those solutions resulted in creating a new industry, providing safe and recycled options for longterm problems worldwide, and an Environmental Excellence Award for yours truly.

Barrie is a Texas Aggie, but her star shines so brightly in my eyes that her Aggieness causes no fading whatsoever. I’ll stop now before my effusiveness overcomes your abilities to stand it. Let me just say, “Cheers to you, Barrie Cogburn, well deserved.”

Which reminds me. Is today the day little Ricky Perry has the plug pulled on his ass by his big money backers?

The lunch dealie alone is not enough to overwhelm my day, it’s my book giveaway dealie—the coffee shop thingie. Yesterday I managed to give three books away to unsuspecting suckers—one at The Coffee Bean and the Tea Leaf (TCBTL) and then two at Pasha. The Coffee Bean was there to US 183 not far from the Planned Parenthood offices, and Pasha is on Burnett Road just north of 45th Street. As is usual with me, nothing is ever easy.

I started at TCBTL and I entered, ordered and asked the nice man who helped me if I could do the book give-away dealie. He was quite enthusiastically positive in his response, and he agreed. I looked around the shop, which was full of customers. I evaluated the tables to determine just who might be best approached. My first choice, two men reading computer manuals, waved me away as I approached them.

My second choice was a table of seven people, each of whom had a laptop computer and a thick book open in front of them. Now me, I see seven people with two instruments designed to read in front of them, and I see readers. I approached the table.

“Hi,” I said, giant shit-eating grin plastered to my face. “I’m a local writer, I have a new book just out, and I’d like to give one away.”

“Oh, how thoughtful,” the lone woman at the table said. “And may God bless you with a bounteous life.”

“RED ALERT!!! RED ALERT!!! RED ALERT!!!” went my internal danger alarm.

“Why thank you, little Missy,” I answered, “but before I fully accept your sweet countenance, might I ask what you’re reading?”

“Oh, that’s just the Bible and our Church study lesson plan is on the computer.” Little Missy pointed at each in turn. “Would you care to join us?”

“Well,” I didn’t quite stammer, “what might be the subject of today’s insights?”

Now please allow me to take a moment here. I was raised in the Baptist church and spent many hundreds of hours with someone six feet up my ass with a Bible, hammering the words and interpretations of the words at my brain. Quite a bit of it stuck in my head, like so much dog shit on the crenelated imitation rubber sole of a waffle-sole tennis shoe, and my ass still hurts with the memories of those childhood lessons. Much of it did not stick. If I was to agree to join these folks, I wanted to be certain I could contribute.

“Well, we’re looking into Paul, one of the first Disciples and the one most devoted to Jesus,” little Missy informed me. “Paul knew the most about Jesus so we revere his words most.”

Two, three and four… “Oh, you mean Saul of Tarsus—the guy who made his living persecuting Christians until he met the already dead Jesus, was struck blind and then converted to Christianity? You mean that guy?”

“Uh, well, er, I don’t know who you are talking about. I mean the Apostle Paul, one of the twelve Disciples.” This last part was spoken with a re-found conviction and faith—the words of a woman who knew what she was talking about.

“That’s who I thought you meant. Maybe I would like to join you because there are a few things about old Paulie that confuse the ever-loving shit out of me. Take, for instance, how, precisely, could he be one of the twelve originals and possess all of that first-hand knowledge about the Christ when he didn’t even believe in the man until after the crucifixion? Can you help me with that one?”

All I got was a blank, yet terrified stare. “And did you know that the methods used to persecute early Christians included stoning to death, taking of all possessions including wives and children, boiling in hot oil, and oh yes, don’t let me forget crucifixion. Those Roman cats were really big into crucifixions.” I might have made up the boiling oil part, but it rolled off my tongue like the truth.

I guessed she couldn’t because she turned, red-faced, to the young guy to her left. “Bobby, can you help me here?”

The young man looked up from his computer for the first time, and his entire face went sour. “Jennifer, might I introduce you to Mr. Mooner Johnson, one of the most hedonistic men in Austin, Texas?” Bobby crossed himself in classic Catholic style.

I looked closer at Bobby and it hit me. “Oh, you’re the guy that brings the water to the anti-abortion protesters, right?”

“Yes, Mr. Johnson, I am. And you are no more welcome here than you are at our protests. Now, please leave us in peace.”

“Glad to, Bobby. Little Missy here just wished me all of Gods bountiful blessings, so I’m good to go.”

I walked away from the table with no arrest and not pitched out the store—a major win. I looked for a third target. A woman sat alone with a small tablet computer of some type, and I approached. She tried to ignore me, but I lit my best smile with a few thousand more watts and sat down with her.

I went through my speech but she remained dubious. I don’t know if she had witnessed my dealings with little Missy or if she was simply wary of large men encroaching, uninvited, into her space.

Please allow me to stop, again. I couldn’t finish this earlier and left at the end of that last paragraph. I’m now back home to complete this writing, and Rick Perry is gone from the Presidential race. Hip-hip-hooray for America! The worst of them is gone, the most evil and vile asshole wanting to run our country into the ground is out of the race.

Good fucking riddance. I abhor the knowledge that Rick Perry is ruining my beloved Texas. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if he had a chance to ruin America.

So, I was conversing with the nice lady and she was stand-offish, and rightly so. But I kept working it and she finally relented to listen to the deal. I read “The Author’s Requests”[,] that’s the little blurb I’m taping inside each book I give away in this fashion. “OK, as long as I can be honest, I’ll do it,” she told me.

When I asked if she had a card so I could keep track of my marketing, she said, “You know, I’m a therapist and I should always have one handy.”

Guess what. She is a former master’s degree student of Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and is now in private practice. Small world, grown smaller. I’ll not disclose her name but you will sometime soon see her review of my book, Full Rising Mooner.

Ugh, I need a beer or three. I’m all discombobulated over this Prick Perry dealio. Here’s the sheet I am putting in each book. Please look it over and let me know if you think I can improve on it. Manana, y’all.


“The Author’s Requests


I have written my first self-published book and I would like to get some third party feedback from unsuspecting readers. The book is adult humorous fiction written by an Austin author that takes place in Austin.


These are my requests:


  1. That you read, or at least attempt to read the book.

  2. That when you finish your reading, you will contact me from the business card, below, and either comment on my website or send an email message with your thoughts about the book.

  3. That you tell the truth about your thoughts about the book—good or bad. If you think it sucks donkeys, say, “Your book sucks donkeys.” If, however, you think otherwise, say it.

  4. That if you have your own website or have favorite websites, that you spread the word, again good or bad, somewhere else.

  5. That you give the read book to another reader who will agree to do the same.


Please note: If you are offended by adult language and adult situations, or you think Texas Governor Rick Perry would make a great President of these United States, do not agree to read my book. I already know that tight-assed, close-minded people disapprove of me. Don’t waste your time with this.


Thank you for your consideration.”

What do you think?

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Reckmonster Nails Head; Psycho Therapy Sucks

Thursday, November 3rd, 2011


So. I’m a real mixed bag of tricks today. My psycho therapy has been delving deep into my deep-seated anger and hostility at the man who raped me, and that’s two deeps too many. OK, three deeps if you count the one I used in my effort to explain. Therapy isn’t any fun when you work on shit that makes you uncomfortable.

The yang to my miserable therapy yin is my excitement over my pending trip and also the fact that people are actually buying my silly fucking book. I’m fast discovering that the book all and unto its ownself is a yinner/yangy dealio.

Holy fucking shit, I am all over the damned place and I have yet to hit 125 words on the word counter. OK, wait, that last sentence hit 128 words. I’m totally discombobulated, but I hope you can see the efforts I’m making to maintain my integrity. Clarity, in my mind, is an important part of honesty. It isn’t enough, as an example, to say, “I was down to the Whole Foods Market and ran into Pastor Browningwell,” when what should have been also said was, “… and I didn’t get arrested but you might hear about it Sunday morning.”

What I’m attempting to say is that my mood is dichotomous in nature, and I might need to say “in natures”, plural, because one or more of my dichotomies is dichotomous in, and of, its ownself. My overall mental health is stable and mostly happy, my psycho therapy is driving me nuts, I am totally pumped about my blogger roadie trip, and my book sits on both sides of the fence.

So let’s talk about the book.

I am very happy and excited that my book is finally out and for sale. I am ecstatic that people are actually buying it. And while I’m at it, ecstatic needs an “x” in it. It was a tremendous effort to get from blank pages of paper to a published book and I am proud enough of myself for that, that I might just shit myself. Again.

But there are downsides. What if nobody likes it? I write better now than when I actually wrote the fucking book, so it isn’t my best efforts. And because of my selfish choices, it’s a tad expensive to buy in paper-printed form, and it wastes a bunch of trees. I wanted it to be readable so I had it printed in large font size—almost like a children’s book. If you will click onto this linkster:

and then click the dealie that let’s you read some of it, you’ll see what I mean. Larger print means larger pages and more, larger pages at that. I hate wasting stuff, and my book is a definite waste of stuff.

In this morning’s early session, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson said to me, she said, “Look, Mooner sweetie, we don’t need to talk about your book. Those issues will take care of themselves. Let’s get to the meat of your problems. I appreciate what the Reckmonster said to you. But your therapy isn’t about the man who raped you, it’s about you.”

See what I mean about dichotomousses? Dichotomoussi, maybe? What the Reckster said is that just because someone rapes you doesn’t give you the right to rape another. And she was dead right to have said that. The chain of abused-to-abuser, victim-to-perpetrator will never be broken until victims break it. Breaking that chain is the single thing I am most proud of in my life.

I think what Sammy is saying is that I wouldn’t be forgiving the rapist to make him feel better, I’d be doing it for me, or myself maybe. My initial sense is that I would be throwing the burden back at that asshole, like maybe if I forgive him I’ll feel better and he will feel worse. I know my ex-wife and therapist won’t see that as actual forgiveness, but I say, “Baby steps.”

And have you noticed that Dr. Sam I. Am still calls me “sweetie”[?] She says don’t read anything into it, but I know better. But that underscores my point again about these fucking dichotomusses.

Look. Please buy my book, if nothing else it will make you laugh or it will piss you off. Maybe both, and I can give you a guarantee on at least that much.

Ugh. Self promotion makes me thirsty, so I’m cracking a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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Nice Rack…Slap; Mooner’s Still Nuts

Tuesday, October 18th, 2011


So. If I ever, and I mean EVER say that I think I’m getting better, I want someone to kick me in the balls. If I ever try to tell you that I’ve discovered that I’m not quite as crazy as I thought—I want you to ask me to, “Wait right here,” and then I want you to put on your steel-toed work boots and return to kick my balls.

Maybe then I’ll get it. Maybe then, I’ll look before I leap. Or whateverthefuck the metaphor would be. Or the analogy, or, again, whateverthefuck.

At dinner last night, I was feeling pretty good about myself. I found a possible home to play I-net poker, and as I was washing my hands—after peeing in the sink—I realized that I had made it through the first twelve hours of the day without a single fuck up. OK, except for when the young woman slapped me in the produce department over to Whole Foods, but that was a simple matter of miscommunication.

She thought I said, “Those will make a nice rack, Miss,” meaning the adorable pair of creamy-white titties that were half-hanging out of her halter top as she leaned into the refrigerated meat case. I, of course, was speaking of the lamb she was looking at in the butcher case and thinking, Frenched rack of lamb.

Either way, I got slapped and invited to the assistant manager’s office, a cozy room with which I have familiarity.

As I was saying, I was feeling pretty good about myself and thinking that my psycho therapy was working and that I was starting to mature. I bragged about my day to the table full of Johnsons and gathered boy toys, and each agreed that maybe I was improving. Even the twin Texas A&M engineering students my Gram picked up in College Station over the weekend.

“They was already all drunked-up when I caught ’em, Mooner, so don’t start on all a that Mann Action on me.”

More than once I’ve found it necessary to explain the Mann Act to my grandmother.

Anyfuckingway, I felt good at dinner, after dinner and then again as I rose from slumber this morning. I’m not saying I felt sane mind you, but I felt that I’m getting better. So after breakfast, I sat down to write about the big story here about how the Governor’s cronies at our environmental department were acting like shitheads. Again.

I had 400 or so words out and I had a small brain fritz and decided to check on the members of my Bloggie Roller. So first I clicked on Squatlo Rant over there =} and discovered that he had already posted the story, and waaaayyyy better than I could ever do it. Asshole.

I was pissed that he beat me to the punch, but glad someone as smart as him (he?) thought it important enough to write about.

So I decided to play just one game of Spider Solitaire to relax my brain so I could think about what else I could tell you. On game 46, when I had a fifteen-percent win record for the session, I was at that place with two more stacks of cards to distribute and I knew I could win the game. I’m a clever card player and reach this point in about half of the Free Cell games I play.

I leaned back in my chair to evaluate the spread of the cards and said to myself, out loud yet I was the only one there, I said, “Fuck me running. I’ll never make spades the first suit I close out. Moth…er…fuck…er!”

So, I farted around attempting to discover a way to close a set of spades first and gave up.

“Oh, my God, Mooner. You are even more obsessive-compulsive than I thought. Other than the spade fixation, what other extra rules do you have for that game?”

That’s when I discovered that I wasn’t alone. It was evil Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my first ex-wife and still psycho therapist. “Oh hey, brain killer, what’s up?” I asked her.

“Looks like what’s up are your extra therapy sessions, big boy. You’re a mess.”

“I didn’t even tell you about how the first set, spades, has to close from the far left space and then hearts from the far right one. Or any of the other stuff. You’re jumping conclusions on me.”

“Nope,” she said. “I could tell by the look on your face that you, my dear ex-husband, are a raving lunatic.”

“Bitch,” the best I had.

“Yes, I am, and you need to call Sherry and make a couple extra appointments for the week.”

She kissed the top of my head and left. I sometimes still miss marriage to Dr. Sam, but not right then. Bitch.

I started to wonder about my obsessions and compulsions. “I don’t have that many, do I,” I thought to myself, so I listed them.

OK, I count stuff like cell phone towers on a road trip. I tap my toes in the blank spaces between the white stripes in the road. I have to clap even numbers of claps for the Longhorn football and basketball teams or I bring them bad luck. I also have to say, “Come on D,” when the defense needs a big stop. Can’t say defense, or use any other words, just, “Come on D.”

I have to get out of the bed a particular way every morning and then follow my “72-steps for starting each day” routine. I miss, or misplace, a step and my whole day is fucked up.

Oh, my god, when I cook I’m a total fucking mess. Everything has a procedure and a place and a method. And I am crazy about cleanliness.

I, dear friends, am a crazy fucking lunatic. So fuck it. I’m having a Carta Blanca beer and I’mma toast to all the crazy lunatic fuckballs in the world.

“Cheers, you crazy mothers!”

Manana. Y’all.

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Beach Budget Bingo; The Flim-Flam Man Rick Perry

Thursday, September 29th, 2011


So. Just a quick note today to provide further reasons to not trust Rick Perry. OK, also a quick note that is one of those “I told you so” dealies.

Our paper, the Austin American Statesman, printed a story explaining just some of the hocus-pocus the pompous prick Rick Perry and his right-wing Christian Texas legislator buddies used to balance the $27 billion state budget deficit earlier this year. The Prickster promised to find a balance with no new taxes, so here is some of what they did.

Here in Texas we we have a name we call budgetary-disadvantaged persons. When a guy has a hundred dollars in his pocket and thinks he’s flush with cash—even though he hasn’t paid his rent and they cut off his electricity—we call him either “Aggie rich” or “Okie rich”[.] Both names are derogatory in their intent based upon football rivalries, and each is meant to indicate stupidity.

I guess that Squatlo would call the same guy “Bama rich” or “Gator rich” as he supports that other UT, Tennessee.

Our Governor used the Aggie rich philosophy to solve massive chunks of our state’s budget shortfall. He is, after-all, an Aggie, and he is, further-all, dumb as a weathered cedar fencepost after the cows have rubbed all the bark off it.

Just like the dumbass with his hundred-dollar bill, Perry used unspent balances of money appropriated to social services to “trick” the state’s balance sheet into thinking we have enough cash to pay our bills. Our State Comptroller, Susan Combs, has, reluctantly it seems, made public some of this Aggie rich scheme.

The state budget has $851 million previously budgeted to help low income families pay their electric bills. Those funds were gathered from fees we pay as part of our electric bills, and every dollar was purposed to help the unfortunate. And this year, with record numbers of 100-degree days and rising energy costs, the money was withheld from those in need and used to demonstrate the ability to pay for other things. Another $654 million was to be spent to improve the state’s air quality, air quality that has worsened under Perry’s reign as Caesar.

Net results: our balanced budget is actually $5 billion short IF there is no further erosion of tax and fee collections. And let’s get fucking real about that. Forget the loss of property tax base suffered in the fires that have devastated our state. Sales tax revenues—the taxing bell cow for Texas taxation—are down, down and down some more. Things are far worse that they seem.

Fucking asswipe Republican shitball right-wing Christian dumbass greedy pricks.

On last night’s news, I heard that the City of Austin electric utility has something like $30 million in delinquent debt on late utility bills. The City isn’t about to cut utilities off when it’s 102-degrees outside, and that $851 million sits unspent by the State even though it should be used to pay the City.

Ugh. I need Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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Welly, Welly, welly Well; Rick Perry Is Bad For The Environment

Tuesday, August 23rd, 2011


So. I’ve got this huge fucking debate roiling around in my head. It started as I was getting ready to start the water to cook the pasta to go with the turkey meatballs we made for dinner. I drew the “protein” card for tonight’s dinner and Squirt drew a “carbohydrate” card. I figured that I can kill two birds with the single dish by teaching the Squirt how to make meatballs and pasta.

I’m a multi-tasking son of a bitch.

I got the big pasta pot out of the pantry. When I say the “big” pot I’m differentiating between the three other pasta pots we have. I’ve got the baby bear pasta pot, momma bear, daddy bear and then the great big fucking bear of pasta pots. Since we’ll number nine humans, on each dog, cat, American domesticated hog and a single African ostrich populating the dinner table—the big pasta pot is the order of the day. It’s the same pot I use to steam blue crabs and boil crawfish.

Which reminds me. Squatlo. Listen up. It’s crawfish, not crayfish. Crayfish is what sissies call mud bugs.

I got the pot out and I was telling my little dog about how you need to have a sufficient quantity of water when you cook pasta if you want to cook it correctly. Normally the cat we call Honor would be tailing me as well, but she was out hunting for some doves. Honor drew an “appetizer” card and wanted to offer some grilled birdies. Last I noticed she had collected two doves, three sparrows, half-a-dozen lizards and a rat.

I am not eating the fucking rat. I don’t care how you cook them they ALWAYS taste like rat.

Squirt and I decided to make the meatballs from ground turkey—not my choice—but not altogether bad. We made the meatballs with fresh Mexican oregano, onion and garlic in a fine dice, Parma-Reggi, bread crumbs from a left-over ciabatta loaf, and this nifty smoked paprika I got from Spain.

OK, let’s stop for one minute. Up there when I typed “ciabatta”[,] I got red squiggly lines. When I highlighted it to see what I did wrong, my Vista operating system spell checker dealie gave me the following choices: adiabatic, abattoir, battalion, and coattail. What in the fuck?

I’m starting to wonder if maybe Texas Governor Rick Perry had something to do with this. What with all the dumbing-down of our schools in Texas, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the little Prickster was involved.

Of course, it might also be that the Vista Spell Checker Programmer Team up to Microsoft are all devious assholes hellbent to ruin my life.

Anyway, I took the big pot to the sink to fill it with water. I moved the spout over the pot and turned it on. “Alto, Senor Mooner,” Squirt barked at me. “Stop, I said. Tu ne veux pas d’eau chaude?”

I looked down at the little dog and found myself somewhat perplexed at her question. She was right. Did I want hot water from the spout to the pot, wasting many gallons of precious H2O as it ran the pipes from my solar heater, or should I rather put the first gallons to spill from the spout into the pot and spend more propane gas energy to heat that?

“That’s a mighty smart question, little lady. We’ve got a solar water heating system but the only way to maker it “instant hot” is to pump it around using electricity—a total waste of energy. So, our debate here is this: are we better off to waste the water to get it hot or the propane to get the first cold water heated?”

After my ranting at the Prickster, Rick Perry, this morning, I think I need to be cautious with my own water/energy consumptions. Which reminds me. Can you believe that little fuckball is associated with those crazy modern day prophet shits? I don’t know where my head has been, but little Ricky has been sleeping with that bunch of charismatic Christians who think God comes to speak with them on a regular basis, and I was unaware.

After Jim Jones and David Koresh and the rest of those silly fuckers, you’d think those dumb asses would think twice before saying silly shit like, “God came to me early this morning to tell me that He was killing some blackbirds up to Arkansas because Billy Clinton is from Arkansas, and he put that “don’t ask, don’t tell” dealie in the Army, and that’s why Hurricane Katrina blasted New Orleans and Elvis died young.”

Then again, before I go getting all sanctimonious about that entire dealie I might need to rethink a little as well. Seems I’ve been visited by the big guy myownself a few times. Maybe I should have said “The Big Guy”[.] He seems to visit me when I’m all drugged out on pain meds. Maybe I should drown a few Vicadin with a few icy-cold Carta Blancas and plan a visit.

Having said all of that, I think I have an answer to my question. Energy is a commodity available in thousands of resources. Everything from coal to rubber bands can produce energy. But water is a single source entity—the only water we have is the water we’ve got.

So, therefore, I officially decree that water trumps energy.

All of which has given me an idea. What if I can invent a fresh pasta that cooks in cold water? Anybody have any ideas?

Manana, y’all.

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Save The Mother Ship: Fuck Rick Perry!

Monday, August 22nd, 2011


So. Today is to be a work day for me. That is to say that I need to go to my office out to Mooners Compost Plant and push some paper around. It’s been too hot for people to do any gardening or landscaping so our compost sales are really slow.

Mulch sales are brisk since one way to prevent the dehydration of your soil is to cover it with mulch. With water rationing an every-summer reality, I find it interesting that people keep watering un-mulched beds with bare soil.

Of course I also find it aggravating to see people watering the street with their automatic sprinkler systems. And people who run their fucking automatic systems more than the allotted number of days piss me off.

OK, now I’m mad. Will everybody please wake the fuck up and think. Rick Perry is wrong. God did not create Earth so that big business can rape and pillage it for profits. Wasteful, casual environmental practices are killing our planet. And our abuses of the limited potable water resources are likely what will be the end of us.

Of the many things that I find incredulous about the Christian right politicos, their attitude about the environment is the one I can least understand. All of this talk about love and nurturing and family and peace and all of those platitudinal rhetorics that those silly shitballs espouse are, in my fevered brain, negated by their positions on the environment.

Ever since I had a peyote button experience when I was seventeen, I have held the strong conviction that our Earth is a giant Mother Ship—the spacecraft that carries all of the lifeforms on our planet on a long-term trip. I’m unsure if the trip is a perpetual travel plan with no final destination or if we’re headed someplace in particular.

But I have absolute certainty that we are quickly fouling our spaceship’s operating and life support systems. I don’t think we will ever get to whereverthefuck it is we are headed.

OK, stop a second. The aforementioned “peyote button experience” wasn’t a one-button weekend. It was a month of July spent in the New Mexico dessert with Streaker Jones and His daddy. Streaker Jones’ father was a Peyote Indian medicine man, a spiritual guide of his people who was plucked from his reservation by the army to serve during WWII. Somehow he ended his army journey dropped—broke and friendless—from the troop train in Austin, Texas at war’s end.

He took Streaker Jones and me on a trip to collect the peyote buttons he needed for his medicine. We spent the days of that month walking the dusty earth of western New Mexico plucking the fruit of the peyote cactus, and the nights were spent drinking Carta Blanca beer and listening to the old man tell us the Peyote Indian version of history.

We didn’t ingest the drug every day, but after the first week I remember that I managed to maintain the desired state of enlightenment that a “seeker of truth” needed with just a few buttons a week. For me, one desired effect of the peyote was that my ADHD calmed to where all the thoughts in my head organized themselves. I still had the same numbers of thoughts, but I could organize them to where only one or two were primaries and the others blended into the fabric of my mind.

Anyway, this one night we were leaning against our sleeping bags, listening to a story of how Earth first became inhabited with near-human inhabitants. Talking Feathers, that was his abbreviated name, was telling the story and I was enraptured with it. With a full bladder of Carta Blanca, I got up to pee and walked away from our little camp, the desert’s night sky bright with stars.

I closed my eyes to pee, enjoying the feeling you can only get from a good pee event. At some point I opened my eyes, stared at the stars and was hit smack-dab in the face with a truth. I was hit with a true epiphany.

“We humans are marooned on a space ship just like those two guys in the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey. And pollution is our HAL 9000!”

Holy shit. Judging from the rate of my digressions in less than two pages of story, I could use a peyote button now.

OK, look. What I’m trying to say is this. If a man truly believes that God created the earth and all of its creatures—creatures both great and small—then don’t we have the fucking OBLIGATION to protect that earth and its creatures? If I truly think that God made me the earth’s shepherd, don’t I need to be sure that I don’t ruin the farm?

Shouldn’t I be concerned that my wasteful uses of water will run the stock tanks dry? Shouldn’t I be concerned that my ruining the ozone layer will create climate changes that lay my soil fallow?

Shouldn’t I have just a teeny-weenie-itsie-bitsy bit of concern that my reckless, wasteful environmental habits are killing my spaceship? Shouldn’t I worry that me being an asshole will cause my spaceship to suffer a shift in its planetary relationship with the sun and that we’ll start spinning out of control and squish everything back into primordial stew under the crush of gravity?


Folks, Texas governor Rick Perry is an asshole. An asshole in many ways. While most of his co-runners on the Republican side of the presidential race are lackadaisical towards the environment, the little prick Rick Perry is the environment’s serial killer. He has systematically killed the Texas environment since he first took office, and he’s looking to start killing an environment near you.

FUCK RICK PERRY before Rick Perry Fucks you.

Now, save a few gallons of water and go pee in the sink. Spaceship Mother Earth will be grateful. Manana, y’all.

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Gram Calls Rick Perry To Task; Texas Governor Ruins State’s Economy

Friday, July 8th, 2011


So. I need to make this quick because I’m taking Squirt and Honor the cat on a field trip to our hemp fabric clothing factory, and it’s a five-hour drive. I wasn’t even going to post anything today but my grandmother made a personal request of me.

We were at an early breakfast and Gram was reading the Op Ed page of our local newspaper. I had been first to read the front section of the paper, so I knew that Gram would be steaming when she read this one article. A conservative writer, Rick Wartzman, has written an article that attempts to reestablish the positive aspects of Texas leading the nation in job growth over the last several years. Basically, his logic is that “liberals” like Rachael Maddow have ignored reality when discounting governor Little Ricky Perry’s results in growing jobs in Texas.

I could tell when Gram had reached the above-mentioned article because she was snorting and cussing under her breath. When she finished her reading, she carefully folded and creased the section of paper into a bat shape, and pointed it across the table at me.

“Mooner, I want ya ta git on yer blabby an sit this shit straight. Sumbody needs ta tell tha truth about that little prick we got fer a gov’ner,” were her exact words to me.

“But Gram, I’m driving the kids out to the If You Can’t Wear It, Smoke It plant today. I need to review the winter line of stuff so Streaker Jones and Dixie can get the catalog printed.” Streaker Jones and Dixie are my working partners in that enterprise, and we have some nifty jackets and sweaters coming this winter.

Gram gave me the evil eye and said, “Who gives a shit about yer silly catalog when that fuckball Rick Perry is ruinin’ our en-tire state with his tallywaggins?”

Hunh? It took a second for my brain to compute. Oh, I got it. “You’re right, Gram. Prick Perry is ruining our state with his shenanigans. I’ll dash off a quick ditty and post it before we leave the house.”

So, here is my quick ditty in outline form:

  1. Texas has had no more actual job “growth” than any other state in our fine union. The excess jobs registered on Texas’ ledger are jobs that were stolen from other states. That is to say, jobs that would have been generated in say, California, were lured away with offers of reduced or no taxes and extremely lax environmental restrictions on polluters.
  2. For the most part these have not been what most of us would consider “great” jobs. Since Rick Perry has been our governor, Texas has become a leader in uninsured citizens, at or below poverty rate citizens and we have the highest percentage of minimum wage earners.
  3. Greedy corporations from other states have taken advantage of this “Pro Business” attitude, and moved jobs to Texas at the expense of our citizens. We have an as-yet unresolved state budget deficit in excess of $20 billion– a deficit that has been pushed forward so as to not interfere with Perry’s run for the Presidency. Little Pricky has his chest all puffed out and he’s squawking that he “fixed” things here with our budget. Simply put, that is BULLSHIT folks. The deficit is still there and it will be back in our faces in a year or so.


I could say more but what more do you require to see the truth? Any way you spin it, Rick Perry’s policies have ruined the fabric of Texas’ economy and infrastructure. That’s why I say:


Now y’all drink some Carta Blanca beer and come back manana.

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Stop Lying To Us Governor Rick Perry

Tuesday, June 28th, 2011


So. The right-wing Christian puppet known as Texas Governor Rick “We Don’t Need No Education” Perry had a big meeting yesterday with The Billionaire Boys’ Club yesterday to, as stated by one Perry advisor, “Discuss why Texas has such a great business climate. This had nothing to do with fund raising for a presidential run.”

OK, first of all, stop fucking lying about every fucking thing. Politicians only attend meetings sponsored by the Koch brothers while holding both hands out to the conservative cash cows that are the Koch brothers. I’m not doing all the back story on the Koch assholes, that’s all available over to Squatlo Rant (link provided here yesterday). Just stop lying about stupid shit. Even you guys should be above that.

Then for seconds, when is someone on the national scene going to call Rick Perry’s great Texas business climate what it really is? What that little prick has done is induce as many greedy corporations to our state as possible using cash payments paid for by the citizens of our once-great state. Big companies don’t like to pay for the state infrastructure needed to support them and our boy Prick Perry has a way to accommodate them.

The cash payments come in the form of tax credits and abatements, employee training stipends and favorable zoning and environmental exclusions. Major corporations and their big salaried bosses love Texas because we have no personal income tax and no effective corporate taxation. In Texas, we raise the money to pay for our infrastructure and social support systems with property taxes– the same taxes these corporations are not required to pay when they relocate here.

Effectively, these moves to Texas allow the big shakers to move from a state where they are required to pay their fair share of the burden of running the state, to a state where our governor wants to be president so badly that he’ll mortgage his own state’s future to get there.

There is no free lunch, brothers and sisters, and Rick Perry’s plan for success has a huge fucking price. The price, comprising only those damages known at this date, exceeds $26 billion. Twenty… Six… Billion… Fucking… Dollars! That would be the acknowledged budget shortfall in the state treasuries due to Perry’s “sound” business practices. The good citizens of Texas pay for these greedy businessmen to lunch on our dimes.

We cut our school budgets to support Perry’s idiotic practices and, effectively, I feel the Prickster needs to show the $26 billion as a political contribution. Effectively, Rick Perry has used the state treasury for his political ambitions.


Which reminds me. I’m seriously thinking about starting up the Pump Da Hump body image studios. Response has been so strong that I think this one has legs. I’m looking for capital partners. Since we’ll headquartered in Texas, I think we can garner some significant tax abatements to get us to do things here. Maybe I’ll limit things to the first twenty-five applicants.

Wait, I forgot my original hypothesis from when I first started this. I think what has happened is that politicians have lied to us so much, we have become a desensitized society. Like the little guy who gets gang-raped in prison and can’t tell the difference between the ninth rapist and the nineteenth, I think we have gotten into some sort of Stockholm Syndrome.

Ugh. I need some sex and I need it bad. I though I was ready but we went to the big garden to collect stuff for the Food Bank and the sweaty efforts started my ass to smelling like a skunk again. Until I can sweat without issuing ode d’ skunk, I get no poontang from the SACster.

Thank God for Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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Worms Turned; No “My Jesus” Today

Monday, May 23rd, 2011


So. I had plans to have an easy day of it today. I was going to print a commentary from my best compost customer out to Mooners Compost Plant. And don’t go getting all pissy with me because I don’t put an apostrophe in the Mooners part of my company name. I tried it both with and without, and without fits best with our logo.

Did you know that the word “logo” is the logo for the word “logotype”? The definition of logotype is, “… a single piece of type bearing two or more letters or symbols …”. This particular definition causes concern for me that the dictionary is seriously fucked up. If a logo must contain two or more letters, then “W” is not a logo for a big luxury hotel chain, and “S” can’t be a proper logoization for Superman. Logofication, maybe.

Who wrote the first dictionary? Where did they get the authority to tell the rest of us how to speak? My guess it was a woman, a queen or maybe a king’s concubine who first felt the need to write definitions for words. They would have enough confidence to talk back to the king when he said confusing things, and correct the King’s English. Except it likely wasn’t an English king. Maybe Egyptian or Assyrian or Persian. You know, somewhere there to the Cradle of Civilization.

Anyway, my friend and compost customer had asked me to print a commentary he wrote titled “My Jesus” and I agreed to print it here. He has grown concerned with the hard stands his church has taken in recent years and he wanted to speak out. He’s a Deacon in his Baptist church, and maybe the only Baptist Deacon I can tolerate long enough to sit and have a meal together. He is open and honest, thoughtful, and caring.

In my opinion, he’s not a real Baptist. Real Baptists are opinionated, close-minded thoughtless fascists. I was raised in the Baptist church and I have the hard-earned right to think that.

Have you noticed that my ADHD has been mostly under control lately? I don’t ramble and prattle on about silly shit very much, and my digressions are few and far between. I wonder why. Maybe I’m maturing, learning life’s lessons at last.

Maybe I’m delusional.

Whatever, I was going to have an easy day of it here to bloggieland and print his “My Jesus” thingie before taking the Squirt and Eighty-three the cat fishing. I have the cooler loaded with Carta Blanca beer, and the three of us were out early to dig some worms. Those two are a trip when we dig for earthworms to use as fish bait.

I seeded my gardens with many varieties of earthworms– red wrigglers, night crawlers and more. Having as many varieties of worms as will flourish makes for better, more productive soil. Having a broad spectrum of choices likewise produces enhanced silliness when harvesting them with adolescent cats and dogs.

I grab a pitchfork and a bait bucket and whenever we head out to the veggie garden to dig worms. I use the fork because it doesn’t chop the worms into worm parts as I dig. I’ll choose a shaded spot in a furrow between plants so as to do minimum disturbating of plant roots. Minimum disturbations?

When I flop a big forkful of soil over and expose the worms, all hell breaks loose. I’ve got Squirt trained already, so the little dog grabs worms by the tail and flips them into the bait bucket. In a frenzy. The cat is new to the worm harvesting business and she can’t quite decide what she thinks of worms. “Tool, or toy,” was Eighty-three’s question to me, as interpreted by the Squirt.

I had to think about that one before answering. As I’ve matured I have become more thoughtful when parenting. “Well, I guess either, or both would be my answer. It’s OK to play with them before we use them for bait,” I told the cat. “Just try not to hurt them with your sharp teeth or spiky claws. You will have to eat any you kill.”

I have recently learned why so many people de-claw their cats. I’d never do it, just saying I understand the logic. But I’m digressing.

My buddy called me last night and asked me to hold off on printing his thingie. He’s worried that people from his congregation will read it and be upset. I asked him wasn’t that the point, and he said to me, he said, “My point was to make my point, Mooner, not to upset my friends.”

So, no My Jesus today, but you’ll get it sometime. My buddy is a good man with sincere doubts about his church. He’ll give me the OK in time. I guess I can look at the bright side. It just took me 800-plus words to tell you I’m not printing My Jesus, and I’m going fishing with the funniest pair of fishing buddies a man can have.

Manana, y’all.

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State Farm Did The Right Thing; At Last

Saturday, April 23rd, 2011


So. I did all of that bitching about my insurance company in the aftermath of my car wreck. My level of dissatisfaction and frustration were well chronicled on these pages.

My claim on the auto insurance coverage purchased by me from State Farm Insurance began as a stereotypical story of a longterm customer, with no prior claims in thirty years history. Since the accident happened on a Sunday, I was unable to get any real information from the 1-800 operator who answered my initial call to report the wreck.

“I can only take the information from you and set-up the claim file in the computer, sir, and your claims adjuster will be available Monday morning,” the youngish-sounding man told me.

“OK, but I have rental car insurance and my car was towed to the wrecking yard. How do I go about obtaining a rental car?” I thought this was a reasonable question.

“You’ll need to speak with your claims adjuster, sir.”

“OK, young man, but you just said the adjuster isn’t available until Monday morning. It is now Sunday fucking morning and I need a rental car, and…”

“Sir,” again with the Sir shit, “I have not cursed at you and I would appreciate you not cursing at me, thank you.”

OK, this was going well. “Well, Mr. Sensitive, I would appreciate it if you would drop your snotty-nosed attitude and tell me how to obtain a rental car under the insurance policy I have paid for for more than thirty years without a single claim.” I can be reasonable in the face of reason.

“Sir, I thought we just went over that. Call … your … adjuster … Monday … morning.”

Oh, this was going VERY well. “Well I, you little shitwad, thought that I had explained to you that I … need …. a … fucking … rental … car TODAY!”

Anyway, my experience went downhill from there and I managed to chew ass on at least a daily basis for the almost two weeks since the accident. Then yesterday afternoon I got a call from a guy at State Farm. I got mad as soon as he said the words “State Farm” so I missed the next dozen words he spoke to me. My brain latched back on the conversation as the man was saying, “… and the body shop placed your car on jacks because they couldn’t get it on a lift. That is why our company adjuster missed the rest of the damage– they couldn’t get under the car. Your car is a mess, a real mess. It’s totaled, sir, and I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. I have notes here that you have strong opinions about things and I just want to tell you that it is State Farm’s policy to pay the customer the full retail value of their wrecked vehicle when the damage estimate exceeds that retail value.”

“Well let me tell you something, buster. If you think…”

You know, sometimes I have these slow-motion moments of clarity. Just like the slow-motion experience I had when the air bag exploded in my face during the wreck. I’m all wound up over some injustice, real or perceived, and I’m ready to bite my way through someone’s chest to eat their heart when I think, “Ooopsie.”

I stopped my rant wind-up and instead pitched a softball. “What department did you say you are with, sir?”

The man answered, “State Farm Total Loss Adjusters.” He emphasized “Total Loss” heavily.

Now I have a new set of problems. What car will I buy to replace my beloved 2007 Tahoe? I can’t get another Tahoe because it was a gas guzzler, I can’t get a Prius Because I’m 6’4” and 240 pounds of aging manhood, and what I really want is a new Porsche Panamera. But my work is hard on a car and I’m not messing up a Porsche that way.

I was thinking I’d get a Chevy Traverse and then I realized I can get a Mercedes for the same money. For some reason I don’t mind letting a Mercedes get all banged up at my work but a Porsche or BMW– no way. And I won’t buy Japanese because I promised my father I wouldn’t. Daddy fought the Japanese in the Pacific and he carried a prejudice until his death. Some prejudices are reality based.

I like the Japanese and I think they likely build the best cars dollar-for-dollar. But Daddy’s deathbed wish was a promise from me.


I take back most of what I said about my insurance company. In the end they did right by me. So I guess I’ll drink a toast of icy cold Carta Blanca beer to State Farm Insurance. “Good enough, State Farm. Good enough.”

Manana, y’all.

PS– Fuck Rick Perry

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Environment To Suffer For Rick Perry

Wednesday, April 20th, 2011


So. Here we go again. The Texas state legislature is gearing up to fuck us once more. A Sunset Bill is being readied at the bidding of Governor Rick “Fuck the environment, I want more businesses” Perry that will gut and castrate our state’s environmental protection agency.

The Texas Commission on Environmental Quality (TCEQ) is what we call our environmental protection group. You might wonder why we would take the protection out of our environmental quality, but you would be forgetting that our state’s legislature has been big business controlled since George W. Bush was elected governor.

Legislators from around the country keep asking why Texas has seen so much business growth since Bush was elected. Of course Prick Perry takes all the credit and explains his tactics as smart thinking and free market supportive. The reality is quite a different commodity.

The main method employed to lure new business to Texas has been to reduce or eliminate the new companies’ property tax burdens. In Texas we have no state income tax, so our main method to raise taxes to support our state and city governments, oh yea– and our fucking public schools, is with property taxes. Some of these incentives equate to many millions of dollars in lost revenues to local governments and school systems.

The “You don’t have to pay property taxes” method is the in-your-face and obvious way Texas has enticed new business enterprise. We have also had the governor work behind the scenes with various state agencies to “adapt” regulations to better “accommodate” a company’s needs. Special dispensations for new businesses are more common in Texas than dollar bills in a titty bar.

The legislation I mentioned is a clear demonstration of just how greedy the conservative Christian right has become. Historically, at the federal level and in every state in the union, when it comes to any business plan that has objectionable environmental issues, the business planning whatever is objectionable is responsible to provide the proof that its plan is safe for the environment. In other words, if you want to open a 25,000-acre strip coal mine next to the river and the neighbors are unhappy and the Sierra Club thinks it is a bad idea– the mining company has to prove that it is protecting the environment and the project will have no negative environmental impact.

When I upgraded my license to produce compost almost ten years ago, I spent about $400,000 in costs directly contributed to demonstrating the environmental safety of my operations. Landfill operators, mining companies, cement plants and the like can spend millions of dollars on each of their projects to do the same.

Folks, it takes millions of dollars of investigation to be certain some of these business plans are safe. The cost of these investigations has always been born by the businesses that will profit from the operations when opened. But if this bill passes, the burden of proof will shift to the public.

That’s right, folks, Alcoa won’t be required to spend $10 million to provide the research that its strip coal mine expansion is safe, the family farmers and homeowners whose property will be ruined must foot that bill. Texas families who won’t have a combined net worth of $10 million will be held responsible to prove Alcoa’s plans are unsafe.

To again quote The Reckmonster, “WHAT IN THE HOLY FUCK???”

Am I the only one that sees this as screwy? To me, we just declared the environment of Texas to be “Guilty until proven innocent”. The same as if you were arrested for murder and was required to prove you didn’t do it. Sort of how things were with that fuckball Adolf Hitler. I wonder if Rick Perry is the same hight as that little German shitwad?

A bigger problem with this is that many other state legislatures have come to Texas to, “Learn how to do it too.” That means that our cancer will spread to a state near you.

I need to start looking for a compatible donor. I’m drinking Carta Blanca so early and so often, I’ll need a liver transplant by the end of the year.

Manana, y’all.

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We Need Rain And A Pee Story

Wednesday, March 30th, 2011


So. I walked the big garden yesterday and things are looking good. We had to water using pumps submerged in our ponds. Our part of Texas has been in drought for years now and my family is lucky we store our own water.

But even clean pond water is no substitute for rain. An inch of rain dropped from a spring thunderstorm is Mother Nature’s mother’s milk to plants. Lightening charges fill the rainwater full of nitrogen and the plants respond to it with unique vigor.

If it weren’t for the good compost and compost tea I produce, and the agronomy practiced by Streaker Jones, we’d be a sunk ship without rain.

I’ve been working on some product ideas for compost tea. I’ve got the product designers at our hemp clothing factory working on a material we can use to make compost tea bags. Compost tea is a quickly perishing commodity and I’m trying to make it more user friendly to home gardeners.

I keep wanting to use the term “tea baggers” in humorous advertising but I’d feel guilty with the associations. I keep seeing animated corn plants making compost tea for their garden and everything grows to gargantuan proportions. Like the Micky Mouse part of the movie Fantasia- The Sorcerer’s Apprentice. I was going to call the corn men Tea Baggers.

The once happy corn men start to freak out when they over-use and abuse the power of compost tea. The Japanese eggplants would become ninja warriors and the jalapeno peppers would be drug cartel hit men. Of course it would take a three-to-five-minute commercial to properly present the concept and who can afford that.

Streaker Jones and I drove down to Houston this one time back in the late sixties to see Fantasia at the old Alabama Theater located in the Montrose area of town. Streaker Jones had just perfected a new mushroom strain for one of his agronomy classes down to Texas A&M and I was doing a term research paper on hallucinogenic drugs for a psychology course I was taking at UT. That would be the real fucking UT– the University of Texas.

Anyway, we were stoned out of our gourds.

I love that Disney movie and will, obviously, drive hundreds of miles to see it. When we got to the Alabama, we were surprised to see how big it was. The center isle was fifty seats across, and we took the center seats in the center isle in what I remember to be row eight. Maybe it was row nine, but who gives a shit? We were right smack-dab in the middle in the front.

Maybe three minutes into it, I had to pee. But I somehow managed to sit through the entire movie without disturbing anyone by working my six-feet-four through twenty-five other stoners to the isle. But when the movie was over, I almost crushed a thousand stoners in mad rush to the bathroom.

When I got there, the line was out the door. I waited and did the foot shuffle that a full bladder instigates, and I bitched the bitches of a full-bladder sufferer. When I got inside the bathroom, I noticed that the urinals were the old fashioned kind that were built into the walls and floor, and placed close together for efficiencies. You could stand over the trough on the floor, lean against the wall and then point and shoot. Men were standing shoulder-to-shoulder leaning against the wall, peeing.

I’m looking at the rows of men lining each wall of urinals and I notice that the one at the far end is unused. I’m standing there hallucinating and maybe starting to bleed internally from excess bladder pressure, and these Houston assholes are leaving a blank spot ahead of me.

“Fuck it,” I said to Streaker Jones behind me and whoever else was near. “I’m using that one.”

I had that getting-started problem that you get when you hold pee too long, so it took me at least a minute to start. I’m leaning against the wall with my head rested on my forearm and my eyes shut in that practiced, forced relaxation method we all use at times like those. My pee stream started with a whimper– a bare trickle of urine, and graduated to fire hose proportions.

I’m standing there “Oooing and aahing,” likely making sex-pleasure noises I had to pee so bad. I peed and peed and peed. When I finished and opened my eyes, I noticed that I had out-peed the entire theater– I had emptied the place. I washed my hands, always have and always will, and walked out.

Streaker Jones was standing in front of a small crowd of men outside the door. The men were staring at me like I was a two-headed snake and Streaker Jones was laughing his ass off. “What’s so fucking funny?” I asked him.

When he could catch his breath, he said to me, he said, “Weren’t no urinal inna corner!”

“Huh?” I’m never at a loss for words. “What do you mean?”

Streaker Jones just laughed and pointed me back to the bathroom. I walked back into it and sure enough, I had peed on the floor. Hell, I peed all over the floor.

I’m told that a super-full adult male bladder might contain a quart of pee. Bullshit. A men’s room with a dozen urinals down each wall has a big floor plan, and I managed to wet most of this one.

I don’t worry about peeing on the floor anymore because I pee in sinks. A sanitary and socially-responsible pee alternative.

I need to go now because I have promised Squirt we would go out and try to get adopted by a cat this morning. So drink your Carta Blanca beer responsibly and I’ll see you manana, y’all.

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Squatlo Incites Rant; I Miss Marie

Friday, February 18th, 2011


So. Here we are in the middle of February 2011, and Austin’s weather continues to define the words “fickle bitch”. Last week we had a hard freeze to maybe 18 or 19 degrees overnight, and where the daytimes didn’t crack freezing. Yesterday, it’s 84 fucking sweat-box degrees.

Why does 84 seem so hot in February when it’s a cold front in August? Texas politicians are great weather humorists. We’ve got Mother Nature bitching at us, showing humans the manifestations of her pain and sufferings. Earthquakes by the dozens in Arkansas [for shitsakes], super-record rainfalls, extreme temperature turnarounds and an endangered species list of plants and animals– fuck that, the endangered lists for ALL living things are growing exponentially.

But Texas politicians? “What global warming?”

Scary to me is that we haven’t been keeping a list on endangered microscopic lifeforms. Personally, I think that’s where man’s demise will occur. See, man’s endangerment from microscopic life forms won’t come from the loss of existing microscopic buggies. Nope. What is going to wipe us off the face of the earth will be bacteria and fungi strains that morph into super bugs because we are so fucking stupid.

Take, for example, some of the super bacteria living the high life in hospitals today. Years of over/wrong-prescribing antibiotics, combined with lazy health care workers who DON’T WASH THEIR FUCKING HANDS , has stimulated the mutation of bugs formerly known as “nasty, infectious microscopics” into what we cleverly call “super bugs”.

When Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s mom was in the hospital, in the first event of a chain that ended in her death, she was in Intensive Care after getting a blocked artery fixed. She had a stroke during the operation and was in for a long recovery.

I was in the room with her only after I scrubbed my silly ass raw to insure I could safely approach her. I’m sitting there talking to her, telling her how she and I were going to cook Christmas Eve dinner together. She was Italian and always prepared this huge Italian feast. And I hepped!

I was asking her how spicy we could make the sausage this year, what with all the new medications she would be taking. She couldn’t talk back to me, so I was messing with her, you know, I would say we’d prepare things that she would never permit to come from her kitchen. I said shit like, “OK, Marie, for a first course let’s do Vienna sausage on toothpicks. I’ll make a spicy mustard dipping sauce,” and she’d narrow her eyes at me then give me that adorable half-smile stroke victims can give you.

I loved that woman with all of my heart. When she was alive, I had two best friends.

Anyway, I was asking her about how much crushed red pepper flakes we’d be putting in the sausage when a nurse walked into the room. She was new to me and the first of the new 3 pm shift to enter the room as well. From the doorway, she brightly said, “OK, let’s take your vitals and change your diaper.”

Then she walked straight to the bedside and grabbed my ex-mother-in-law and best buddy’s wrist. Bitch didn’t wash in the sink [located right at the entrance] and did not put on gloves. It took my ADHD-addled brain maybe four seconds to register events. “Take your dirty fucking hands off her!”

I wasn’t quite screaming, but I have a big voice, and it carries. When the bitch nurse ignored me, looking now impatiently at her watch as she counted Marie’s pulse, I leaned across the bed and thumped the woman’s nose and said, “I said step away, and now!”

That last part was yelled.

“You didn’t wash your fucking hands you dirty country whore,” I said. At least that is how it’s remembered in family lore.

Dirty country whore nurse bitch pushed the “Code” button by the bed, or course, and the room quickly filled with medical staff. None of whom WASHED THEIR FUCKING HANDS .

Anyway, Marie, my sweet, wonderful Marie, died a couple months later when a doctor botched a feeding tube insertion and Sammie’s mother died from one of the aforementioned super bugs.

The bacteria that killed her was a vicious little bastard that makes his way through hospitals, going room-to-room on the hands of careless workers.

OK, I digressed my point. That would be Squatlo’s fault because he keeps talking about his, and my, favorite movie, Slaughterhouse Five. His quoting from the movie made me think about Marie. I’ll be talking with my therapist to see if she can help me find the connection(s) and why those quotes brought Marie to mind.

So, what I’m attempting to say is this. It won’t be Muslim terrorists or atomic bombs that will finally rid the human race from Earth’s crust. We will starve and suffer with high-pitched fevers as super bugs kill-off all larger lifeforms. Then the super bugs will eat each other and there will be no life.

At that time, Mother Earth will start anew. My guess is that when she designs species for her new world order, she’ll make everything hermaphroditic women/females capable of self-procreating. Regrettably, I think it’s the male of the species that fuck things up.

Hell, I bet it was a woman what invented Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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