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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 45^th 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:

That you read, or at least attempt to read the book.
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.
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.
That if you have your own website or have favorite websites, that you spread the word, again good or bad, somewhere else.
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?

Posted in Environmental Issues, FullRisingMooner, Rick Perry | 2 Comments »

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:

http://www.amazon.com/Full-Rising-Mooner-Inappropriate-World/dp/1456339869/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1319551191&sr=1-1

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.

Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Environmental Issues, FullRisingMooner, Reckmonster | 6 Comments »

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.

Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Environmental Issues, Rick Perry, Squatlo | 2 Comments »

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.

Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, Environmental Issues, Rick Perry, Squatlo | 4 Comments »

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.

Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Environmental Issues, Honor the cat, Rick Perry, Squatlo, Squirt | 9 Comments »

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?

Ugh.

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.

Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Environmental Issues, Rick Perry | 2 Comments »

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:

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.
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.
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:

FUCK RICK PERRY!

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

Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, Environmental Issues, Honor the cat, Rick Perry, Squirt | 1 Comment »

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.

FUCK RICK PERRY!

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.

Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, Environmental Issues, Rick Perry | 7 Comments »

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.

Posted in A Life Lesson, ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Environmental Issues, Religion, Squirt | 5 Comments »

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.

Ugh.

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

Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Environmental Issues | 2 Comments »

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.

Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Environmental Issues, Rick Perry | 5 Comments »

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.

Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, Environmental Issues, Home Grown Tomatoes | 6 Comments »

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.

Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Environmental Issues, Squatlo | 6 Comments »

Rick Perry Budget Update; Holy Shit Is It Cold!

Tuesday, February 1st, 2011

So. The massive cold front that is wrecking the Midwest, and soon through to New York City, made an appearance here to Austin at precisely 3:32:08 am last night. I know the specific time because that was when the 60 MPH winds blew a tree into a power line out to the Ranch Road that serves as my residential street.

The power outage caused my emergency generators to kick on, and they sound an alarm before starting that sounds a little like a WWII air raid siren. Which scared the shit out of the two gay lovers who live in my closet, Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry.

My pet pig and ostrich came ripping from the closet screeching and snorting like it was the end of the world. They jumped on the bed and rammed under the covers and almost smooched the Squirt. She likes to snuggle against me when she sleeps over. She starts the night at my feet and inches her way towards my face as the hours pass.

Since it was 3:30, she was almost to my face in preparations for her daily beg for breakfast act.

Now me, I’ve got an iron stomach and my keen sense of smell doesn’t make me queasy. Squirt smells like a vacuum cleaner bag a day after she has a bath, so after a few hours trapped under my heavy down comforter, a crack in the covers leaks unpleasant Hoover smells.

Add to that the odor of nervous sweat from a 500 pound hog and a 350 pound flightless bird and you get a nearly toxic mix. Plus, I spent the rest of the night fighting for covers, and against all the spooning efforts of my bird. Anything with a four foot neck, and size thirty feet containing deadly claws, requires care and skill, and dexterity, when spooning.

Rick likes to push his head anywhere that gives him a sense that he’s hiding.

Anyway, today’s weather is windy and cold and miserable. I don’t know you guys up north tolerate it. But hey, kids, what greenhouse gas influences?

Today my thoughts are focused on the other Rick Perry, the Texas governor. Do you guys remember back when the federal health care package was getting passed how Little Ricky went on the warpath, and on the record, about how Texas don’t need no stinking federal health care assistance? Remember when he was saying that he knew how to take care of business and Texas had the strongest state treasury of any state? Did you hear the one about how Texas was going to lead the way in fiscal responsibility for the rest of the country under his leadership?

Well I for one misunderstood the little shitball. What he meant was that he can fuck up our health care without federal help, that the Texas budget hole was the largest of all states at a negative $27 billion, and that Texas will show how to go from Number 1 to bankrupt in record time– under his watchful eye.

Oh, but wait. See, little Ricky had his Attorney General filed a lawsuit to defeat federal health care mandates, which seems to have been effective under a recent court ruling. Word of that effect reached us here to Texas at the same time when we discovered that, “Oopsie,” maybe $27 billion is a touch short on the state budget deficit because, drum roll…………….

Our state Medicaid budget appears to be many billions worse off than the Rickster thought. And guess what. The latest state budget, in which 25% is for Medicaid, shows that the Medicaid budget is $35.2 billion See there, you liberal communist federal health care pushers, told you we can handle our own health care.

Oh wait, “Oopsie again!” The state is only contributing $13.6 of the $35.3 billion budget, and those nasty feds are supplying the rest.

Ricky youse been a bery bad boyyyy!

But it somehow manages to get worse. In June, the federal match goes down from 70% to 60%. This little detail will be cured by, “We hope to secure an additional $1 billion from US Congress.”

Unless of course, we might need an extra three, or four. Billion, that is.

I know I’m not very smart, but I’m a good watcher. As I like to say, all of my best ideas have been stolen. But I think I have a smart idea. How about we try something in politics– conservative or liberal or nut-case all three. How about we start telling the truth and stop manufacturing talking points. Let’s forget our individual special interests and take the time to determine what is “actual”.

My Gram didn’t finish high school but I’d bet the ranch that she can tell you that a budget based on fiction is a novel. A novel with a very unhappy ending. And the truth will help with more than just budget deficits.

How about we declare February 2011 to be “Truth in Government Month”. All politicians get a free pass on all of the lies and twisted truths they have told in the past. We citizens promise to forgive past indiscretions if you will just tell the truth for one fucking month!!!

Who knows, maybe it will catch on. Yea, and maybe Honest Abe will dust the dirt off his bones and make a comeback.

Drink Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, Environmental Issues, Politics, Rick Perry, Squirt | 8 Comments »

Squirt OK’s Human Use Of Pee-Mail; Won’t Trademark Word

Friday, December 24th, 2010

So. I’ve never been much impressed by brand new technologies upon my initial exposures to them. When I first saw an Atari machine for sale, I poo-poo’d all over it. “That’s the stupidest thing I ever saw,” I remember remarking. “Nobody is going to sit in front of a TV screen and play pretend games by pushing buttons on a remote control box.”

I felt the same way about fuel injection systems for cars. The earliest were terrible maintenance problems, so my early prediction was true for a few years. “Only rich fuckers with their own mechanics and a personal tow truck will buy a fuel injected car. Give me a duel Holly 350 setup and I’m set for life.”

Now it’s me with the mechanical problems with the duel Holly 350 setup on my old GTO. If I don’t drive it often enough, it gets all screwed up. Difficult starts and flooded stalls are common now.

And computers. I’m still not sure that computers are here to stay or if they’re a good idea in the first place. Ever since the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey, I have doubted the intelligence of letting machines think for us. Artificial intelligence will come into practical use long before artificial souls even make a debut.

Brilliance without a soul is Society’s most potent threat.

In spite of my reluctance to embrace new technologies, I am a huge supporter of renewable or recycled products, and I’m especially enamored with new uses for stuff that we take for granted.

Since it’s Christmas Eve, I promised myself that I would get to my point with minimum digressions today, so here’s the deal. Several bloggie readers contacted me to tell me how clever I am. “You are so clever,” this one told me. “You invented a new word and a social convention as well. That “pee-mail” story you wrote was so very clever and creative.”

“Thanks,” I responded, “but I was playing the role of simple reporter in that story. Squirt made up the moniker “pee-mail”, which she tells me was her dressing-up of the dog word for “urine-based communication system”.

That intrigues me, so I quizzed the Squirt about this system. I’m not going to attempt to quote her here because she’s pissed at me for not giving her any of the bacon I fried for my lunch BLT. Her pissiness resulted in a the most disjointed conversation I’ve ever had. I made her sit at the computer with me while I had Google translator on the screen. She was speaking in all the romance languages plus Greek, Lithuanian, Swahili (my personal favorite), Hindi, and others.

Basically, here’s the deal. Dogs have always had a sophisticated system of smells that they use to communicate with each other. We humans have long misinterpreted their squats and leg hikes as simply the stupid dog marking his or her territory.

They’ve been laughing at us for years.

In one of her more understandable sentences, Squirt told me, “Sie sind Menshen so dumm, Bwana Mooner. Los perros han estado comunicado por los postales orinas durante anos.”

“OK,” I responded, “humans are dumb and dogs have been pee-mailing each other for forever.”

“Ya, we have. Gimme some jamon.” Now she’s sitting like a little beggar.

“No bacon for you, dumpling. You’re a pound overweight and that’s ten-percent too much. I’ll give you a carrot and a green bean, but no pork products.” I wish I could exert this much control over my own eating habits.

Anyway, I mightily impressed with dogs and I was already mightily impressed with dogs. This pee-mail dealie existed since before we people had any sort of speech other than grunts and threats. I asked Squirt if she wanted to trademark the name.

“Nope,” she answered. “Feliz Navidad, humanos estupidos. Just remember where you got it.”

And please remember what this holiday is all about. Family, good friends, good food and cold Carta Blanca beer.

Merry manana, y’all.

Posted in A Life Lesson, Carta Blanca Beer, Environmental Issues, Squirt | 3 Comments »

Not A Pope Story; But He’s Still A Queen

Friday, December 3rd, 2010

So. Yesterday I got a call from Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, and she asked if I would come over to her house and mulch her leaves. She’s got a nifty assortment of native trees and the recent freeze has sent most of their leaves to the ground.

I like mulching leaves so they’ll compost and improve soil health and I needed to go over there anyway to pick up the Squirt. The two of us were going fishing this afternoon after we completed a few chores, and she loves to help me with yard work.

I told Squirt that we would mulch her mother’s leaves before we headed out and she said to me, she says, “Ich lie be es cotar al cesped, Heir Mooner.”

When I told her that mulching the leaves was technically not mowing the grass, she got snippy. “Que le importar una mierda? Ich meine, wer wirklich gibt eine Scheibe?”

“Who gives a shit? Well for sure Dr. Sam I. Am if she hears you cussing so much. You need to not spend so much time alone with Gram, little lady.” Then I added, “Mulching the leaves is the same thing as mowing the grass except the grass doesn’t need to be mowed, and we use the mower to mulch the leaves.”

She starts to ask me who gives a shit again, but I hold my hand– palm facing her in a “Stop!” signal. This signal was part of her basic training in puppy school. She obeyed, but started this vibrating thing she does when she’s pissed.

“Oh stop your hissy fit, and now. Let’s go mow the grass.”

That calmed her and we started mulching the leaves. I noticed that nobody else on her block had done anything about their leaves, and that Sammie’s house would stand out when we finished. Have you ever noticed how all of the leaves from your trees stay in your own yard, but the neighbor’s leaves manage to work their way onto your property? I have always wondered that when I mulch at Sam’s house.

We finished the job and decided to have an early lunch and went inside. We made some chicken salad and ate that with homemade pickles and cold Carta Blanca beer. As we sat down, the sound of a gas-powered leaf blower barged in on our conversation, and Squirt started vibrating.

“Don’t worry sweetie, I made them get their engines fixed.”

This last summer Squirt and I had a run-in with the workers for the landscape company that take care of many homes in the neighborhood. The Squirt had displayed her unhappiness with one surly employee by clenching his balls in her sharp-toothed mouth. The initial dispute was over the outrageous volume of smoky pollution emitted from his leaf blower.

We finished lunch, cleaned our dishes and headed out to finish with our errands. The landscape crew had just finished work on the neighbor’s yard and were loaded into their truck. They whistled and waved, and shot us the bird, so Squirt started barking angrily and chased after them. She quit chasing when she got to the curb and stood there to angrily bark some extra at the quickly disappearing truck.

That’s when I noticed that the neighbor’s yard was free of leaves, and that we had a fresh-laid load covering half of what we had just cleared.

Squirt stopped barking and came to stand at my side. “Mother fuckers,” she said.

“You have got to stop cussing so much young lady. But you are right. Dirty rotten mother fuckers.”

So. I got out the big plastic leaf rake and wheel barrow, donned my leather work gloves and went at it. We were just finishing spreading the last load of leaves back on the neighbor’s yard when the wife drove up and parked.

“Mooner Johnson, what in the hell do you think you are doing?” And then a moment and, “I’m calling the police.” And next, “You inappropriate son-of-a-bitch!”

Needless to say that we missed our fishing trip, what with the two leaf mulchings and two leaf movings and the lengthy conversation with the police, we ran out of time. And also with the grounding Squirt got when Dr. Sam I. Am had to leave work to come home and extricate us from the jaws of justice.

At least I didn’t get arrested, and I have Sammy to thank for that one. I do have to wash all of the neighbor’s windows and paint their house, which brings up a recurring question about my life.

Why am I always the one that gets in trouble? Manana, y’all.

Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, Environmental Issues, Squirt | No Comments »

My Name is Mooner and I Pee In Sinks!

Monday, October 11th, 2010

So. Now that cat’s out of the bag, maybe I need to explain myself.

It’s true, I pee in sinks. I pee in the sinks out to the ranch; I pee in the sink at my office over to Mooners Compost Plant; I pee in the sinks at restaurants; I pee in the sinks at Public buildings; I likely have peed in your sink if I peed at your house or place of business. I peed in the sink at the Louvre Museum in Paris, I peed in the sink at at the Texas State Capitol, and I peed in the sink at Vivo.

That’s right, my name is Mooner and I pee in sinks.

So what?

And don’t start with the, “But that’s illegal, immoral and just plain stupid bullshit.” I’ve done the research and it is not. Jeff gave me a legal opinion, and save the routine caveats, I’m approved to pee in sinks ad nauseum. That’s tight, as long as it’s appropriately done, sink peeing is legal.

As for immoral, a man’s got to pee somewhere, and the water that drains from a sink ends up in the same pipe that carries the water flushed from commodes. So like Gram says, “Who gives a shit as long as ya clean after yerself?”

And you can just forget the stupid part. If I can flush a pee with less than one cup of water, and it takes the average American 2.2 gallons- who would be the stupid one? Even if you have one of those great Toto one-gallon flushers like I have, the math is fairly simple: one gallon per flush or less than one cup. And think about this- if you wash your hands after peeing in the commode, my way is a Zero water cost method.

Like I say, simple math.

“But Mooner,” Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson scolded me. “Don’t people notice the smell when they use their sinks after you?”

“I don’t know, Sammy,” I started with a grin, “have you?”

I’ve been peeing in Sammy’s sinks for over a year and she never caught on. Now, of course, she’s trying to catch me and say she can tell. But she can’t. Nobody can because it’s a sanitary method I use.

Nope. If I pee in your sink you’ll never know unless I tell you. OK, maybe CSI Miami could dead reckon me to a guilty verdict, but you know what I mean. The act of washing my hands rinses and sanitizes my ritual, and I wash-up with one cup of water.

My name is Mooner and I am one WaterWise, water saving sonofabitch!

Makes me wants to drink Carta Blanca beer so I can pee some more.

Manana, y’all.

Posted in A Life Lesson, Carta Blanca Beer, Environmental Issues, Psychotherapy | No Comments »

DrLaura F-ball! MoonerJohnson F-ball?

Saturday, August 28th, 2010

So. I’m up early this morning and reading the Austin American Statesman, our local newspaper. I’m an old fart and I love the newspaper, as an actual pile of paper. I love the smell of it, the feel of the paper between my fingers and I adore my clumsy, fumbled attempts to fold its sections for my most comfortable reading.

I can read it sitting at the kitchen table, out on the porch, while sitting on the pot, driving the little farm tractor, on a plane or a bus or a train. I like to read it anywhere, Sam I Am.

Dr. Seuss’ Sam I Am, not mine.

I love washing the ink off of my fingers when I’m finished. I inspect my hands before each washing to see how much ink has stuck to me. Usually, the amount of deposited ink I wash down the drain confirms how much joy the paper gave me at that day’s reading.

Because President George W. Bush and his fuckball associates ruined our economy, my newspaper carries maybe half the weight that it had before. I enjoyed more pages of print, more stories, stronger smell and more ink down the drain before Bush crashed our economy with his silly war and blind eye to Wall Street.

I miss ignoring all of the ads stacked into a full newspaper, and I miss my investigations to determine precisely how an advertiser had managed to get me to read the few that caught my wary eye. With a four pound Sunday addition, a couple of ads would trip me up and make me read them. A two pounder can’t seem to manage an override of my efforts to ignore advertisements.

I love a newspaper printed on paper. I love everything about it. It is my source of news and information, and the place I gain insight about the world that I cannot obtain from my family and circle of friends. I don’t want to ever give it up.

This is a problem for me

I am an environmentalist. Not a saboteur-tied-to-a-tree-or-chained-to-a-rock environmentalist, but rather I consider myself as what I call a practical environmentalist. I understand that we can’t change ten thousand years worth of civilization’s bad habits overnight. I think we need a conscious, planned restructuring of wasteful and damaging habits.

However. My insisting that I read a paper newspaper that then requires me to waste water to wash ink into the drain- adding chemicals into our water system, is beginning to bother me. I have always justified this personal indulgence because of everything else I do that exemplifies my planet-saving mentality.

I became an environmentalist many years ago, when I first realized that we would run out of potable water with our wastefulness, and polluting, of every body of water and watershed on the planet. I’m somewhat of a water maniac if truth be told. Like my constant scoldings of automatic sprinkler system owners.

But I’m becoming torn by my justifications to break my own rules just because I keep so many more. Can I justify my newspaper habit because I recycle everything possible, and pee in the sink to save water? I think this is what Dr. Laura would call a, “Moral dilemma.”

I’m going to need some extra psycho therapy to work my way through this one.

And speaking of the good Dr. Laura….. Are you fucking kidding me? It’s 2010 you psycho right-wing religious shitwad. You preach your “always-take-the-moral-high-ground-and-do-the-right-thing” dribble day after day, and yet you feel free to pitch the N-word around like it’s your favorite new toy?

Shame on you.

Holy shit but my ADHD is fritzing my brain to distractions! I think I had a point when I started this bloggie dealie, and I better make it before I get off track again.

OK, let’s look at it this way. Is my justification for reading a paper newspaper the same thing as Dr. Laura’s justification for her idiotic usage of the N-word? Am I a fuckball- granted, a fuckball of a totally different nature from her, yet am I a fuckball like Dr. Laura just the same?

I think I want to puke. Is it too early for a Carta Blanca beer? I will be back when I finish mission incommunicado, y’all.

Tags: Republican Asswipes
Posted in A Life Lesson, ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Environmental Issues, Psychotherapy | 1 Comment »

The Cockroach Solution; First Amendment Yin Yang

Saturday, August 21st, 2010

So. I’m cruising over to the Sprouts there to the Arboretum, and I’m clicking through radio stations because Howard Stern is reruns on Friday and I heard all his shows this week. I punch AM 590 and get Rush Limbaugh’s voice saying, “And aren’t we glad we have the Internet so we can get the real news!”

Are you fucking kidding me?

Wasn’t it not so long ago when Old Hog Jowls was bitching about I-net news? He was complaining about how Internet reporters have no moral compass, nor are they accountable for the truth. Am I crazy?

OK, of course I’m crazy. Let me rephrase, “Am I imagining that Rushie has taken both sides of another fence?”

I find it repugnant that many of these so-called pundits consistently twist every story and circumstance to suit their ideologies for starters. But the real American Tragedy to me is that their followers seem ignorant of the ruse. And it isn’t just the right-wing religious fuckballs doing all the ruse’ing. We’ve got ourselves some rusers of the liberal bent as well, also fuckballs, and listed on the Mooner Johnson Fuckball Roll Call.

It isn’t what you believe that buggerates the ever-loving-shit out of me. It’s how you conduct yourself.

After I switched around some more, I heard some other numb-nuts talking about how our President is a Muslim and a foreign-born Muslim at that. Again, are you fucking kidding me? Get yourself a grip to reality for shitsakes.

Before the Presidential election, anti-Obama forces spent very significant economic and research assets to dig that dirt, and plant their seeds of anger. All of this, “He’s a Muslim and not American born nonsense,” is just that. Turns out to be sterile dirt and sterile seeds both.

But when do these guys ever let a little truth get in the way of their ruses? Maybe that should be rusi, or possibly russess.

Americans’ right to free speech, maybe our most important right, is a huge benefit that carries an opposite, and equally large negative. That balance is ignorance and blind faith. When the followers of a free speaker are too dumb to see lies, or so devoted as to ignore them, Rush Limbaugh is born.

Yin, and yang- a terrible thing to waste.

Which reminds me. I spotted a cockroach in a cardboard box when I went to my office this morning. We don’t have many bugs out to Mooners Compost Plant because of all the bats. Seeing the roach, thinking about the bats and thinking about this poker player named Jerry Yang reminded me that Colleen Lindsay is having trouble with palmetto bugs. You know- tree roaches, the big suckers. She needs to get some of our Mexican Free-tail bats from down to the Congress Avenue Bridge. Those guys will snatch the air clean of any insect. And they’re real cuties.

Anyway, I need to prepare for going incommunicado again, so this will be my last posting for a few days.

Manana de la manana de la manana de la manana and so forth until next weekend, y’all.

Tags: Republican Asswipes
Posted in Environmental Issues, Poker Players Alliance, Religion, Rush Limbaugh the pig, Sprouts Farmers Market | No Comments »

Leonard Pitts, Ruben Navarrette Confirm Mooner’s Positions

Friday, August 6th, 2010

So. I want to first invite you to go to the Opinion Page of the August 5^th Austin American Statesman and read the article by Leonard Pitts, Jr., page A11. If I was a professional writer with years of experience, I might have made such eloquent arguments as Leonard.

After reading that one, go immediately below and read Ruben Navarrette, Jr., and he will provide you with a full-scale example of the lunacies that Leonard expressed.

If you like what you read, tell them. Leonard is at: lpitts@miamihearald.com and Ruben can be contacted at : www.rubennavarrette.com .

I was reading these articles while in my first sitz bath of the day, as I soaked my healing bottom in tepid water. I was running the water for this bath, maybe the hundredth such bath I have run for a sitz, when something hit me. What I do is this- I start filling the tub, then grab reading materials, check my e-mail, get something to drink, grab my cell phone, and then I undress.

For the first sitz of the day, I had the paper to read, checked the computer and had three e-mails, topped-off my coffee cup for beverage, and slipped out of my tee shirt, undies and shorts. My preparations took maybe four minutes as the water ran at full-blast for my bath.

When I stepped into the tub and sat down, there was still not enough water to rise to the level needed to soak, so I sat as water continued to fill. When I finally turned off the tap and set my timer for twenty minutes, I surveyed how much water I was using for a single, twenty-minute ass soaking.

“Holy shit!” I barked at myself. “I could irrigate a football field with this tub of water.”

I started calculating how much water I had used for all of my sitz baths, and blushed in my embarrassment.

“Holy shit!” I said again, and this time loud enough to draw a crowd.

“What tha hell issa matter in here?” were Gram’s first words as she raced into the bathroom from wherever it was she had lurked. “You need a rescue-tation Mooner? I jist got my Red Crossie card rejuvenated over to the Church last week.”

She surveyed me as I lay contorted in the tub to keep water on my hurt part without putting pressure on my ass.

Then she yelled, “Git in here Mother an help me git Mooner outta tha tub. I need ta give him tha kiss a death.”

Don’t you just hate it when people jump to conclusions?

Mother has arrived by now and said, “It’s the Kiss of Life, Gram, not the Kiss of Death.”

Gram looked me dead in the eye and said to me, she says, “Who gives a shit Mother. I got it right, cause iffn he scares the shit outta me one more time- it’s curfews fer Mooner!”

I started laughing about then, so she punched me in the shoulder.

“Yer a disrupto-latin little shit Mooner. Always was an I reckin that’s the way of it.”

Then she started sniffing the air and said, “Do I smell ostrich sweat?”

Oopsie!

“No, Gram, that’s just the lingering aroma coming off my butt problem.”

She sniffed some more. “An I’m a catchin a wiffer a pig snot too. It’s makin my eyes twitch.”

Sensing the pending doom from Gram’s thoughts, Mother stepped in. “Mooner’s still not right yet, Gram. Dr. Ashworth said that it could be a few more weeks before everything heals over.”

Thank you Mother.

Gram gave me the dirty eyeball one more time, then said, “Awright. You finish yer shits bath an come find me. I got a potion I brewed up back ta when yer Grandpa got popped by them skunks. Maybe iffn we both dose up I won’t smell ya.”

Dear God. Thank you for the blessing me with the mess I call Gram. Amen.

Anyway, so what I have decided to do is take the remainder of my sitz baths in a mop bucket. I’ll just squat my irritated cut bottom in that. I can’t stand to waste water. Even though we recycle every drop of wastewater from our daily lives here to the ranch, we still pump too much from the ground to be wasting it on my sore ass like that.

After my bath, I beelined it to my closet for a talk with Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry.

I threw the door open and started on them. “All right you two. Did I tell you to clean yourselves before bedding down at night, or didn’t I? How can I protect you from Gram when you smell like a barnyard?”

All I got in response from the ball of pig fat and black feathers cowering in the corner of the closet was whimpers. The two of them looked like Jack and Mrs. Spratt having sweaty, athletic sex.

“Oh for shitsakes you two. Stop crying like babies and get out of my closet. I’m sick of this.”

This threat only made the whimpering more urgent.

“Just stop, you two, stop it now. Go take a shower and get some exercise. As soon as you hear Gram’s Ferrari leaving, you get out of this closet and get some fresh air.”

Anyway, I’m taking SAC Ellen back to Vivo’s over to RR 620 for dinner. She really likes the place. I keep pushing them to get Carta Blanca beer, but I have not managed to sell them on the concept. So, I’ll just have an Eastside Margarita while there, and catch my frosty cold CB’s to the ranch.

Manana, y’all.

Tags: Gram's potions
Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, Environmental Issues, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig | No Comments »

Archive for the ‘Environmental Issues’ Category

Coffee Shop Giveaways; Bye-Bye Ricky, You GFA

Reckmonster Nails Head; Psycho Therapy Sucks

Nice Rack…Slap; Mooner’s Still Nuts

Beach Budget Bingo; The Flim-Flam Man Rick Perry

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

Save The Mother Ship: Fuck Rick Perry!

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

Stop Lying To Us Governor Rick Perry

Worms Turned; No “My Jesus” Today

State Farm Did The Right Thing; At Last

Environment To Suffer For Rick Perry

We Need Rain And A Pee Story

Squatlo Incites Rant; I Miss Marie

Rick Perry Budget Update; Holy Shit Is It Cold!

Squirt OK’s Human Use Of Pee-Mail; Won’t Trademark Word

Not A Pope Story; But He’s Still A Queen

My Name is Mooner and I Pee In Sinks!

DrLaura F-ball! MoonerJohnson F-ball?

The Cockroach Solution; First Amendment Yin Yang

Leonard Pitts, Ruben Navarrette Confirm Mooner’s Positions

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