Archive for the ‘FullRisingMooner’ Category

Teeth On Edge, Banana Pants?; Slow Dancing With Linda C.

Sunday, October 27th, 2013

 

So. Let’s talk about teeth. Maybe we should begin talking about my teeth and go from there. I’ve always had pretty good teeth until age of about fifty-five. Few cavities and very few toothaches. I am a giant pussy when it comes to pain, so after the first time I experienced the dentist’s drill and syringe, I started taking great care of my dentins delicti. Brush, floss, brush and floss again.

But when I hit fifty-five, some of my personal habits started taking a toll on said teeth and causing me considerable consternations. The worst of those habits is clenching my jaw and grinding my teeth—a terrible habit developed by me as a way to assist with enhancing my slack abilities to focus and concentrate. At a quite young age I had determined that a small level of self inflicted pain helped scatter some of my myriad thoughts to leave but a few for my ADHD-addled mental processes to sort through in order to gain a modicum of focus.

Suffering helps me concentrate, a situation that I now realize needs to be discussed with my psycho therapist.

I’ve tried biting my tongue, pinching myself, squeezing my balls, pulling nose hairs and stabbing tiny pricks in my skin with a needle as methods to inflict pain without causing too much injury. I knew a guy in college who cut himself with a razor blade—one of those old timey two-edged jobbers. He’d slide the razor blade across the skin on his arms in bizarre patterns of craziness.

I loved those razors, the way you screwed the knob on the bottom and the top opened up like a set of those little flappy things on the back of airplane wings. Set the blade in its slot and then close the flappy jobbers with reverse twists of the knob.

Me, I loved those razors, but I just couldn’t bring myself to draw the kind of blood that sort of pain set to flow. Besides, cut pain isn’t instantaneous. Unless you cut a nerve or tendon, it doesn’t really hurt until later. I needed to be able to start and stop minor pain at will.

Which reminds me. I was getting dressed this morning and had one of those bizarre deja’ vu moments. I had been slot machine dreaming last night—you know, the kind where your sleeping brain has maybe a dozen different dreams that it totally fucking insists it plays for you before time to arise. Dream a little bit about chasing honey bees across a clover covered meadow while wearing nothing but high-top sneakers in front of a bandstand filled with Dolly Parton look-alikes, and spin suddenly to that time I was back to Tennessee, and Beej and I were visiting over to Chez Squatlo, a wonderful time of frostbite, vittles and sink peeing.

Anyway, I was already confused when I awoke, and somehow managed to get confuseder as I shaved, showered, and to bring us to the having gotten dressed part previously mentioned—I sat on the lid to the toilet putting on my socks while feeling a sense of bewilderment.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, shithead? You look like your eyes are going to start spinning.”

It was the Squirt and she seemed to have a bead drawn on me. Before I could answer, my head filled with the sights and sounds of an eighth grade assembly back to William B. Travis Junior High School in Austin, Texas. In this assembly we kids were treated to a concert of slave songs and African American authored music sung by the choir from Prairie View College from down near to Houston.

“Did you know that “Cotton-Eye Joe” was a slave song—a witty ditty written to be sung by American slaves to help pass time as they toiled for their masters?” I asked the Squirt. “And can you even get your mind around the fact that we Americans had to fight a bloody civil war with our ownfuckingselves before we could abolish said and same slavery?”

“I’m a dog, asshole. Cats have always hated us and always will. Same thing with some cat people, brainless bigots that they are.”

The little dog was right, and that entire American slavery business is mind boggling. And boggling more it is to think that we still have what might be millions of our populace who would like to see the return of those old times not forgotten. Maybe that should have been “more boggling”.

Me, I hear this Dixieland rhetoric and Stars-and-Bars bullshit and I need to just look away rather than warm up my nose-and-ear thumper. Those silly fuckers are much better armed than a cranky old geezer with extra-strong thumb and middle finger. I can make your nose bleed with one heavy thump, but I’m too slow to dodge bullets.

Enough of your secessionist racism, boys, you lost that war and lost it badly.

So, I was sitting on the commode lid with my tiny brown puppy giving me shit, and I closed my eyes to think about gritting my teeth in concentration. As soon as I did, I was sitting in my seat in the school auditorium, eyes wide open as I watched and heard a few dozen black college kids dressed as minstrels sing and sway to slave songs.

The entire sight was eye-popping for me as I’d not before seen that many black people in one place except for down to Ruby’s Baptist church. Ruby was the head cook at the chicken joint I worked as a young boy, and the first black woman I masturbated to. And eye-popping more as there was this one girl singer, woman singer maybe, who held the raptest of my attentions at the assembly. The word in my head to describe her in that moment was “juicy”. I remember that I actually salivated with lust for her.

Mrs. Browningwell had separated Streaker Jones and me by placing Susie Ashburn between us as a preferred method to crowd control the two of us. “You are disgusting, Butcher Johnson!” Susie said when I stood up to clap after what I remember was “Dem Bones, Dem Dry Bones”.

Seems that my lust for the juicy singer had managed to overfill my pecker with blood flow, which had, in turn, pushed a knob in the front of my ever-so-soft, worn tan cord pants. Suzie never called me Mooner, always using my birth name instead. Suzie and her daddy, Doctor Ashburn, play an important role in my silly fucking book, a handsome tome of some 400-plus pages, and a true by-the-word bargain, which is available by clicking over there =====}}}}} to my bloggie roller.

Ever tried to hide a full-on boner after it’s already been spotted and announced? There was this one kid—Billy something—who’d take his out and wave it at you if you made comment. “Boy’s Not Right” was Billy’s nickname.

I remember this one time at the Junior-Senior Dance—the one whereat I was so stoned I couldn’t feel my feet—when I finally got a dance with Linda Crittendon. Linda was a juicy cheerleader and the subject of many visits to the bathroom with an Ivory Soap bar. Our local school band, The Undertakers, started to play one of those asinine Paul and Paula songs—slow tempo music with lyrics that say, “I can’t wait for you to be sixteen so we can screw in the back seat of my daddy’s 1958 Ford Fairlane.”

Anyway, stoned to the point of having zero impulse control, I asked Linda to dance, and for some reason she accepted. My plan was to simply hold her and touch as many of her important, juicy parts as possible without getting slapped. Linda, on the other hand, wanted to slow dance. In the 1960’s to “slow dance” was as sexual and provocative as a teenager could get in public.

I had this gray sharkskin suit back to high school, made of thin, tough fabric that had a silk-like quality. It would ripple and sparkle with light as I moved. As a stoner, I thought the visual effects quite impressive. Linda and I danced and she had pulled me close and pressed her entire body to mine, and I at first simply luxuriated in the contrasting firm and soft of all her juicy parts stamped to mine. At first, she and I were totally into the dance. And as I was quite a good dancer of the slow dance, and Linda a juicy cheerleader, after a minute of the song other dancers began to give us room, and watch.

I think it was at the “…true love means waiting..” part that my pecker woke up and realized that it was slowly rubbing Linda fucking Crittendon’s juicy mound. Totally unannounced, and without any conscious aforethought on my part, it swelled against the thin fabric of my sharkskin pants and wedged itself between Linda’s juicy legs and against the lower edge of her juiciest part of all.

The specifics of the remainder of the dance are a bit blurry in my mind. I do remember that Linda was drinking vodka spiked Coke with her cheerleader buddies and that explained her mood and willingness to dance with a nobody like me. And I do remember that I wasn’t the only one to moan as my woody rubbed against her. And I do know that she whispered, “Let’s go out sometime,” when the song was over.

But I’m missing the approximately three-minute interval between when Linda whispered in my ear with her juicy lips as the song ended, and the part where most of the junior and senior classes were staring in wonderment at the silly asshole slow dancing with himself as “Louie-Louie” was blasted out by The Undertakers.

My best friend since childhood is that man named Streaker Jones. Streaker Jones is a man of few words and was a boy of the same brevity. When “Louie-Louie” ended, I felt a hand on my shoulder and opened my eyes to his face. “Nice stiffy, Mooner. C’mon.”

The most interesting part of all of that is nobody laughed at me and I never was kidded about it. I was never made to pay the price for doing something embarrassing that teens usually extract. Maybe it was one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments that make great scenes in movies. Maybe that was my one best brush with the unattainable.

Makes a person wonder where Linda is today. Would I still find her juicy?

Fuck Walmart, fuck racists of all colors, and we’ll get together manana, y’all.

 

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A Timely Posting Of Past Occurrances; Mooner Johnson- Better Late Than Whatever

Thursday, February 28th, 2013

 

So. I awakened this crisp Santa Fe morning with a slight tequila hangover—dry mouth, niggling headache, and breath noxious enough to gag the dogs.

“Wake up, shithead, and go gargle with mouthwash.”

It was the Squirt, it was 4:17 am, and she had tears in her eyes. As for me, I’d been asleep on my side with my right arm wrapped around my head to where I was breathing my hot, aged tequila breath in-and-out between my smelly armpit and a bunched-up down-comforter tunnel.

The adorable little bundle of piss and vinegar was dragging the covers off my body and touching her snotty nose to my exposed skin. “I said wake up, Mooner! What did you eat for dinner last night, marinated donkey ass?”

“Maybe I should get up and brush my teeth and take a bath as well, sweetie. The tequila breath in my mouth and the odor of flop sweat in my nostrils is somewhat disconcerting,” I told her. “Matter of fact, the two of you could use a bath as well. Wake the goat dog and meet me in the bathroom.”

Since we moved to Enchanted Land, I’ve not made the dogs bathe quite as often as when we lived in Sweatboxville. Austin’s heat and humidity would get their coats smelling like the vinyl seats in a McDonald’s booth about once each week. The cool, dry mountain air here to our new hometown has a different effect. It actually seems to help keep their coats smelling clean—same way as when you hang stuff outside on a clothesline, which reminds me that I want to put up a clothesline out back.

I’m thinking something artsy-fartsy in combination with my planned landscaping and perimeter wall paintings. My best-to-date idea is to paint a mural on the adobe wall that depicts the epic grandeur of the Sangre de Christo mountains, and then build the clothesline to look like telegraph poles and wires that serve to frame the mural. I’ve already got these great rocks that some previous owner brought to the house that would help provide depth to the installation.

I also bought a canvas bag full of those old timey wooden peg clothes pins—you know, the ones that look sort of like a glass milk bottle with legs? When I was a kid we painted faces and clothes on the little wooden pegs gave them as gifts to our womenfolk.

I wonder about using the word womenfolk. Is that another commonplace, useful and heartened word from our past that is now seen to be off-putting?

The bag was made to hold the brightly painted clothes pins—thirty-six of them before Yoda ate three. It has a thick wire hanger sewn into its top and the wire has a hook bent in the end to hang it on the line. There’s a way faded picture of a woman hanging laundry in the sun on one side, and a barely visible Coca-Cola logo on the other. When I saw it at the flea market, the guy said to me, he said, “That Coke logo makes it pretty collectible, sir.”

“Fuck Coca-Cola,” was my instant reply. “You can cut the patch of canvas off the back and keep your Coke logo. Then I’ll give you $7.50 for what’s left.”

Ended with the bag of wooden pins and the Coke logo for $16.00, and now I’m searching for an Acme clothesline reel—you know, those red metal drums that your grandmother had on her clothesline. Maybe your great-grandmother. Gram still has hers, still uses it, and those facts are likely why I always want my sheets, towels and underwear dried outside in the clean air.

When the three of us were in the shower enjoying the “Rain Forest Spring shower spray” of my fancy new shower head, I brought the subject into discussion. “What do you think about my clothesline idea, guys?”

The dogs looked at each other like I’d just asked them to go on a diet. Yoda raised his back leg and peed on the side of the shower stall in a spot where no water hit. “I guess that means you don’t especially like my idea.”

To reinforce my understanding that they were lukewarm on the installation, the Squirt squatted and yellowed the water at my feet. Which started me laughing. So, I peed on the wall where Yoda had and that started the dogs giggling. The Squirt made a joke about my Junior High School humor and I rinsed the pee off the wall with the shower head.

I really like that shower head. It mimics an afternoon shower in a rain forest with the sounds to go with the cascading water. It does have a downside as it encourages me to spend too much time in the shower and, therefore, makes me waste water.

OK, it doesn’t make me waste water, I simply waste water when I tarry too long in my new shower’s therapeutic sprays, and maybe my ADHD took too many showers in those last few paragraphs.

“Tell us about last night’s dinner while you scrub my back, Mooner. From the looks and smell of you when you got home, you had a ball. Spend some extra time on my sweet spot.”

For those of you wondering, Squirt’s sweet spot isn’t quite what you might think. It’s the top of her back where it meets the base of her tail. She says it’s too much effort to bend around to chew at the root of her tail when I’m more than willing to do the work for her.

I lathered the dogs’ washrag with ivory soap and then slathered the Squirt. Using their bath brush, I scratched and washed her coat. “It was quite an interesting night, guys. Linda is everything you thought and Mitch is a good mate for her. Turns out they are each, and both, deeper thinkers than we knew.”

I met Linda while purchasing building products for the remodel of La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe, and we hit it off in a friendly way. She’s frank and open in business and one of those people whose word you take with her first words spoken. That “look-you-in-the-eyes honesty” is an important character trait in business contacts and personal relationships both, and Linda has it. She and Mitch invited me to have dinner to meet Mitch and view the 1930’s casita they had remodeled.

“Dinner had been well thought-out and the conversation was great. The margaritas were good and strong, and my glass seemed to magically refill. I think I got a tad bit drunk.”

I applied the washrag to the goat dog and he whimpered with pleasure. “OK,” I admitted, “maybe I was a tad bit more than a tad bit drunk.”

I continued with the merits of the homemade salsa that I slathered on the perfectly-cooked beef flank tacos and the incredible dessert Linda and Mitch served as I rinsed the dogs. When finished, I placed my hands on the wall of the shower with my feet at shoulder’s width apart, and I stood with my the shower beating on my head and back. “Man, I need to stick to Carta Blanca beer, guys. I was having some wild tequila dreams before you woke me up.”

“Yes, we noticed. Tell us about the Ayahuasca, Mooner?” Squirt had a serious look on her face.

Huh? I didn’t remember anything about any Ayahuasca. “I didn’t say anything about that when I got home. I drank a gallon of water, peed and passed out.”

“You were talking in your sleep, asshole. ‘What was that guy’s name with the Ayahuasca?’ was what you kept saying,” she told me. “Sounded like this guy had an exotic disease that you had caught on one of your honeymoons.”

I often dream about the many hallucinogenic compounds in Nature’s bounty that I have ingested over my lifetime. I’ve tried to ingest them all in my personal research, and some more than others. “Oh, that. Ayahuasca is a South American mystic’s brew and native to the Amazon’s indigenous peoples. The only time I tried it was so long ago I can’t remember the name of the guy who had it. OK, or said he had it. I never did trust any potions from unknown sources back in the day. Didn’t stop me from ingesting them, but I was always leery of the promises made as to their efficacies. The guy who had it claimed it would ‘enlighten’ me and ‘change my life’.”

I can only remember that it looked like month-old V-8 Juice that had turned brown, and that my dosing didn’t produce any memorable enlightenments, and the only noticeable change I felt was in my queasy stomach. Then again, when you’ve been dosed with Gram’s potions all your life—starting at birth—enlightenments are no virgin territory when you hit your twenties.

If you’d like to read more about my first dosing of Gram’s magic mushroom potions, buy my silly fucking book by clicking over there ===}}}} on the blogie roller. Amazon has likely got them on sale for less than the cost of the paper pages inside the cover. OK, fuck it. Send me a proof of purchase and I’ll refund you a dollar. I only make about thirty-five cents on each sale, so take my offer seriously.

Which reminds me. How do you feel about tattoos on your skull? Would you date a woman with a tattoo of a snake eating an apple that covers the lady’s head beneath her hair? Would you have sex with her if the snake’s tail was inked down the crack of her ass?

Would you heartily debate these issues before dating and sexing her?

Manana, y’all.

 

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A Horse Trade Story- Take A Pair Of Camel Toes For Your Dogs?

Sunday, February 17th, 2013

 

So. Let me begin today’s Sunday morning services with a disclaimer. What you are about to read is not a complaint, neither is it a case of a shithead writer whining about his life. My life is a good one in spite of its many travails, and I’m your basic happy clam when viewing my life from a global perspective.

Which reminds me. Travails—according to the dictionary—are excessively difficult trips or work efforts, or, childbirth experiences. Me, I think it’s unfair that I can compare my life’s tough times to that of when a woman births a baby. I’ve bore witness to three childbirths, and I will tell you that nothing in my life would compare to that.

OK, except for maybe getting raped by my Boy Scout Leader as a kid. Or maybe that one time when I fell into a prickly pear cactus. Or there was the time I went skinny dipping and sat on a hidden fire ant mound.

Or, sweet Jesus, that time my mother zipped-up my preschool pecker into the rusty steel jaws of the zipper in an old pair of Daddy’s work-worn overalls. Terrible stories one and all, but true. And available for reading should you lose your mind and choose to click over there =====>>> to my bloggie roller and buy my stupid fucking book, Full Rising Mooner.

Isn’t it interesting as to how perspectives effect a person’s viewing of any event? OK, and let’s take another anecdotal break to evaluate whether perspectives can also affect a person’s viewing of an event. Since entering psycho therapy sessions routinely some thirty-some years ago, I have been keenly aware that effects and affects are somewhat dichotomous nouns that are almost joined-at-the-hip. I’m way too fucking busy with my life to present the treatise I’ve entitled “Stop Effecting My Affects- Can’t You See I’m Crazy?”.

And don’t even start to correct me by saying to me, “Mooner, dumbass, you don’t ‘entitle’ a scholarly paper, you ‘title’ it.”

Fuck you. I carefully choose my words even when I’m forced to invent them, and that reminds me of the dream I had night-before-last, and that reminds me to say, “Fuck you,” to those grammar snarks writing to bitch about my use of hyphens. Eat-shit-and-die.

I loved saying that when I was a kid. Get into an argument and run out of pithy or cogent output? Just say, “Eat shit and die!”

Anyway, Friday night I took the dogs with me for dinner. It was still in the forties with no wind, and the Squirt had been craving tater tots from the Sonic. We piled unto the GTO for the three-block drive to our neighborhood Sonic, and piddled our way to our parking spot located in front of the door where the roller skating wait staff exit with the food.

We drive and eat in the car instead of walk and sit at the picnic tables because the goat dog will eat anything off the ground that is food, resembles food, or has been within 100-feet of actual food. We park where we can see each tray of food delivered so that Yoda can at least eyeball all the foodstuffs he’s missing.

“Order six totties and tell them extra crunchy, shithead,” the Squirt impressed on me. She calls them “totties” and she likes them fried to make the same crunch as her dry kibbles.

She was standing in my lap while reading the lighted menu, and the goat dog was on the dashboard, nose pushed against the windscreen. His eyes followed each tray of food as it left the door, and his wet snozzola left snotty contrails on the glass. The sticky lines closely resembled the criss-crossing Etch-A-Sketch flip-flops of Mitt Romney’s policy positions, and me—I love the way the British say “windscreen” for a windshield.

“And tell them I want a hot dog, cut the onions, cut the mustard, extra chili, double-extra cheese, and one teaspoon of sweet relish—not one bit more. And tell them I want them to boil the wiener first and then grill it black.”

The little bundle of brown fur and wonderment surveyed the menu with fervor. “And get me an extra-large cherry lime with extra cherries.”

Yoda’s menu selections are more difficult to translate. He “phoopfs” and “pharphs” at everything from the kitchen, so I only order things that he tries to jump through the windscreen after.

When he knocked himself silly in his attempt to get at a tray loaded with Frito Pie and onion rings, Squirt said to me, she said, “Looks like we need to get the Beano out, Bwana Mooner. Shithead is eating some gassy dinner tonight.”

I, of course, forgot to dose the goat dog with the anti-gas medicine, and that reminds me to tell you about the fucking cat. Honor has taken to Santa Fe living as if our new hometown were the Garden of Eden. I buy a whole fish for dinner at least once each week, and leave the carcass with head still attached out back for her. She’ll return home, come inside to shed some fur, sharpen her claws on the quilt hanging on the back of the couch, knead pinpricks on my chest as she nuzzles my face in thanks for the fish carcass, usually puke a fur ball filled with feathers and mouse bones, and head outside to eat the fish.

I’ve never before had a cat, but I don’t know what all the fuss is about.

Which brings me to my original thought. The dry weather here somehow manufactures dust balls. I can mop and vacuum one minute and next minute my clean floors are littered with dust balls again. Fascinating.

And the dust balls and Yoda’s gas somehow stimulated a camel toe dream about which I no longer have time to describe to you. As a tease, I’ll tell you that in the dream I decided to give the dogs up for adoption and this couple wearing tight Lycra bicycle shorts wanted to adopt them.

Now I have to go. I promised Sister that I would try to find a friend of hers who lives here but has no phone. I love adventures, so, manana, y’all.

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Smarty Pants Silly Phones; Mooner Solves Voter Fraud

Tuesday, October 2nd, 2012

 

So. I got a phone call from a buddy last night who wanted to schedule a visit to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. Since I left my trusty personal assistant, the lovely and charming Mz. Gnat, back to Austin to run our business affairs, I’m required to perform her jobs on my own behalf. Gnat has been with me for over twenty years—a story you can read if you buy my stupid fucking book by clicking over there =====}}} on any of the linksters that mention Full RisingMooner.

I have so many requests for extended-stay visits that I bought a motel software package to handle the reservations and accommodations for my many guests—a task normally performed by Gnat. The software package arrived yesterday afternoon by US Postal’s daily to-your-home delivery system two days after I ordered it.

Which reminds me. Who, inthefuck, would want to kill the United States Postal Service? I mean who other than greedy businessmen who want to privatize it for their own personal gains.

I took my new software program back inside, unwrapped it, glanced at the installation instructions and jammed the round plastic disc into my computer, and began operations. All tasks normally performed by Gnat.

Two hours later, I called Gnat and scheduled her a visit to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. I think she can fix the messes I’ve made in my life the last two weeks in New Mexico in a month, or so.

Which reminds me. This entire Voter Registration business is stupid.

S T U P I D !!!

OK, look, I get it that we need to register voters in some fashion in order to prevent the rampant Republican voter fraud perpetrated by the RNC. I get it that we need a way to insure that our One Man, One Vote system of semi-democracy needs to be a system of ones. What I don’t get is why this shit is so fucking difficult. So, I was sitting out to the portal last night with the dogs but not the fucking cat, drinking Carta Blanca beer and smoking a blunt.

For new readers, a portal is a covered patio and mine is a marvelous contraption with jalousied windows on one of the two closed walls and a fireplace on the other, and the long open side looking out over all the flagstone we laid and looking up to New Mexico’s magical sky.

Last night’s sitting was with the nearly full moon hanging over the big Ponderosa pine tree and a vigorous dotting of bright stars. I was stretched out on the wicker couch with Yoda curled up on my chest and the Squirt settled between my legs, head on my crotch. Squirt was staring bullets at me through the haze of pot smoke hanging in the chilly, dead-still air.

“Answer me this, Bwana Mooner. What is all of this hullabaloo about voter registration? Why is this such a big deal?”

I attempted to explain it and she questioned my answers, and all of a sudden the solution came to me. I, Butcher Einstein “Mooner” Johnson, have solved the entire voter registration problem. Here’s the deal, and I call it the “Mooner Johnson Voter Registration Solution”, or MJVRS for short.

Stop. I need a catchier name than that so that its nickname will be catchier more than that silly shit. MJVRS? Really? Maybe you guys will have a better name after you hear my ideas.

OK, first of all, Republicans are all hung up on Photo Ids, like they can pull more underhanded stunts with a picture of the faces of the people they fuck over. Not a problem with whatever it is my solution is named.

Smart people are concerned that the Republican efforts to make it difficult for a huge portion of our population to get registered and then vote are egregious attempts of unmasked bigotry. Once again, not even a problem for, try this—Mooner’s Voter ID Solutions, or MVIDS.

Is MVIDS better than MJVRS?

Here’s how this dealio will work. OK, for starters, every asshole in America—save for me, Streaker Jones and my Gram—have cell phones with 50-gigabite memories and cameras that make a Peeping Tom drool. Next, those same cell phones are connected to the INTERNET and have keypads and special applications and all sorts of other shit.

Sooooooooo, here’s what we do. Ready?

We register Voter Registration Clerks with each county or parish or whateverthefuck they have in each state. Democrats and Republicans and Greenies and all the rest of the parties can register their registrators to be Voter Registration Clerks. Hell, for that matter any church or Moose Lodge or VFW Post can do the same.

Voter Registration Clerks will have their smarty-pants silly phones loaded with an application containing their state’s voter registration form, and a photograph clicker dealie to take a person’s picture with their utility bill or mortgage stuff or whatever.

It cracks me up when Gram says “smarty pants silly phone”. You try to tell her that we call them smart cell phones and see what happens.

Anyway, the applications will contain security thingies to insure that the Voter Registration Clerks can’t pull any funny business, and they will auto-transmit any application back to Headquarters, whether it was completed or not. That way, some shithead can’t cancel or discard a registering voter for any reason.

This way the County will now have a picture of the registered voter with his proof of residence and the application in their hot little hands instana-fucking-taneously. Then when it comes time to vote, a voter can show up with any damned kind of ID. Got a question? Look on the computer and see the voter’s picture.

Am I brilliant, or what?

This solutions shit is easy when you take the time to look at it with a belly full of beer and THC-lacquered lungs.

Maybe next I’ll take a shot at male pattern baldness. Maybe I need to come up with a good name for this current solution. I wonder how much money I can make with this?

Which reminds me of something else. Why do we men dribble a few drops of urine after we finish peeing? It doesn’t matter how many times we shake and squeeze and re-shake, we always dribble. At least I do.

Last night when Yoda the goat dog and I were re-marking our territorial rights to the back yard, Squirt was watching with a keen interest.

“What’s wrong with your pecker, big boy. Your undies are going to be stained something awful.” Then she added, she said to me, “Oh, I get it. Yellow to the front and brown in the back.”

We all three laughed and then wondered where the fucking cat was. Honor has been missing for a week, and I have absolute certainty that is a metaphor for something political.

Manana, y’all.

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Texan Terrifies Tennessee Mosqueteers; A Little Info On The Wedding

Saturday, June 23rd, 2012

  

So. By now I guess you guys know that Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh finally tied the knot. We had a very small group of mostly family in attendance and only had those folks at the reception. As the pig Rush Limbaugh had not had sex with his ostrich gay lover for more than a month, keeping him off the bride’s back until after the “I dos” was a difficult chore.

I printed the press release about the wedding yesterday so go there for that info. What I’ll add here is that because of the enforced abstinence above mentioned, it was an untraditional shotgun wedding. “Shotgun” in that Gram’s 12-gage double barrel was aimed at Rush Limbaugh, and “untraditional” because the buckshot was pointed his way not to keep his feet planted but, rather, to prevent spontaneous sexing on the alter.

When he wants to do something, Rush Limbaugh just does it and he doesn’t care the effects on the rest of us. Rush Limbaugh is, after all, a fucking pig.

Which reminds me. As if Tennessee doesn’t have enough right-wing Christian assholes living up to Murphreesboro, Tn. to fill Neiland Stadium to standing room only, one of our local assholes made his way up to the Boro to screw with their new Mosque and the Mosqueteers who worship there. I want to first apologize on behalf of the state of Texas for letting one of our own escape our borders to be a stupid bigot up to Ugly Orangeville, and second, I want to thank the Volunteer State for providing that ignorant fuckball a nice, cozy place to stay. Not that having one fewer ignorant bigoted shitwads in Texas makes a dent in that particular population.

But a trip of a thousand miles begins with a first baby step.

And that reminds me to tell you that I’ve been really busy planning and hiding the details of the big wedding from the world. I’m sorry that I didn’t invite my friends, but Rick Perry was already so nervous he had the squirts, and he told me he wouldn’t be able to hold his nervous bowels if there was a crowd.

Have you ever smelled a loose ostrich shit? Have you ever tried to get that smell out of your hair?

It wasn’t a large wedding as weddings go, but anytime you have Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry involved common sense and reason fly out the window. Take the wedding cake as just one example. How do you find a bakery willing to make an alternating chocolate-and-vanilla six-tiered cake with an ostrich bride and hog groom, slathered with duck liver pate’ icing and coated with sunflowers? Once you do, how do you get them to keep quiet about it?

Mother was the only family member who didn’t attend the touching ceremony. Her refusal went something like, “If I cursed I would say to you, ‘No fucking way will I ever attend a homo-sex-u-al wedding.’”

While that wasn’t the first time in my life I heard Mother cuss, it was the first time since I decided to allow brutal honesty to be a two-way street in our relationship.

“Well said, Mother,” I told her. “If you’re too fucking bigoted to attend the festivities then I expect you to vacate the premises until we’ve finished all our reveries. I’ll have Gnat find you a room over to town for a few weeks. I expect the party to last a while.”

For new readers, Gnat is my personal assistant, and if you go to the Bloggie Roller over there ====}}}}} and buy Full Rising Mooner, my stupid fucking book, you will learn all about the little Russian wonder.

Mr. Dave helped Mother pack her bags and I’m guessing he packed the old bag as well. I used to think that what made my mother such a bitch since Daddy died was that she just needed a little sexing. While Mr. Dave’s giant penis has improved Mother’s moods in some ways, I have finally had to accept the simple fact that Mother is an asshole.

When Mr. Dave rolled two big suitcases into the kitchen to be loaded on the truck to go to town with Mother, I said to him, I said, “There’s two more cases out to the barn that match what you have there, Mr. Dave. I’ll go get them while you tell Mother she’ll need more things. We’re gonna do us some partying here to the ranch and you know Mother likes a broad selection when dressing.”

And that reminds me to say this. I just bought a case of Ivory soap and shipped it up to that asshole Jerry Sandusky. Big tough football guy my rosy red ass. I wrote him a card that said, “Here’s a little something to make things go a little smoother for you, shithead. Don’t wait until you hit the showers with those men, Jer’, lather up before you go. You’ll likely be a hot little thing up there and they might skip the foreplay. Oh yea, I’m not certain they’ll call raping you in the shower “horseplay” but I’m absolutely certain you’ll know how to play.”

Rotten child raping motherfucker. Now it appears that he adopted a boy to help fill his dance card when kiddie camp was out of season.

And now I need to remember to tell you that I’m taking the dogs and the fucking cat on a road trip over to New Mexico a week from today. We’ll be looking for a little place over to Santa Fe where we can go when we need to escape the heat and conservative Christian assholes here to home. I ordered a 14-foot truckload of Carta Blanca beer for the wedding and I hope to have a few cases left by the time we leave. We’re taking the route that goes through Lubbock but won’t have time to visit my buddy Pat Metze. But I’ll catch him next trip.

One of our side trips is to head west to hunt Peyote buttons. For some reason, the fucking cat can’t catch a buzz off mushrooms. Streaker Jones suggested that we try Peyote and I firmly believe that anyone’s first Peyote needs to be hunted down in person.

Anyway, I need to take Mother to her Hotel and then drop the bride and groom off to Emory Express for their trip to Costa Rica. Gram and Aunt Hilda went down with the P-cubed yesterday to set up the honeymoon suite and to un-crate the lovers upon their arrival.

Manana, y’all.

 

 

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Mooner Proves Global Warming; Fuck Rick Perry Anyway

Thursday, May 31st, 2012

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

National security can be aggravating.

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

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

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

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

Manana, y’all.

 

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More On Beers With God; Yoda Is A Goat

Saturday, May 26th, 2012

 

So. The advertising blitzkrieg for this fall’s elections is gathering steam and I, quite simply, don’t give a shit. Other than poker shows and sporting events and an occasional newscast, I have stopped watching TV. The regularly-scheduled pablum drives me nuts and HBO and Showtime are in reruns. So I don’t have to listen to all the bullshit attack ads infesting the airwaves.

OK, one paragraph in and I’ve already lied to you. I admitedly was watching American Idol and only because Joshua Ledet—a soulful kid with an actual voice who moved me to tears a few times—was the show’s front runner. But once again, the program is misnamed and the one actual pop artist was voted off the show. They need to rename it America Idolizes Pretty Boys With Guitars. I refused to watch this year’s final shows and only know that the guitar-toting pretty boy won because Mother beat me to the newspaper yesterday morning.

I slept late after my extended visit with god the night before, sleeping the sleep of the blessed. I think anyone god calls “Dude” has to be blessed and I know for a fact that god doesn’t call Pat Robertson dude. I learned that my mother set an early alarm so that she could be waiting out to the Ranch Road for the paper to arrive—her effort to control the news. With all the rain we’ve had combined with hot temps, the mo-squeeters are out in abundances. Gram calls them mo-squeeters and right now there is mo of the pesky little fuckers than I can recall ever having this early in the year.

I think if I was a terrorist I’d find a way to use skeeters to bring down my enemy. Plant something in the little bastards salivary glands that turns victims into Modern American christian conservatives. Some sort of gene altering substances. If we all thought the same things as those silly assholes, our society would crumble faster than you can say, “Roman Empire.” We’d be so dumb after two generations that we’d be eating our own young.

I rolled out of bed, let the animals outside to perform their rituals and brushed my teeth before heading to the big kitchen for coffee. I like to grab a cup right away and take it on my walk to get the newspaper.

“Ya don’t need ta fetch tha paper, Mooner. Yer sassy-ass mother headed out three hours back. She’s not back in a few, we’ll need to call the shurff.” Gram took a sip of her moonshine laced milk glass, the drink a morning ritual as long as I’ve known the old bag, and said, “Bugs is so bad she’ll be needin’ hersef a trans-gluin, anna dose a quit-yer-ninnie too.”

“I think you might be right. Maybe the Sheriff can bring the transfusion and quinine when he comes to inspect the scene of the crime. The skeeters are swarming and a person’s only got so much blood.”

Mother and I share the same O-negative blood and I started wondering if I gave her a few pints of mine to replace what the mosquitoes steal if it would effect her politics. I heard the sound of tires on the gravel driveway between the back door and the barn, then two doors slamming shut. The paper lady, Guadalupe Morales-Sanchez, opened the door for Mother to enter. She was patting Mother’s back and saying, “You’ll be OK, mamasita, jus’ don’ scratch nothing.”

My mother was quite a sight. She was blistered from head-to-her open-toe sandaled feet, the bites angry red whelps. “Betcha can’t stick a quarter anywheres on her ass an not hit a bumper,” Gram giggled. “Who’s got a quarter?”

“Jesus, Mother, but you’re a mess,” I told her. “Can I get you anything?”

“You can get the Ivory soap and wash your filthy mouth,” an admonishment in return for my concern. She threw the unwrapped newspaper at my chest, and as the loose sheets of newsprint fluttered to the floor, said to me, she said, “This is all you’re fault, Mooner. You are an ungrateful, sacrilegious disappointment to me—have been all your rotten life.”

Mother looked around the table of Johnsons and Johnson friends for a second, got nothing but giggles at her plight. She took the twenty paces from where she scolded me to the arched doorway to her side of the house. She stopped and whirled on the room, and pointed her finger at me, then in turn at Gram, P-cubed, Aunt Hilda, Sister and Anna. “You, Mooner, and you and you and especially you two lesbians, are all going to Hell.” Mother glared at us each in turn, then said, Oh, and Phillip Phillips won Idol.”

After pronouncing our group sentence of eternity down to Hell, Mother whipped back around and disappeared down the hall. “Don’t take much ta twist her panties in a wad, does it?” Gram drained her moonshine milk glass and set it carefully back on the stoneware coaster I made for her birthday when I was a kid. It was made of brownish rough clay, shaped like a small lilly pad and in my handwriting said, “Best gramother in the world”.

Gram started laughing again and giggled out, “I bet she’s got a dose a tha ceptamorgalitus from them mo-squeeters. Er maybe the delaria or the dispensaries.”

Huh? I got the malaria part but the other two maladies escaped me for a second. “What are you yapping about old woman, malaria and what?” Then it came to me, “Oh, malaria and encephalitis and dysentery. I don’t think you can get the runs from the skeeters, Gram, but the others would be of concern.”

“Don’t you be talkin’ back ta me, sonny boy. When me an’ Hilda was kidnappered by the big, strong handsome Afrikin boys I got bit by one a them tootsie fly thingies an had tha squirts fer a month.”

Here, again, is a time when you need to go buy my book, Full Rising Mooner, and read the whole story about Gram and Aunt Hilda’s Baptist mission to The Congo. You’ll be glad you did and so will I. Only 187,562 more sales and I’ll break even on the book.

The rest of the morning went without incident and I need to update you on the wedding plans. There will be no wedding this weekend but there may be a wedding in the future. I brought Rush Limbaugh home for a visit this morning and for the first time since last week, the ostrich didn’t try to peck his eyes out or bash his brains with his iron hard ostrich head. Squirt tells me that Ricky has softened a little since catching the big pig porking the neighbor’s hogs, so I let Rush stay out in the corral and he’ll go fishing with us, which is what is next on the agenda after I finish with you guys.

Oh, and get this. Yoda has started biting chunks out of my big green tomatoes. He’ll disappear, prancing down the tomato rows like a show dog at Westminster. When he finds suitable fodder he takes one bite from a tomato as it hangs on its vine and then look for another victim. I’m telling you this dog’s DNA is loaded with goat chromosomes.

A few hours later he’s shitting soylent green all over the fucking place. I’ve got his ass in a doggy diaper and have threatened to muzzle him if he doesn’t stop. Then the fucking cat caught a scorpion and brought it in as a present for me. Put the damned thing in my shower where it couldn’t escape the slick tiled rim. I’m in there last night relieving the pressure of not getting any sex—all lathered up and eyes pinched shut—when I feel little pinches on my foot. I looked down and almost had a heart attack.

Which reminds me that I need to go shower and finish before the fishing trip. Manana, y’all.

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Shooting The Shit With God; A Chicken Joke

Thursday, May 24th, 2012

 

So. When we left off yesterday, and actually I should say that when we petered out yesterday, Mr. Dave had made his first visit to the State of Altered Consciousnesses and I had enjoyed a visit and quite pleasant chat with god—each event the byproduct of the world’s foremost cultivator of spoors.

My best buddy Streaker Jones is THE authority on all things psilocybe and he recently supplied Gram with a bushel of Gymnopilus luteofolius, a variety he and Dixie found down to Argentina when they took a visit last winter. OK, actually they left here on a winter’s bleak afternoon and arrived down to Buenos Aires less than 24-hours later on a hot summer day. That flip-flopped seasons thingie is one of Nature’s neatest dealios. That and the International Dateline were two difficult concepts for me to grasp as a kid in geography class.

Then again, when kids suffer from infestations of the ADHD as serious as mine, you need to celebrate when they actually learn any fucking thing. Trust me when I tell you that it’s a difficult task to learn what the fuck a standard deviation is when those facts are competing with running brain tracts featuring football, dinner, Susie Ashburn’s pig tails, if you’re getting whupped for breaking Mother’s douche bag, and of course, your pecker. I’m always running a series of thoughts about my pecker.

Anyway, before I crash this jet plane with all aboard, go over to my Bloggie Roller over there ====}}} and consider buying my stupid fucking book, Full Rising Mooner. It will serve as a primer to elucidate the uninitiated mind in the lore of Streaker Jones and why he is considered the go-to man on all things spore. Which reminds me that I like to use the word spoor rather than the actual spore just to get under his skin.

And that reminds me that the objective herein was to tell you about my latest visit from god. This time, god came in the form of a shape shifter, a visage designed to prove the point he intended to be proved during his visit. At first sighting, he appeared as a giant cockroach with Edie Adams’ head and he spoke with Truman Capote’s voice. As I mentioned before, I was dosed on some delightful mushroom juice and had retired to my room to contemplate life when god appeared.

To be brutally honest, it wasn’t the first time I have seen a giant cockroach with a pretty woman’s head and a famous author’s voice. One of the best side effects of the juice are the silly visuals. But Eddie Adams was special and meaningful and so was Truman Capote. Ernie Kovacs was Granddaddy’s favorite comedian and I couldn’t take my eyes off his bombshell wife when we watched their TV show. Did you know that Ernie Kovacs was the first to employ psychedelic visual effects on TV?

So, I’m sitting in my big leather chair, feet propped on the foot stool and a warming bottle of Carta Blanca beer hanging from the fingers of my right hand as it draped off the arm rest. I was sitting somewhat sideways on the chair and the bottle was almost touching the floor. My eyes were closed and I was thinking about the empathy video Mr. Dave and I had watched over to Squatlo’s place. I was wondering to myself how it is that today’s modern American christians seem to lack empathic genes.

“For shitsakes, Mooner, you’re gonna drop that beer and make a mess.” The words were my mother’s but spoken by Truman Capote. I recognized his voice right away. He had spoken at UT when I was there and after his presentation he took us all over to the Dobie Theater to watch his new favorite movie, Where’s Poppa.

I opened my eyes to take in my visitor and wondered if it was my imagination or were Truman’s words coming from Edie’s lips while two of the roach legs twitched like roach legs tend to do.

“Not your imagination,” Truman Capote told me. “It’s me, god, and I need a little of your time.”

“Oh wow, man, have I pissed you off by not capitalizing your name and pronouns and shit? I’ve been a little uneasy about that one since taking a hard line.”

“Nope, I think that’s kind of funny, sonny boy, same as when you say the pope and Queen Elizabeth are twins separated at birth.” Here god chuckled. I remembered hearing Capote chuckle in the theater when we watched the movie—a most honest human sound.

I saw that a Carta Blanca beer bottle had simply appeared in god’s calw—bottle shimmering with cold sweat. He took a long drag from the bottle, burped what sounded like a satisfying beer belch, and said, “Mooner my man, you have no idea just how close to the truth you are on that one. I’m surprised nobody’s demanded DNA tests. Now watch me carefully because I’m going to demonstrate the point I came to make with you.”

Remember in 2001, A Space Odyssey when whathisname did the transformation sequence in the end and speed dialed from before his conception and all of that shit? You know, it was like he did a million years of evelution in just a few minutes? God did that except he was changing his shapes and forms from different combinations of things and faces and voices and stuff. Most of the forms were things I could identify, like baby seals and Marylin Monroe and Adolph Hitler’s voice. Some were the visages of gods—buddha and krishna or jesus. A few were fantastical and too weird to even start to describe.

God shifted and changed appearances and all the while spoke to me in different voices. The speech was a narrative telling me that he could be anything he choose to be. He said it over and over. When he stopped the transformations and settled on a look, he was in the form of a teenage girl speaking Valley Girl with William F. Buckley’s voice. The voice unsettled me at first.

“We-ell, have you like gotten the message yet?” god asked me.

“Aaaaaah, you’re teaching me the trick Jim Carey used in The Mask?” I’ve always wondered about that.

“No, silly,” god said, and shifted to sophisticated Willy Buckley, “I’m showing you that I can be anything I want to be. As you would say it, I can be any fucking thing I want to be.”

God gave me a minute to absorb this, then he continued. “But I said anything I want to be. I did not say that I can be anything you want me to be. Now, are you too stoned to grasp this concept or do I need to go try to speak with Pat Robertson again. That old fart hasn’t gotten a single thing I’ve told him right yet. That boy is so fucked up he’s liable to say anything and blame it on me.”

This I thought was rather funny and I started to laugh. God laughed with me, an odd sound.

“OK, god, let me see if I’m catching your drift. What you are telling me is that while you are the omnipotent one and can do or be whateverthefuck it is you want, you don’t bend to the silly will of we humans.” I looked to him for a response and realized that he now looked like Elizabeth Taylor during the time she was married to that Governor and choked on a chicken bone.

“You got the premise right, boy, now get to the punchline.”

I gave this some more thought and said to god, I said, “OK, first, was that voice Alfred Hitchcock as a young boy or was it Sir Winston Churchill sitting on the pot and straining while he spoke?”

“Neither, and you wouldn’t know the guy. I just like that sound. Now go on, answer my question.”

Elizabeth Taylor’s beautiful blue eyes watched my face as if I were the only man alive. I felt virile and strong and smart in their gaze. “Well, I guess you’re telling me that when somebody says that you are a particular something, or that you demand us to do things that don’t make any sense, that it’s bull shit. And if that’s the case, then most of the time when somebody says they talked to you, they are either lying or misstating your words.”

“Bingo, dude, you win the Cupie doll,” and indeed I had because god now looked like one of those silly plastic dolls.

“Look, Mooner, the only advice I ever have or ever will give you guys will be to take care of each other and your planet, or live happy lives and enjoy yourselves, or to be careful when assholes—like asshole politicians—tell you what to do. I don’t let you spend enough time here to spend it killing and ignoring each other.”

God took a huge bite from half a fried chicken that materialized in her fist and choked on it. I must have had a look of terror on my face at god’s choking and she burst out laughing. “I love that one, Mooner. It gets you guys every single time.”

“That wasn’t really funny, Ma’am. But what about the afterlife, god?” I asked him, “and would you change into something else, please, you’re creeping me out.”

God turned into my Gram, and with Gram’s voice, god said, “Well, ya little shitbird, ya handled that Heaven dealio tha other day with yer death penalty question.”

Huh?

“Oh, right,” I said. “So you liked that one?”

“Look, son. If you want to get to Heaven you just pretend I’m standing by the pearly gates with the automatic door opener in one hand and the elevator button in the other. You get one chance to answer a question right and the questions are all yes-or-no answers. I get to ask the question and I pick the question based upon how you lived your life. Get it right, come on in. Get it wrong and you burn in Hell.”

And she was gone. All that was left was a chill in the air and the perfume of cast iron skillet cooked Southern fried chicken. Can you imagine the thought of giving god the Heimlich Maneuver? That little stunt scared me shitless. But it was pretty funny now that I can reflect backwards on it.

I should have a moral to this story for you and I do. I’m simply not going to tell you my final thoughts. You figure out what god meant for yourself. I think that’s what god would want. Manana, y’all.

 

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Mr. Dave Takes A Trip; Is Empathy The Answer?

Wednesday, May 23rd, 2012

 

So. I find myself mostly happy today and not as unsettled as has been my typical disposition of late. I credit having come to grips with my sensibilities re: my mother and the early crop of tomatoes now appearing out to the big garden. Nothing says “Peace and harmony,” like a big helping of ham with a slice of sweet onion topped with thick slabs of purple Cherokee two-mater. Gram sometimes says, “Two-maters.” A fresh grind of salt and pepper and slap yo Momma!

Why do we say something is so good we want to slap our mother? That one has never made any sense to me. Not that I’ve never felt that urge, but that particular urge doesn’t strike me when things are good. Or when things are well either.

And speaking of urges, a word I’m told by my dictionary is rooted in the other word urgent, which confuses me because it seems that urge would be the root word. Or maybe the root is “urg” and now my brain hurts.

Ugh. I feel like that John Cleese character from Monty Python who used to say, “My brain… HURTS!” He said it just like that.

Actually, as I said before, I’m happy and quite pleased with myself. I’ve grown less apt to slap my mother since accepting that she is a right-wing religious asshole, and agreeing with her that I’m an ungrateful giant prick of a son.

And speaking of giant pricks, Mr. Dave cornered me yesterday when I was out to Gram’s potion pantry which is headquartered in the barn. Streaker Jones and Dixie came over last weekend and brought Gram some mushrooms grown from spoors gathered from cow patties down to Argentina somewhere. Gram used them in a summertime potion she calls “Bring on tha heat, bitch, I’m too stoned ta give a shit.”

I had just downed a taster of the magic mushroom juice when Mr. Dave walked into the pantry. I was washing away the taste of skunk venom with a guzzle of Carta Blanca beer when he did a polite cough and said to me, he said, “Uh, Mr. Johnson, might I ask a favor of you?” Gram sometimes uses skunk venom in her potions. Buy my stupid fucking book to learn why. You can clink on the linksters over there ====}}}}} to buy it.

“Mr. Dave, my giant-peckered savior, anything you want as long as you call me Mooner,” I told him. He had a grave look plastered to his face and he started to shuffle his feet. “Are you OK, Mr. Dave? Please don’t tell me your pecker is broken—I’ll get the doctor to race right over.” I might be tempted to kill myself if Mr. Dave can’t service all these Johnson women for me. I really don’t want to go backwards from the nice place I’m in.

“Oh, that’s not it, Mister, uh, M-Mooner. I was wondering if I might try some of that potion with you. I’ve never used any of those hippie drugs and I think I’ve missed out on some fun. I’ve missed out on a lot of fun in my life, Mooner, and you’ve taught me that life’s too short and precious to pass on the good times.”

“Alright, sir, then let’s us get you started with my primer for first time trippers,” I told him, and I did. We spent an hour drinking beers and discussing the many aspects of first time hallucinogenics consumption. Since I already knew that Mr. Dave has the health of a forty-year-old man, I didn’t feel compelled to make him get a physical first. So I dosed him from the little tincture bottle, took a second pull for myself, and we continued to talk of life and women and history and war and religion.

And as the potion started to work on his brain, the conversation turned to sex and he started to talk about sexing the Johnson family women. I do not EVER get wasted enough to hear that shit and I did my best to talk him onto less infertile ground. I had my laptop so I conjured up my bloggie and clicked the Roller and hit Squatlo’s place.

This linkster is what popped up:

http://squatlo-rant.blogspot.com/2012/05/take-ten-minutes-to-consider-evolution.html

 

Take a few minutes to watch this animated video about empathy and then come back. OK, now you know what Mr. Dave and I watched as he was taking his first trip with magic mushrooms.

We watched it maybe 36 times and found new meanings each of the 36 watches. My first movie while dosed by one of Gram’s potions was From Here To Eternity. It was a winter when I was just a kid and was receiving Gram’s potions for constipation, and the whole family went to the drive-in theater to see the movie. I was farting so much that they set me on a lawn chair in front of the car. All I really remember about the movie was that the actors were at the beach while I was freezing my ass off.

Anyway, Mr. Dave had a really good trip and has discovered the he one, really likes mushroom juice, and two, he’s going to get Mother to take a taste of mushrooms and watch the empathy video with him. “Your mother needs to loosen up and have some fun beside having sex with me.”

I told him I agree and added that he might want to make those requests before he sexes her—while her blood is running hot.

Me, I had another visit from god last night and I’ll tell y’all about that manana.

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Mothers Day Card Catastrophe; Valentine Michael Smith Visits Johnson Family Ranch

Tuesday, May 15th, 2012

 

So. Here we all are at the end of another Mothers Day Sunday, and as per usual—I’m lost. I’ve often felt as if I’m the stranger in a strange land—occurrences that have become almost expected routine for this ADHD-addled fuckbrain. The human race loves “typical” and “normal” and “average” in its populace and has little affection for “different” or “weird” or “unusual”[.]

Or “strange” and most especially, strange.

When we think of acceptability indexes, the statistical bell curve analysis is standard procedure for we humans. When it comes to brain power, the average IQ is set to the bias of 100 Quotient Points. For each age group, the median IQ will be 100 when any statistically accurate number of people take the same test. If I was computer literate I’d draw you a picture of a bell curve and show you the spot at which the 100 Quotient Points median average lay. Or where it lie. Maybe the median average would lie.

Actually, I think most statistics lie because politicians and other marketing assholes use statistics to twist both the results and truth. How often have you heard the same set of facts used to support opposite sides of the same argument by politicians? Too fucking many.

When someone commits a crime and police have an eye witness to interview, the resultant BOLO says, “Be on the lookout for a man of average height and weight and no visible scars or tattoos. Man is armed and dangerous—do not approach.” The reason for that is simple: The average man is average in weight and height and has no scars or tattoos to be seen when fully dressed, he committed his latest crime with a weapon and he likely isn’t interested in anything you might have to say to him.

When discussing their children, the only parents who find an “Average” evaluation of health, growth, maturity or other measurable attributes to be unacceptable, are parents considered as obsessive or demanding of their kids. As a species, we tend to seek accomplishments that are anywhere above the average. As long as we are “above average”, as long as our IQ is at least 101, we’re fine at school or work, and in our interpersonal relationships.

Trust me on this. If you are considered to be an above average lover you’ll be getting you some loving.

OK, stop. I’m starting to allow that self-same ADHD mentioned above to Engineer the train rather than play our Conductor. What I’m trying to say is that today is Mothers Day and I’m feeling like a motherless child. I feel like Valentine Michael Smith, Robert Heinlein’s orphaned human from Mars who returns to Earth and finds that he is different—unusual, weird and unusual; strange.

I’m feeling much akin to VMS in A Stranger in a Strange Land. He was an inventor, like me. Of course his inventions included a method for interplanetary space travel and my best is in organic erosion controls. While I consider my efforts to protect Mother Earth to be important, I feel that we have already fucked things up so badly around here that Mr. Smith’s method will be much desired in the not-too-distant future. We’ll all be wanting to escape to Mars where the air will be safer to breathe and there might still be some potable water left unfouled.

He was also innovative, like me. He had 100% full control over his mind, a wonderful innovation. Me, I have singlehandedly developed a way to save our world’s precious water supplies by a most simplistic method. I pee in sinks to save water. Everywhere I go I pee in sinks—at home, the office, your home and office, restaurants, the dentist’s office, the homes of my Bloggie buddies in other states. I’m a sink-peeing machine.

Smith and his Martian surrogate parents knew the value of water. They had a special bonding ceremony that centered around sharing a glass of water. Becoming “water brothers” on water-starved Mars was religious.

Of course if humans could fully control their minds, and we all understood the value of H2O, we wouldn’t be spoiling our environment and wasting our water. The rest of you would be peeing in sinks just as I do.

And if we could control our minds I wouldn’t be an ADHD-addled redneck fuckbrain and you’d be far less confused at this stage of the story.

Anyway, sitting here this Mothers Day afternoon I feel like a stranger in my own land. I feel like Valentine Michael Smith except in reverse. Valentine came to earth to find himself the stranger and I find myself strange in my own home. The root cause for my feeling out of place lies in my attempt to be an average son today—a son performing Mothers Day rituals with love.

There have been high levels of tension between my mother and me for quite some time. OK, there has always been tension between Mother and me. In Mother’s eyes, I exited her womb with my first conscious act one of defiance to her and I’ve not stopped defying and embarrassing her since. Within minutes of birth, while not peeing in the sink, I did pee all over the operating room and its inhabitants. That story is available in my book, Full Rising Mooner, which is available over there =====}}}}} to the Bloggie Roller. The book has been well reviewed and a few non professional readers have actually had nice things to say about it. Then again, I’ve been told that I’m no Hemingway and should be embarrassed for myself.

The normal levels of tension between Mother and me have been exacerbated by today’s Modern American christianity and the asinine political environment created by those christians. The “little c” christians are ruining the social fabric of my country with their bigoted interpretations of their bible (a small b word to me), and the resultant political issues that have arisen therefrom have served to heighten the discord between mother and son.

Today I wanted to make my best effort to repair some of the torn fabric of our relationship. Today I wished to find some common ground with Mother. I used Mothers Day as a canvas to paint an improved landscape of harmonious family relations.

It started several weeks ago when I had an artist buddy make us some Mothers Day cards to be given the mothers by the entire brood. I had giant cards made for each mother in attendance at today’s big MD brunch I prepared here to the ranch. Each 8.5 X 11-inch card was specialized to the individual mother, and each was signed with a personalized message from the rest of us. I had cards made for Mother, Gram, the P-cubed (whose only son was killed in Viet Nam), Aunt Hilda (not an actual birth giver, yet as mother to her shrunken head in a box a mother in my eyes) and the Squirt. Squirt got a card because she serves as mother hen to the menagerie of animals I call my kids.

I had everyone sign every card for the ladies of the Johnson family ranch. Everyone not a mother was required to say the nicest things they could about each mother and then sign their name, or make their mark. Some of the sentiments were sappy, some were funny and some were strained. The most visibly strained was Rush Limbaugh’s note to Gram on her card. It said, “Happy Mothers Day, Gram. I love you even though you want to kill me and slow-smoke my carcass over apple wood.” He signed his card by rubbing his snout on the ink pad and then pressing it to the paper.

It was the sentiments of my gay pig and his ostrich lover that managed to mangle the mood at brunch and put me in my funk. I handed out cards one at a time and saved Mother’s for last. Each lady read her card and the messages and we laughed and teared with each mother in turn. Gram actually hugged Rush and then threatened him with untimely death if he messes with her potion pantry.

I found an old photo of P-cubed’s son and included it with her card. It was from a time when all of us boys were in a garage band called The Stoners. He was the only one with real talent and he could sing like a canary. Penelope Paxon-Parades thanked me with a snotty kiss after she saw the photo, and poked fun at Rick Perry. The big ostrich had used his new titties to make his mark and the big smudges on her card looked like a Van Gogh painting.

When I got to my mother’s card, I handed it to her with a flourish, kissed the top of her head and said, “Happy Mothers Day, Mother. I love you and I hope you like your card.”

“Thank you, son,” she said, and she leaned the big envelope against her chair on the floor and started picking at the remnants of smoked quail on her plate. Mother’s favorite thing I cook is smoked quail.

Mother just sat, staring at the quail bones as she pushed them back-and-forth on the plate. We were all staring at her staring at quail bones. After what seemed like an hour of tense quiet, in her martyred-most voice Mother said, “I don’t know what I did to deserve this.”

Huh?

“Is something wrong?” I asked, “are you OK?”

I thought my mom was overcome with emotions at the outpouring of loving sentiments at the family table, so I said, “It’s OK, Mother, you can read it later.”

Without looking at me, my mother asked, “Did everyone sign my card who signed the others?”

“Of course,” I happily said, “everyone here wanted to tell you what you mean to them. Especially Sister and Anna. And me.”

My sister and her wife have been subjected to as much of Mother’s nastiness as have I. The three of us talked at length about making a big effort to mend our fences with her. Each of us had made apologies and special pleas for peace and written them on the card.

“I’ll have nothing to do with this sacrilege. I’ll not endorse the desecration of holy matrimony by my very own children. How could you have homo-sex-u-als sign my Mothers Day card when you know how I feel?”

With that outburst, Mother almost jumped to her feet and threw her napkin at the table. The pretty red-and-white checked thin linen landed in the BBQ sauce like a butterfly and then sank in slow motion. When it had settled, Mother turned to point a finger at me, and said, she screamed at me, “You have ruined another special occasion, Mooner. This was MY Mothers Day. You ruined MY DAY!”

She bent and picked the card off the floor and threw it at me like a Frisbee. My reflexes were as stunned as my mind and I wasn’t quick enough to get out of its way. The corner of the envelope hit my cheek just under my eye and tore a small jagged cut that started to bleed as faces tend to do. I didn’t feel the cut until a drop of blood hit the tablecloth next to my Carta Blanca beer bottle. The table cloth matched the linen napkins and my blood made a nice contrast on the red and white linen.

Like I said, I’m feeling like a stranger in my own land. But at least I’m not an average BOLO notification. “Be on the lookout for an abnormal male, 6′ 4” tall, 240 pounds, an above-average lover with a small crescent-shaped scar near his left eye. Suspect is unarmed, but dangerous, and wanted for conduct unbecoming a son. Right-wing religious republican assholes should approach with extreme caution.”

Manana, y’all.”

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Freak Storm Slams Garden; Mooner Memories

Tuesday, May 8th, 2012

 

So. We had a freakish storm roll through last night, one of those way more significant than expected events. Here to the ranch we got almost 2 inches of rain, a lightening show and heavy winds with 60-MPH-plus gusts. As soon as it’s dry enough to walk out there, I’ll give the garden a close-up inspection.

From the looks of things from the back porch, most of my tomatoes and peppers were slammed to the ground and much of my herb plantings are twisted and broken. It looked as though a war had been fought and my plants were the sad casualties of vicious hand-to-hand combat. I came back inside after reviewing the battlefield from afar, and I sat to breakfast with the family. I had taken a big mug of coffee with me when I walked outside at first light. The storm was a noisy bastard and the rain pelted the metal roof of the ranch house without mercy and a mug of Joe was a needed accessory.

I’d fortified my coffee with a slug of Kahlua and a second dosing of dark rum in anticipation of expected findings. I sat at the big table, then stood again to refill coffee, Kahlua and rum, all three.

“Sonofabitch,” I said to the coffee press, “son… of… a… bitch!”

When the French coffee-making wonder failed to respond, I turned back to the table and walked to my seat, sat. They were quiet. Everyone knows how I feel about our garden. For whatever reason, the over-sized vegetable patch I tend represents many things to me. My past—planting and weeding and watching and de-bugging and harvesting at my elders’ sides—sweating in the sweltering Texas summer while I learned the lessons of my family’s experience. I was reminded at that moment that Mother never worked the garden—Daddy and Granddaddy wouldn’t have it.

The garden has always felt like the future as well. It was in that garden that I first discovered that compost and mulch will control soil erosion better than any man made erosion control device. It was upon that discovery that I developed commercial methods to use compost and mulch as accepted methods by the Texas Department of Transportation and received an Environmental Excellence Award for my efforts. I think that sometime in the future we’ll use Mother Nature’s best ideas of planet protection to protect our planet.

Mother Nature is one smart bitch.

Food production from that patch of dirt also represents my most important charitable donations. I give money just as most caring humans do, but it is the gifts of produce that give the most back to me. Food Bank gifts are typically canned or packaged foods that taste of cardboard and modern food processing—the shit I want to spit out now that I eat mostly fresh foods. My gifts are home grown and produced with the highest organic standards anywhere. Knowing that at least a small bit of a needy family’s rations are of the highest quality available is a comfort to me.

But most of all, that garden represents Austin to me. As silly as it sounds, I have always seen the ebb and flow of that garden as the not-so metaphorical representation of my beloved Texas capitol. The better the garden does the more I love my city. When times are tough in the garden—my city and I are in conflict.

“Sonofabitch,” I now said to the seated Johnsons and Johnson family supporting cast. “First the drought, then the grasshoppers, then the hail storm, drought then heat then drought, and now this. Last night’s winds have torn the garden to shreds. Son… of… a… bitch.” The last was said as if they were the last four words of a dying man. I felt deflated, defeated.

Mother lowered the newspaper and said to me, she said, “You brought it on yourself, Mooner Johnson, the Seven Years of Pestilence are on your soul. Pastor Browningwell and I both have warned you about your wicked ways,” and here she chuckled, “and God has sent the message,” she chuckled some more and smiled this shit-eating grin that makes me want to stick a serrated blade between her ribs.

“Sooner or later you’re going to repent, son, or God is going to strike you down. You should listen to your readers. Some of your readers have keen insight.” Having had her say, Mother hid her face back behind the paper and I started steaming—the slow-burn of an overfilled pressure cooker.

I remembered why Mother never worked the garden. My granddaddy had banned her before I was old enough to remember. He couldn’t take my mother’s constant bitchy banter. I hissed what I hoped to be a cleansing breath then gulped a lungful of air, released that slowly as well.

“Mother,” I started, “I would be most grateful if you wouldn’t get all up in my ass this morning. You know how important the garden is to me.”

I hissed out another breath over the rim of my coffee mug to cool the surface. I inhaled the coffee and its sweet alcohol fragrance filled my head. I was reminded of my third honeymoon—the first one to Mexico. Anna the Amazon, who was seated on my left and next to Sister, was my then new bride. If you buy my silly fucking book you can hear all about that honeymoon and how Anna and Sister kept me out of a Mexican jail. Kept me from serious physical harm as well.

I think it was when we were on our honeymoon that Anna concluded that she is a lesbian woman and unfit for marriage to the male Johnson offspring. At this morning’s breakfast, she was seated between her ex-husband and her current wife, a circumstance most people are incapable of experiencing. Anna said, “Isn’t that what we drank sitting in bed on our honeymoon, Mooner,” and she took my mug from my grasp.

She sniffed, sighed and sipped. “Yes-siree-Bob, that’s it! I love that smell and taste. Will you make me one, please?”

“Me too,” was a chorus from all at the table save Mother.

I busied myself with the French presses and mugs and boiling water, and the alcoholic additives, and forgot about my damaged garden. I made the coffees as we talked about our marriage and Anna’s transformation into Sister’s wife. I started thinking back on my few weeks of marriage to Anna and her telling me she had something to tell me. I have always known that my sister is a lesbian. She knew from her first breath and was proud to be so. But Anna was closeted until we married, and she came out to me. I’ll never forget how tortured she was to admit her homosexuality and how she cried and apologized to me for ending our marriage.

I loved Anna more in her confessions than in our life together. I am constantly amazed at the courage gay people display when they come out. Fuck it, gay people astound me just in their gayness. The courage I see in today’s gay America is a wonderful thing to see.

I was standing in my role as barrista and thinking of just how proud I am of her and my little sister when I heard the newspaper slap into Mother’s lap. “This is disgusting, you talking about spoiling the sanctity of marriage and then all of this homo-sex-ual talk. God has spoken, Mooner, and He’ll speak again if you don’t change your ways.”

I felt my eyes bulge and my ears pop from the spike in blood pressure at Mother’s words. I was processing the thousand different thoughts and actions I was ready to use when Gram slammed her hand on the table. The plates and silver jumped with the force of her blow and made a rattle. “Goddammit, Mother, I’ve got a total full belly a yer shit. Put some shoes on an meet me in tha barn.”

Gram pushed her chair back and stood up, pointed a bony finger across the table at my mother. “Git yer ass outta that chair, goddamit, I’mma whup it an stuff yer carcass inna trunk.”

Spittle was flying from Gram’s mouth as she spat out the words. Her face was crimson with rage. “You ain’t no Christian, Mother, yer a asshole just like tha fucking Governor. I’mma kick yer ass like Rick Perry’s daddy should done his.”

How much do I love my grandmother? There wasn’t a fistfight but only because Mr. Dave brokered a thin peace. This wasn’t the first time the giant-peckered old geezer had negotiated calm at my table and likely it won’t be the last. I’m starting to think that having an elephant-sized penis might be a source of insight. Then again, Mr. Dave is an elegant, eloquent man. A gentleman.

But I learned a valuable lesson with all of this, actually two lessons. I learned that I’m losing interest in anything my mother has to say—her integrity of thought is seriously flawed and her logic is twisted. I think I can fight with her far less because I get it that she will never change. She’ll always be a bigoted, sanctimonious right-wing religious fuckball.

Also learned is that Austin isn’t what it used to be. People like my mother were in the minority and were silent as such. They now seem to be everywhere and Austin seems like baby Dallas—a smaller, more hip but less sophisticated version of Texas’ dumbest city. I don’t like Austin like I used to.

Ugh. I need beer. Manana, y’all.

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How Many Servings Of Shit Today, Sir? A Fish Story

Monday, April 30th, 2012

 

So. Every time I think I have my life together to the point where I can relax with said life, somebody shits in my mess kit. It seems this has been a staple of my existence since that moment in time between my exit from my mother’s womb, and my first breath. If you’ll click over there ====}}}} to the Bloggie Roller and check out the many options for my book, Full Rising Mooner, you can see how to buy the silly fucking book wherein you’ll find the story as to what happened in those first few seconds of life that set the stage.

Buy the book and flip to Chapter Five for the story. From there you can see how life manages to stay interesting here to Loony Land. There are many other chapters and each is full of interesting things. In fact, when asked what they think after reading my book, most readers report, “Hmmm. Interesting.”

By way of background, many pestering things have been resolved over the last few years, things that put considerable tension into my life. The major issues were: I had the lower-peritoneal ass infection that turned into a systemic malady that nearly put me down, resolved with three ass operations; Dixie asked for early retirement as my translator and we found the Squirt to replace her; I was required to find a cat who would adopt me and Honor the fucking cat filled that bill; and I had a little legal issue not related to jail that is complete, no facts of which shall appear herein.

Oh yea, then there was that entire thingie where I was arrested for murder and jailed in the Loony Bin over to Shoal Creek Mental. That story is the backbone of Full Rising Mooner and I’ll say nothing more except to say that since I’m talking to you now, I obviously wasn’t fried in the electric chair.

Current problems on my plate include: The pending nuptials of Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh; the lack of sexing caused by the continued absence of SAC Ellen; and the simple fact that my mother is a right-wing christian religious republican shitball living under my roof and spouting her bullshit with regularity.

I’m dealing with these current items with integrity, pure thought and aplomb. The wedding is scheduled and on schedule thanks to Dixie—our newly-hired wedding planner—and in no large part because I’ve banished Rush Limbaugh to the neighbor’s pig farm. Ever since I brought Rick Perry home with his new titties, the giant hog won’t stay off him long enough to size the ostrich’s wedding dress. So I sent him next door for most of a month until the rehearsal dinner. The neighbor owes me a huge favor, an almost even trade.

Dixie is a pissy old bitch, but her organizational skills are a marvel, and she loves my lame brained ostrich. “Stay out of this, Mooner, and let me do my job,” my adorable Golden Retriever told me. “If you start fucking with it I’ll leave you at the alter.” Then she laughed, a sound not a distant cousin to a whinny.

As for my sexual needs, please allow me to say two words: Ivory Soap.

My Mother being an asshole is a thorny issue, but thorny issues are my middle name. I’ve been getting extra therapy to learn better ways to deal with my maternal unit and it seems to be helping. Instead of the usual thirty times per day, I only want to choke the life from her maybe twenty-two or three times. That’s real progress by any measure.

However, it was in a psycho therapy session that the most recent serving of shit hit my plate. I was laying on the leather couch in Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s office spilling my guts about how much pleasure I think would be derived with the actual choking of Mother with my bare hands. The couch is a big grape-colored jobbie with that soft tanning that isn’t suede but is just as soft. I think they call it “butter” tanning. I’ll check the receipt from when I bought it and let you know exactly what it’s called. I like to get comfy on my back with one foot hanging on the floor and the other draped over the back cushion. The leather makes a different sound than regular, stiff leather when you fidget around. Instead of “creaking” like typical stiff leather does, this couch almost moans.

This couch has induced numerous boners during therapeutic sessions.

“I don’t even know a way to tell you how good it is in my imagination to be squeezing Mother’s neck and watching her beady eyes start to pop out,” I was saying in that last session. “I was envisioning a giant zit that needed to be popped. It’s like I can feel her neck bones and tendons and shit oozing between my fingers as I apply more pressure.”

“Uh, Mooner, I’ve got something to tell you,” was the good doctor’s response to my confession. “Sit up and look at me because you won’t like this.”

I scrambled to my feet and jumped across the room to loom over her at her desk. I have never liked anything said to me that starts with, “Uh, Mooner, I’ve got something to tell you.” Never, no way has anything resembling good news followed those words.

I pointed my finger her direction and said to her, I said, “I will not go back to that fucking Loony Bin. I’m not planning Mother’s murder, just thinking how I’d do it. Planning would require me to write a date on the calendar, not just decide on a season. ‘Sometime this winter’ is not a plan.”

“Oh, sit down, dumbass, this is something different.” When I didn’t sit on command, she said, “If you don’t sit I will send you to Shoal Creek. Now sit!

I sat, thinking again what a comfortable piece of furniture it was. “I remember when I had to buy this couch for you,” I told her. “It was that time when I left the cooler of fish for you in your office and didn’t know you’d left town for a week.”

“No, Mooner, it was the time you brought Rush Limbaugh in for a session and he freaked out when I asked about his childhood. Your pig destroyed the furniture you bought after the fish incident and you bought the leather after that. Now shut up and listen to me.”

Here Dr. Sam fussed with her hair and adjusted the bracelet our children gave her. Anytime I see her mess with the thick gold rope she wears on her left wrist I know it’s something about her and not about me.

“Are you OK? Oh, god, you have cancer.” I try to not jump my conclusions but sometimes…

“Oh, I’m fine. It’s just that… I ah, well… Unh… Oh for shitsakes, Mooner, I’ve started dating a man and I wanted you to hear it from me and not on the street.”

“Huh?” my best response.

“Yes, and I need you to stay totally and completely out of it.”

I picked my chin off the floor and said, “Who is he? I’ll get Streaker Jones and Dixie to vet him. Is he a local boy or imported? You know Dixie has friends at INTERPOL.”

“Dammit, Mooner, listen!” Sammie almost yelled. “I want you to leave this alone. It’s been ten years since I even wanted to date a man and you remember what happened the last time, don’t you?”

When I didn’t answer, she asked again, “Well, don’t you?”

“Yea,” from me like I was a kid made by his mother to tell his father how he broke the house while daddy was at work. “I did some digging around and thought I found out that he was a serial killer and then you had me locked up over to the Loony Bin.”

“Yes, I locked you up at Shoal Creek to prevent him from pressing charges. And I can’t have you kidnapping any more men I might date. I need you to let this alone, Mooner. Com-pletely.”

That was this morning, that therapy session. I’ve already got my private investigator following her so I’ll have a name soon. Once I know who he is I can get to work.

I really don’t have time for this now but it’s my job to keep Sammie safe, and my first ex-wife needs my assistance. I just wish she’d wait until after the wedding to do this to me. My responsibility plate is already got shit falling off the sides.

Which reminds me. I’ve heard much of the stuff from the Presidential Roast, and I’m proud of my President. No corncob up his ass.

Manana, y’all.

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Gnewbt Quits Race, Keeps Horse; How Do You Plan A Gay Wedding?

Thursday, April 26th, 2012

 

So. After yesterday’s Republican primaries, Gnewbt Gangreenich has decided that he can no longer stay the course and will be quitting the race for President. Old Gnewbt rides a dead political horse way longer than he sticks in the saddle of marriage. His ex-wife was still breathing and had a prognosis for a reasonable recovery yet he left her for dead in her hospital room for his next, younger filly.

But he kept riding his dead Presidential campaign after its cancer killed it in Iowa and it’s bones lay picked clean by Herr Schmidt Rommel. Maybe his conversion to catholicism will improve the imitation Pillsbury dough boy’s stamina with his wives as well. Then again, Mz. Callista might be certain to do as much preventative medicating as she can get under her hubby’s free-for-life best-in-America health care coverage.

Isn’t it interesting that when, as available choices, the republican party had Michelle “My husband is NOT Homosexual” Bachmann, Prick Perry, the other prick, Rick Santorum, Herman “Fucking a white woman ain’t extra-marital sex” Cain, and the Gnewbt as candidates, they chose Herr Rommel. Five solid, all the fucking way-to-the- right actual christians to pick from, and the republicans have chosen the pseudo christian, left-to-right-and-back-again flippy-flopper who started the universal health care program while Governor of Mash-yer-choo-coos.

That’s what Gram calls the Pilgrim State, Mashyerchoochoos. At least I can spell Gram’s version. I’m college educated and I can’t spell the actual name. Don’t give a shit that I can’t, but I can’t.

BTW, thanks for asking, but Gram managed to pass the dozen extra-large glass balls she got stuck up her ass when the cord broke on her anal beads. Assuming the word “pass” is appropriate for having said glass bullets shoot out like metal ball bearings from a surgical rubber slingshot. Broke her toilet bowl—the bottom only—shattered her dressing mirror, and one of the missiles hit Mr. Dave a glancing blow after it ricocheted off the Saltillo tile in Gram’s bathroom.

When we were kids, Streaker Jones figured out how to use surgical rubber, like what they use to tie you off for blood pressure, to make slingshots. We used to make surgical rubber slingshots and sell them to other kids—not our first business together but one of the more profitable of our childhood. His daddy was dating a nurse up to the big hospital and she would bring the rubber tubes to us as a way to his daddy’s heart. If you want to learn about Streaker Jones’ daddy—a Peyote Indian Medicine Man—buy my stupid fucking book. Click over there =====}}}}} to one of the linksters for Full Rising Mooner and check it out.

Which reminds me. Sometime in the last month I misnamed the title of my book inside one of the wordy writings here to Loonyland. Be the first to catch and comment with its location and win a prize. If you don’t have a book, I’ll send you one with a personalized inscription. If you have a book already, first allow me to say ”Thanks” and second let me state for the record that I’ll figure something out to send you.

Anyway, this one time Streaker Jones and I were in town with a bag of slingshots that we were selling at the middle school. We had a bunch of glass marbles as demonstration projectiles and we were shooting them at a watermelon at the sports field. Actually, this was long ago enough that it was a football field because football was all that played there. Nobody had ever heard of soccer.

We had the melon at about the fifty yard line and we were standing at the ten, plucking away. As I recall, the watermelon was from a farm down to Gonzales and taken in trade from a migrant worker who wanted one of our slingshots to hunt food. I don’t remember what we were charging, but if a kid could hit the melon with one shot we’d give him a discount and, obviously, the value approached that of a ripe, 12-pound watermelon. Streaker Jones is a brilliant marketing man and most of our smart marketing moves are his. To this day, our smart moves are usually his ideas.

We’re doing a brisk slingshot business and this big kid walks up to our group—high school age punk with a tall greaser haircut and pointy shoes with toe and heel taps. Had a wire clothes hanger-and-rubber band slingshot hanging out his back pocket.

“Hey punks, what’s that?” the hoodlum asked. Back then we called those guys hoodlums.

I told him and started my sales pitch while Streaker Jones took off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Streaker Jones has had a nose for trouble as long as I’ve known him. The kid yanked one of the slingshots from my hand and looked it over, stretching and aiming it at the other kids, trying to pop them with the empty leather basket. We used leather patches to hold the marbles.

When I offered a marble to shoot at the watermelon, he pushed my hand aside and said to me, he said, “Marbles are for queers. I got this,” at which time he fished a rusty ball bearing from his pocket, showed it to us all, and set it in the basket of the slingshot.

He stretched the bands and aimed and relaxed the taught surgical rubber bands several times. Then, he turned from the melon and aimed at the school and let her go. I didn’t see the projectile in the air, but I was looking at the big glass window at the main entry of the gymnasium when it shattered.

The hoodlum laughed like a hyena, big barks of, “Ha-ha-ha-ha!” He caught his breath and poked a finger in my chest and said, “Looks like you queers are in biiiiig trouble.”

Streaker Jones stepped to the big kid. “Nope. Yer gonna confess.”

The bully stripped his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves, and all the other kids gathered in a circle around the three of us. Me, I’d been to more than one of these rodeos and knew what was next.

“Uh, listen fella,” I told the kid. “You better do what he says. People always end up doing what Streaker Jones tells them to do.”

“Who’s gonna make me?” the bigger kid snarled at Streaker Jones.

“Me,” the response.

One Streaker Jones word, full of meaning.

“Let’s go,” the hoodlum said, and he bounced at Streaker Jones to kick a steel-capped pointy shoe at his nuts.

In the three seconds following the attempted goober kick, the big kid suffered a broken nose, dislocated thumb, a kidney bruised enough to make him piss blood, and an inch circle of hair and scalp missing above his eyes—a chunk of hairy flesh that was formerly the widow’s peak in his duck-tailed greaser haircut.

The big kid was on his side, whimpering in the fetal position, while clutching his broken nose with the broken hand, holding his good hand on his forehead to stop the bleeding. Scalp wounds bleed almost as bad as cut peckers.

My best friend stood over the bully and said, “Yul be tellin’ yer momma ya broke that window, an ya won’t be back over here no more.”

I’ve always hated the word “queer” when used in the context of bullies. My sister is lesbian, knew it from birth and has been proudly so her entire life. Streaker Jones took those kinds of things personally and he defended Sister’s gayness more times than did I.

Which reminds me. How many attendants are appropriate for a gay wedding? Are gay weddings different from heterosexual ceremonies? Sister and Anna eloped because Mother was such a shit about their nuptials, and I gave them both away to each other when we eloped out to Vegas. Gram was the Old Bat of Honor and the P-cubed was the ladies’ Flower Girl. Since Daddy had died and Anna the Amazon’s divorce from me was still wet with the Judge’s ink, it was appropriate for me to be stand-in Father of the Brides. Or was I Fathers of the Bride?

This whole wedding thing with Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh is bum fuddling me. The ostrich wants a dozen Bridesmaids and shit but the big pig doesn’t want anyone to stand up for him. I’ve designated Yoda to be his Best Man and after that I’m lost. Nobody actually likes Rush Limbaugh enough to stand at his side, and everyone wants to stand with the bird.

I’ve never actually planned an entire wedding, as many as I’ve attended and participated in. Somebody needs to help me with this shit. Need Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

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Big Boobie Bonanza; Rick Perry Gets His Rack

Sunday, April 22nd, 2012

 

So. TGIF and all that shit. I took Rick Perry to the cosmetic surgeon to get his new rubber titties this morning and I just delivered him back to his bed in the master closet out here to the ranch. Moving a fully-stoned and groggy 350-pound ostrich when you can’t touch his chest is, if you will allow me just a touch of exaggeration, a gigantic pain in the ass.

Rick Perry shares said closeted bed with his gay lover and fiancée, Rush Limbaugh, and we had to rent a major appliance dolly to move Ricky from the surgery ward back here to the ranch. I gathered all our down comforters and pillows for padding, and loaded them, Rick Perry, the dogs and the fucking cat, and a cooler of Carta Blanca into the farm truck for the ride into town. Streaker Jones and Dixie met us at the doctor’s office to assist me. Streaker Jones to help me manhandle the big bird, and Dixie to play cowboy on the rest of the herd.

Those of you new to these parts need to know that Dixie is my now-retired Golden Retriever and original translator. Dixie chose the Squirt for adoption and tutored her to communicate with me and speak many other languages as well. I love Dixie—enough to set her free when she asked. She found a late-life interest in spores and all things fungi, so my former best dog and translator is now head assistant over to the lab at Streaker Jones Spores And More.

Now that I think on it, if you’d go buy my silly fucking book you could read all about my beloved Dixie. So click over there ====}}}} to the Bloggie Roller and check out all the Full Mooner Rising listings. There’s a book trailer, a third party review, and ways to buy it in paper and on Kindle.

Anyway, I locked Rush Limbaugh up in a hog pen over to the neighbor’s place to keep him off of the bird until his new breasts are healed. The way he acted the other day when we were trying out new boob sizes for Ricky, I decided the big pig needed to be kept at bay. And why don’t we say, “Kept away from bay?” Is “keep at bay” a nautical term or does it have to do with fox hunting?

I also think that some separation before the wedding will act as a pre-marital aid for my pet hog and ostrich. Then again, the way Rush attacked Rick in the kitchen the other morning left no room for extra ardor. I was getting the family’s thoughts on size for the new titties, and when we held a halved watermelon up to Rick’s chest, Rush Limbaugh lost it—threw Ricky to the floor and dry screwed him without any preamble.

We had a little party this morning while we waited for Ricky to be ready, and one of the Doctor’s receptionists fell in love with Streaker Jones. She’s one of the doctor’s “living show-and-tell mannequins” that he uses to demonstrate both before-and-after comparisons and also “see, these new titties feel just like original equipment breasts”[.] I had met her on Rick Perry’s first consultation visit with the doctor and I must say that the 36 Double-D’s are a remarkable difference from the little half-apples she had originally.

But I had to tell him, I told the doc, “Well, doc, I think these are some mighty fine titties—they have a firm but giving feel, a great shape, and I really like how you got the nipples pointing just a few degrees up to the North. However, since I’ve never felt a bosom this large that wasn’t artificial, I can’t give you a good result on that part of this comparison.”

I did like the way Melissa cooed at me and how her breath fluttered when I examined her breasts. This morning, and it had to be before seven am because we got checked in before six, I notice Melissa sitting over to her desk and giving Streaker Jones the moon-eyed look of a doe in heat—big brown eyes with a lustful look. Next thing I know, she’s sitting in Streaker Jones’ lap with him holding one big bazooma in each hand, and she’s saying, “… and I love it when you pinch this nipple and suck on that one at the same time.”

I wonder why I have to work so hard for love and my best buddy has it fall into his lap?

Anyway, my ostrich is goofy as all hell to start with, and redefines the word with a bill full of knockout meds. All my life we’ve had birds on the ranch—chickens and ducks and Guinea hens and doves and quail. Until now, I’ve never seen the first bird do anything I would call a smile. But Rick Perry has this giant, goofy shit-eating grin plastered to his mush, and his big bugged eyes are spinning around under half-mast eyelids the size of tea saucers. Reminds me of the old joke that goes, “Do you think Minnie Mouse is crazy?” two, three four, “I’m not certain of that, but she’s fucking Goofy for sure.”

We’ve got him on his side in the water bed and he’s so stoned that he can’t control his head. It’s difficult to control the thirty-pound bowling ball at the end of his long neck without drugs, but when he’s stoned it’s an impossible task. He keeps trying to lift it and you can see the muscles in his thick neck quiver with the effort and only get it a few inches off the pillow before it plops back down with a “plufft”[.]

The Squirt and Honor the fucking cat are in there now playing nurse and keeping him in bed. As big an ass pain as Squirt can be, she can always be counted on to do the right thing. When I left them a few minutes ago, the adorable puppy was singing to him in Swahili while the cat purred and rubbed against Rick Perry’s beak.

Have you ever heard “Stairway To Heaven” in Swahili?

Me, I’m roasting a goat for dinner with a big pot of ranchero-style pinto beans. I did a mole rub on the goat and the beans are in an open pot in the smoker with onions, jalapeño peppers and some pork belly. Mr. Dave wanted to try his hand at making some corn tortillas, so all the women are in the kitchen with him giving direction and support.

Maybe I have to work so hard for my loving because I don’t have a twelve-inch pecker in my pants like Mr. Dave. Then again, maybe it’s because I’m an ADHD-addled fuckbrain.

But who really gives a shit, right? I’ve got family and good friends for dinner, and a cooler full of icy-cold Carta Blanca. Manana, y’all.

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pope Still A Prick And Geraldo Rivera Is A Dick; easter Wishes From Austin, Texas

Saturday, April 7th, 2012

 

So. Just when I thought I could move on to happy subjects and away from the hypocrisies and redundant bigotry of modern christian dogma, the flouncy old queen of all things catholic gives two speeches in a row that manage to refocus my attentions.

Please note: Until the bulk of christiandom stops persecuting gays, lesbians and transgenders too, and as long as they attempt to enforce legislation that takes away a woman’s right to make her own choices about all things her body—I choose to minimize all things christian by using the diminutive version of grammar when discussing them. Said another way, I will not acknowledge their names with capital letters. Won’t use capitols either.

That having been said, her royal highness, herr pope bentdick the sixteenth—chief fuhrer of the holy roman nazi church—spoke on Thursday to warn progressive catholic priests of the dangers of pushing modernized ideology. These progressives would like to see women as priests and allow women to make decisions about their own bodies without incurring the wrath of the church.

Why, during this holiest week of all holy weeks, the old Nazi fuckball decides to dress-down his church’s free thinkers and attack womens’ rights is way beyond my ability to reckon. (E)easter, I would think, is a time to take a happy swim in the pool of everlasting life. This should be when the pope’ster jumps in that pool and splashes its holy water on all who would listen. I was raised baptist, of the southern persuasion, and not catholic. But I know that baptists and catholics share the resurrection of jesus as the central theme and center post upon which their entire religions were born.

Holy shit but that was awkward. Let me try again. It is upon the rebirth and resurrection of jesus that all christian religious dogma are founded. Awkward once more, but accurate. To get to heaven, a christian must be a true believer that jesus died a most horrible death on the cross and was then reborn to go home to see his daddy, god. I remain unsure as to the specificities of mormon ideologies on this issue, but hold steadfast in my thought that mormons remain one little ‘m’ from the truth.

If it were true in the literal sense, that all we need to do to have everlasting life in heaven is believe in jesus as our saviour, then shouldn’t the pope be a little more focused on that? Rather than chastise some of the boys for thinking for themselves, might he have gotten more into the spirit of easter? Spanking the catholic bad boys could have waited until next week. I mean really, easter comes but once a year and bad boys are bad the whole year around.

However, the pope is an angry old shitball who reminds me of Mrs. Leticia Browningwell—wife of pastor Browningwell at Mother’s baptist church, and my teacher for several classes as a kid. Leticia was forced to teach Darwin’s theories in Junior High science class and she did everything possible to not do so. Her first attempt was to skip those chapters in the book, but Streaker Jones undid that effort. He produced a copy of the lesson plan, previously filed with Austin independent School District supervisors, that clearly showed a week’s worth of schooling on Darwin.

This happened the semester after Streaker Jones and I were expelled from Leticia’s Spanish class and sent to the AISD central offices for “evaluations”[.] That story is in my silly book, a handsome addition to any library and available over there ===}}}} to my Bloggie Roller. You can also see the book trailer and a flattering review.

OK, wait. the review flatters the book and not you. But me, I think you are the cat’s pajamas.

Actually, anybody who can read their way through 600 words of this crap is the pussy cat’s PJs to me. Which reminds me. Honor, my fucking cat, told the Squirt that she wants to be a mommy. Told the little puppy to tell me that she wants me to help her find a suitable suitor and arrange a tryst. It seems that listening to Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry have sex in the closet has stirred her maternal instincts.

The noises made by my gay pig and his likewise homosexual ostrich lover as they grunt and shriek don’t stir anything in me besides an occasional, “Ick! Was that what I thought it was?” But it seems that the fucking cat gets turned on.

I will say this about Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry as lovers. Those two boys are incredibly unabashed and unreserved with their lovemaking. Maybe uninhibited is a better word than unreserved. Compared to those two, the Marquis De Sade was unreserved and my ADHD is on fire. I’ve so many disparate thoughts spinning inside my thick skull I can hardly think.

I didn’t want one fucking cat in the first place, and I for certain don’t want a houseful of cats. I only have the one kitty because I wanted to avoid another stay at Shoal Creek Mental Hospital. You can read about the Loony Bin named Shoal Creek Mental Hospital in the book after you buy it. Now that I think about it, my book should be required reading for this bloggie. That way I wouldn’t need to take time to reference it as often as I do, and I’d not need to pimp it so much.

Which reminds me to tell you about my plans for easter. I’m actually going to church with Mother and Gram in the morning. That’s right, for the first time in decades I’m willingly—and willfully as well—attending a service at the baptist church. I’m wearing designer jeans with artfully pre- torn knees, a University of Texas burnt orange hoodie and sandals—all made of recycled hemp fabrics and other byproducts—and a tasteful knit polo shirt made of hemp as well.

The shirt is white to match the base color of my mother’s pretty sun dress, and the blood red printing matches the roses printed on Mother’s dress as well. The printing says, “Jesus was homosexual because he washed peoples’ feet.” My lesbian sister and her wife both have foot fetishes, so my baptist Mother thinks all people who share the same interest in feet are likewise, gay.

Maybe I should go barefoot to honor jesus for choosing to follow his heart and show his love for all men. Now that I think about it, the shirt might should have said jesus was bisexual. He washed womens’ feet as well.

The hoodie is in honor of Trevon Martin and in defiance of any right-wing shithead who thinks that child’s murder was justified by a clothing choice. And by the way—Fuck You, Geraldo Rivera, you chickenshit asswipe goat-fucking turd ball.

As for the pope’s second stupid speech, screw it. I’m going fishing. Manana, y’all.

 

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Prejudice Begins At Home; Heterosexuals Suck Toes Too

Thursday, April 5th, 2012

 

So. The air at the Johnson family ranch has gotten so thick with estrogen that you could hack it with a Weed Eater. One of those big commercial jobbies with two strands of extra heavy plastic line. Like the lead-lined safety vest X-ray technicians wear to protect themselves from the deadly radiation, I’ve taken to wearing a thick hemp hooded sweatshirt, big sunglasses and an I-Pod while I’m inside the house.

I don’t know if it’s the Spring weather already turned into Summer’s high temperatures in early April, or if it’s just a bunch of crabby old gasbags fighting over Mr. Dave’s giant pecker. Things here to my place are what I think I can safely call “tense”[.]

I’ve tried to isolate myself from all this tension by wearing the protective gear. They kept trying to get me in the middle of things as a referee or a judge and I’m totally done with that shit. I work hard to play King Solomon and always cut the baby in half to keep everybody happy, and I always end up in the middle with everybody pissed at me.

But it’s too fucking hot for me to be all bundled up so I’m thinking about leaving the country. Then this morning I walked into the kitchen to start breakfast, and the entire fucking clutch of Johnson women were already there—sniping and shitting on each others’ feet. It seems Mr. Dave rose early to get ready for his annual physical this morning and the girls were fighting over who was fixing his breakfast.

Mr. Dave—a soft-spoken gentleman, and the very definition thereof—was trying to say something, but couldn’t get a word in edgewise. I pulled the I-Pod buds out of my ears to see if I could help him. I was listening to Led Zeppelin, and quite loud at that. I love LZ. “Wo-maaaaannnnnn!!! Na-nah na-na nah!”

“Hey, Dave my good man, how’s it hanging this morning?” I asked him.

“Heavy and low, Mr. Johnson, heavy and low.”

Those of you who read here routinely might suspect that the giant-peckered old geezer was speaking to the condition of said giant pecker. But Mr. Dave is a true gentleman and would never be so crude. It was obvious to me that he was addressing the blue mood and estrogen laden air I mentioned previously. “Let me see if I can help you,” I told him.

“Hey… Hey, ladies… You too, Gram, y’all listen up.” It was then I noticed that Gram had her Navy SEAL killing knife out of her pocket. “And put your knife away, Gram. I’ll not have you gutting my mother in the kitchen. Take her outside and then be sure to clean up after.”

The knife was once mine and the source for one of my arrests. But you have to buy my silly fucking book to hear anything else about that shit. Click over there =====}}}} to my Bloggie Roller and look at the book stuff. Otherwise, just know that when I got the knife back from the Sheriff’s Department, I gave it to Gram.

The gutting comment got me a look from Mother that said, “Dear god, why me?” Shortly after I got the look, she said the words. “Dear god, why me? It isn’t enough that I’m burdened with a homo-sex-u-al for a daughter, you had to give me this,” and here she flops both of her hands in my direction with the palms up. It was one of those “Ta-da!” motions but without any enthusiasm.

“I take it back, Gram. You can gut her where she stands.” I might have actually meant it.

“Ah, she ain’t wurth tha effert to stick a knife in her belly. Assides, Mr. Davie here is all mine when he gits back from tha doctor.”

“Well,” I addressed the entire kitchen, “Mr. Dave has his physical today, and that means he can’t have any breakfast save a glass of plain tea or some water. So you crazy old bat brains need to stop your bickering.”

“Thank you, Mr. Johnson, I’ve been trying to tell them that for the last hour.”

“Then I’ll have lunch waiting on you,” shouted by three of the women at the same time. Now they started in on a lunch menu. I looked at Mr. Dave and could only shrug my shoulders. “That, dear friend, is why I’m paying you the big bucks, sir.”

He looked at me with this deadpan look and said to me, he said, “We need to talk about a raise, Mr. Johnson. And combat pay.”

“You come back from your exam with a clean bill of health, and you got it.” Hell, I’d pay that old man double for the services he provides around here. Maybe I should sign him up to a long-term contract. His servicing all these old women has made my mostly unbearable hen house almost bearable.

That’s when Mother said something that really set me off. “Why are you wearing that gangster hood, Mooner. You’ll get yourself shot.”

At first it didn’t register with me. “What are you talking about, Mother. I’m wearing my UT hoodie.”

Then I got it and asked Gram if I could borrow her gutting knife. “You are so fucking clueless, Mother. That would be like me shooting you just because you’re a bigoted old Baptist shitbag wearing your pretty new Easter dress.”

Which reminded me. “I had the guys over to the hemp clothing factory make me a special Easter shirt to wear to church with you. It says “Jesus was homosexual because he washed peoples’ feet.”

Mother thinks that since Sister and Anna both have foot fetishes that all gay people have a thing for feet. I remember when I was married to Anna the Amazon—that was before she and Sister fell in love—she couldn’t get off unless I spent at least a little time sucking on her toes. She had big feet too, almost as big as my own.

Anyway, Mother thinks I’m joking about the shirt and attending church, both. She would be terribly wrong on both counts. I’m thinking I’ll wear the shirt with a hoodie. Manana, y’all.

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Bumper Sticker Bozo; Please Buy My Book

Wednesday, April 4th, 2012

 

So. I’m starting to think Austin, Texas isn’t quite the paradise I have always known it to be. I had to make a trip in to town this morning and everywhere I went I saw signs that my Austin no longer exists. I realized that if I were to have pulled a Rip Van Winkle and gone to sleep for twenty years back in April of 1992, my trip to downtown Austin would have shocked me.

I’m not talking about the buildings here, folks, I’m speaking of the people. I also want to say that Austin has always had asshole right-wing Christian Republican rat fuckers, even back in the day. But back then, they were hard to find—you needed to wish an encounter with one of those shitheads to have an encounter with one.

Not today. Braindead exclusionary bigoted bastards are everywhere and out in plain sight. I was down to the Book People to see if they are selling any of my books, and I was almost run over in the parking lot by this woman in a big Chevy Suburban. Silly bitch is yakking on the fucking phone and I have to jump out of her way when she nearly squished me into a little Mini Cooper.

Man, but I really like the Mini Coopers—the new ones. I hear they’re made by BMW now and I think I want one. I’d get the souped-up version like when I was a kid. Had a buddy who had one and Lloyd had an MGB. I was always jealous of their rides.

Anyway, people talking on their fucking phones while driving stupidly is one of my pet peeves, so I followed the woman to where she parked, and waited for her to get out. I’m standing there already warmed up when I read a bumper sticker on her bigass truck. “Obozocare is for Monkeys,” it said, and it had a caricature of the President. A very unflattering caricature of President Obama.

I pulled my pocketknife out and stooped to scrape the offensive sticker off. I felt the truck waggle, like someone was getting out, and then I heard, “Exactly WHAT do you THINK you are Do-ING?”

Standing to my full height, I encountered a perfectly-dressed and outfitted matron of maybe thirty-five years. She wore big designer eyeglasses, designer jeans, a luxurious silk blouse—lipstick red with white piping—and she carried one of those giant Coach handbags. She was skinny everywhere except in her way-too-fucking big bosom.

“Well, LADY, first, I’m saving you from getting your ASS kicked by peeling this SHIT off your bumper,” I reached down and peeled the last of the sticker off. “Now, I’m going to tell you to turn your phone off and drive your fucking car when you are driving your fucking car. You almost hit me just now and you don’t even know it.”

That’s when she punched the numbers 9 and 11 into her phone and jumped back into the big Chevy. That’s the end of the incident for me. I walked into the bookstore and she was gone when I walked back out.

But being in the bookstore reminded me that I haven’t pimped my book here to Loonyland for at least a week, so I’m going to do so now. The following is the first chapter of my new book, Full Rising Mooner, a story I call Chapter One. Please read it and I’ll be back. And don’t get all pissy on me, it’s short.

 

Chapter One

All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them.”

–Galileo Galilei

 

“Alright, Mooner, say it like you’re speaking at an AA meeting. Truth, with full and total disclosure.”

“Oh, for shitsakes, Sammy, this is really dumb,” I respond.

My psycho therapist, and first ex-wife, gives me this laser-eyed look. “Let me put it like this. After the stupid stunt you pulled yesterday—do it my way, or I check you into Shoal Creek Mental Hospital.”

That’s not going to happen.

“My name is Mooner Johnson, and I’m a crazy man.”

When I take too long to gather my disparate thoughts to continue, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson gently prods with, “Now tell me about the craziness.”

“My name is Mooner and I’m a crazy man. I’m not lock away to the loonie bin and throw away the keys crazy—not the dangerous to Society sort of crazy. I’m the variety of crazy that makes for ten ex-wives and great campfire stories.”

It takes another minute to corral more thoughts, then I add, “Since I’m doing this exercise in the name of truth and full disclosure, I feel compelled to say that I am crazy enough to have been locked away to the mental hospital on several occasions, for short visits. I have also been diagnosed with the world’s only case of ‘Contagious Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.’ That one got me into the Guinness Book of World Records.”

Now I’m rolling, “US News and World Report named me The Most Inappropriate Man in the World, and that has gotten me terrific free press. I also killed a man, which got me arrested and charged with murder. But I was acquitted—self defense.”

I take a deep breath for a big finish. “I am sorry for every bad act I have ever performed. From this point forward, I hereby promise to be true to my conscience, think things through carefully before acting, always take other people into consideration, and I further promise to always do the right thing.”

Maybe that will satisfy the good doctor.

“Mooner, how can you still be so clueless after thirty years of intense therapy? Deal with your National Security issues and then do it again. And do it right this time.”

Of course it didn’t satisfy her. She’s never happy. “OK, fine.” I try again.

“My name is Mooner, and I’m a crazy, inappropriate and scatterbrained murdering fuckball, and I can’t focus.

“I apologize to everyone I have ever hurt, even though I didn’t mean to ever hurt anyone with purpose. Except for those times when I did intend to hurt, and I’m not even a little sorry for any of that.

“I wrote a book and terrorized Pulled Pork Publishing, LLC, its Publisher and employees, when they refused to print the book. We had a lawsuit that we settled with my agreement to a thorough vetting by National Security agencies, and Pulled Pork Publishing agreed to print three of my future books.”

Sam starts to prod me, so I add, “It was wrong to take the photographs of the Pulled Pork Publishing guy with the chicken.”

I take a deep breath to continue. “I promise to try to be a better man.”

In a rush, I add, “And not kill anybody else.”

As she has a thousand times before, my ex-wife therapist looks at me like I’m her biggest disappointment in life, and says, “Mooner, you are so fucking clueless. Begin your journal and bring it with you to every session, starting day-after tomorrow.”

Then she adds, “This journal is for you to write down anything that you think is part of your lunacy. Thoughts, your actions and even how you feel about other people’s actions. And do it on the computer, Mooner. I’m not going to try to interpret you scribbling on a stack of Post It Notes.”

I’m thinking about how good a cold Carta Blanca beer would taste when Dr. Sam I Am barks at me, “Dammit, Mooner, pay attention. Now say it again.”

”My name is Mooner Johnson, and I’m a crazy man.

Finis

I’m back now, and that didn’t hurt, did it? If that peaked your interest, you can go over there ====}}}} to the Bloggie Roller and see a book trailer, read a Four-Stars Clarion Review, and even buy a paper book or a Kindle version.

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

 

 

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pope Still A Two-Faced Prick; Lesbians Are Always Welcome In My Soup

Thursday, March 29th, 2012

 

So. I had hoped to get my pissiness with the fucking pope over, and done with, yesterday. But that silly old queen can’t stop saying stupid shit. He’s in Cuba if you haven’t been informed, and he’s continuing to accuse Castro of governing Cuber with the same dumbass rulings as the pope himself uses to rule the holy roman catholic church.

Please allow me to quote an Associated Press report of the popester’s speech yesterday as he addressed a crowd in Havana:

 

… benedict’s homily was a not-so-subtle jab at the island’s leadership… “Cuba and the world need change, but this will occur only if each one is in a position to seek truth and chooses the way of love, sowing reconciliation and fraternity,” benedict said.

… “There are those who wrongly interpret this search for the truth, leading them to irrationality and fanaticism; they close themselves up in ‘their truth’ and then try to impose it upon others,” he said from the alter… By Anne-Marie Garcia and Nicole Winfield, AP

 

Holy… fucking… shit! Is this guy for real?

This sounds like Fiddle Dee calling Fiddle Dumb lazy. When was the last time the catholic church and his holiness sought the truth and chose the way to reconciliation? Oh, right, that’s how they are handling the priest pedophile issues right now today. That’s right. They have been seeking that truth for fifty years so that they can make things right with victims and sow some fraternity.

Maybe the fraternity his holiness was talking about was the multitude of catholic fathers who rape children, and as for the sowing part, well I’ll let you fill in that blank.

And that whole second quote where he speaks of those who close themselves up inside their own truths and then try to force their beliefs on others… “Hello, popie bentdick, is anybody home? Do you ever look in the mirror, asshole? Have you listened to your shitty little mouthpiece, rick santorum?”

I think the old pope is sex deprived. Maybe sex depraved as well. You Have to be a true asshole to call other people fanatics for doings things you do yourself. He’s blasting Castro for holding the people of Cuba back from making civilized progress. At least the Cuban people are more advanced and civilized than they were 2,000 years ago, and catholic dogma is unchanged since before the Dark Ages.

At least Castro doesn’t wear pounds of stolen gold and flaunt it in front the descendants of the people his church murdered and plundered centuries ago when they stole that same gold At least Castro is honest about his motivations and intents and doesn’t attempt to use sorcery to confuse his people.

At least Castro is working to make things better for his people. Hell, I think old Fidel would make a better pope than benedict. At least Castro would tell catholics that he doesn’t give a shit about right and wrong or humanity or justice. At least Castro tells the Cuban people they’ll be getting fucked.

Which reminds me. I want to name a new addition to my Bloggie Roller. Her name is Katy Anders and her site is Lesbians In My Soup. Her site’s name reminds me of cooking with Sister and her wife in the kitchen with me. There was this one time when I wanted to make fish stew but not use any saffron, like in a Bouillabaisse. I like saffron but mostly in Indian food, so I guess I wanted to make something more akin to Cipollini. Except Cipollini always calls for Dungeness crabs and fuck that, I’m not paying $20 for five buck-worth of crab meat. If it costs more to ship seafood than it did to catch and get it to the shore, it won’t be on my table in Texas. Sister wanted me to use some fresh sardines in the soup and I made a tasteless lesbian joke re: the taste and smell of sardines.

I love my sister, but she can punch like a mule. In fact, she and her wife (my third ex-wife, Anna the Amazon) are my second choice as back up to Streaker Jones when I get into bar fights. You can buy my silly fucking book by clicking over there ====}}}} and you’ll find a story that proves that point. I think that story is in Chapter 12. You’ll learn all about smiting Johnsons. You’ll also learn about smitten Johnsons.

Katy reminds me of Sister except younger, and Sister looks like Demi Moore butt Katy reminds me of that Titanic actress, you know the one, right. Kate Winslett? Is that her name, Kate Winslett? Or is it the woman who played June Carter Cash? Not Sissy Spacek—she played Lowretti—I mean the other one. I’d try to date Katy under differing circumstances but I think I should stick to recommending her as a good reading resource. I’m guessing Katy packs a wallop too.

She’s got this one guy over there commenting on her site that I could almost swear was our old buddy Theo. Calls himself Teddy something. Katy’s got way plenty patience with dumass Teddy. Way more that I’d be able to show. Anyway, please hoist your Carta Blanca beers high and help me salute Katy.

Manana, y’all.

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Rush Limbaugh And Rick Perry Attack Mooner; Gay Lovers Create Havoc

Thursday, March 22nd, 2012

 

So. I don’t have anything to say today. My ADHD has been turned to the 100% setting and my thoughts are more scattered and smothered than over-well hash browns up to the Waffle House. I haven’t been able to focus on any task for more than a few seconds’ time and I have already hurt myself twice because of it.

I was shaving my beautiful skull and sliced this big wart or cancerous growth off the top of my head. I had all the animals in the bathroom with me so that they could watch me shave. After tripping Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson the other day because Yoda and Squirt have poor leash training, I decided to be a better father and exhibit higher levels of parenting skills with my kids. I’ve decided to spend extra time parenting the menagerie of semi-domesticated animals I’ve chosen to husband.

Why is the act of caring for domesticated animals called “animal husbandry”[?] Except for maybe sheep herders and some of the cowboys I met up to Amarillo this one time, I don’t see a husband-wife relationship in raising dogs and cats and pigs and giant fucking birds. Should be called animal parentry.

Anyway, both dogs and the fucking cat were on the vanity top, Rush Limbaugh was lying on the floor like the pig he is, and Rick Perry was standing behind me—the actual cause for this first razor accident.

Which reminds me that I hurt myself three times during this current brain fritz. For new readers, a brain fritz is when my ADHD and/or ADD become so active that they cause my brain to go on the fritz. The first injury was suffered before the two shaving cuts as I was trying to teach my ostrich how to pee in the sink. I had him backed-up to the sink and was attempting to assist him with pointing his big bird pecker over the sink bowl to urinate. Rush Limbaugh lumbered into the bathroom and gave a loud snort when he saw me messing with Rick Perry’s genitalia. Ricky jumped and peed on my hands, and I jumped and knocked my funny bone on the towel rack. I guess Rush thought I was making a move on his lover boy.

When it came shaving lesson time, I had the big ostrich behind me at the mirror in the same pose a father makes with his son as he teaches him to tie a necktie. Except, of course, the ostrich has no actual arms and this was a shaving lesson. Rick Perry’s fat breast—a fat breast he told me last night at dinner that he wants to enhance with a surgical augmentation—is pushed flat against my back, and his big head is roaming all over the place. Owning an ostrich is often akin to having a two-year old child operate a twenty-pound bowling ball attached to the end of a six-foot rubber stick.

He’s poking his head in my face and circling around to see things from every angle, and he approaches from around my shoulders, and under my arms, and once from under and between my legs. When he came at me from between my legs, it looked as though I had a four-foot pecker with bald head, a beak and big bug eyes. I made mention of how it looked like I had a giant pecker with a brain of it’s own and everybody laughed.

“You wish,” the Squirt told me. Me, I was thinking that half that wish has been granted, and not, necessarily, to my benefit. I think Dr. Sam I. Am says it best on that issue. “Thinking men, Mooner, don’t think with their penis.”

I’ve always thought that two brains are better than one. I mean think about it. A hook and ladder firetruck has two drivers, right?

I’m there at the sink with most of my entire head slathered with shave gel. OK, wait, my head was slathered with gel, but the results were that I was lathered with the resulting foam from the gel application. I was shaving around, skipping from spot-to-spot in the typical fashion of an ADHD-addled fuck brain.

“You missed a spot, dumass,” Squirt informed me. “It’s no wonder you look like hell most of the time.”

This got more chuckles from my Peanut Gallery and caused me to try to focus better on my shaving. “How about I try to be systematic about this, guys? Everybody be still and quiet while I focus.”

Now they’re all rolling on the floor and vanity top, laughing at my dumb remark. I had to chuckle a bit myself. “OK, how about you all be still so I can imitate a man trying to focus?”

They did, and I started systematically dragging the razor over the left-center, upper-rear quadrant of my skull. On the third swipe, Rick Perry moved his head from under my elbow to get a better view, and I slashed the wart, or whatever, down to the scalp line.

Have you guys ever seen a scalp bleed from a dime-sized hole? The only thing that bleeds-out faster than a scalp is a pecker. If you want the details on pecker bleed-outs you need to go over there ===}}} to my Bloggie Roller and buy my fucking book. Full Rising Mooner has an entire chapter devoted to that story and subject. That Chapter alone is worth the price of admission.

So now I’ve got blood coursing through the suds on my cabeza, of course, and I’ve but half shaved. I told the guys that I needed to stop the bleeding, so the shaving lesson was over.

“Suck it up, sissy boy,” Squirt told me. “The pig will give you mouth-to-mouth if you faint from blood loss.”

My adorable little brown-furred puppy is for sure a Johnson, and mine without question. Everybody laughed, again, and I figured, I thought to myself, I thought, “Who gives a shit if I’ve got blood in my eyes. This is some funny shit.”

Remember that old Saturday Night Live skit with Dan Akroyd playing my beloved Julia Child cutting her hand artery when de-boning a chicken? I started my best Julia Child imitation as I instructed the animals on the proper shaving techniques employed by a prim and proper British gentleman. It was funny as all get out until I nicked the razor edge at the spot where my left nostril anchors itself to my upper lip.

“Sonofabitch!” I threw the razor at the wall. “Fucking cheap-ass razor!”

I left the vanity and went to stand in the shower to clean the mess off my head. I stood under the shower head, still in my shorts and white cotton socks, as the jets of water stung the gashes on my scalp and nose. “Fuck-ing cheap-ass made-in-fuck-ing Bangla-fucking-desh or whereeverthefuck fucking razors!”

Do women blame inanimate objects for their errors a much as we men do? Why is it that whenever I fuck shit up I always first try to blame the blameless? I pride myself for always taking the blame for my blunders, but I always first attempt to shame the razor.

And did you guys notice that I let a comment through the other day from God’s Child? She is one of my far-right wing catholic followers from back to when they infected my website and computer with virusi. Virusissi? She’d been away for awhile but has popped back into our lives. If you ever want to take a peek into one of “those” minds, read her comments. I’ll allow her to post the semi-civil stuff she writes but not the threats she tends to make. Threats are directed to a certain Special Agent in Charge, US Department of Homeland Security.

Me, I’m going shopping for some razors that are actually made in America. I’m shaving way too much of my skin now to trust an imported razor.

I guess not having anything to say can’t stop me from saying a whole lotta nothing. Manana, y’all.

 

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Whole Foods Arboretum’s Scott Is Honest Man; Back In Town And Rubbing Pork

Thursday, March 15th, 2012

 

So. I’m back from Dallas and happy to be so. Wait, I’m happy to so be. Fuck it, it’s good to be home. Dallas is OK, but it isn’t Eugene, Oregon and neither is it Austin.

I had an interesting experience that made me aware of another potential danger of sink peeing. Longtime readers know that I invented peeing in sinks to save water. I was sitting around this one time when I was locked up over to the Shoal Creek Loony Bin—stoned not on one of Gram’s mushroom potions, but rather an unhealthy dose of Haldol—and I had an idea. I calculated that if all men pee in sinks, we can save trillions of gallons of water every year. Actually if we enforced sink peeing worldwide, we could reduce total water consumption enough to save the wales.

That might be a grandiose statement and a likewise impertinent analogy, but flushing a simple pee with just a handful of water is a serious water-saving practice. If you buy my silly fucking book by clicking over there ====}}} and linking to the Full Rising Mooner shit, you can read the entire story and explanation of those sink-peeing programs.

Anyway, I was in my hotel room up to Dilly-Dally-Ass where I had all my stuff spread out on the bathroom vanity, Not all my stuff, but my bathroom stuff. When I checked out the room, I noticed that there was only one big bath towel and walked into the room to call housekeeping to get another. It always takes me two towels to dry after a shower because I have a giant head with a full mop of hair.

After hanging up the phone it dawned on me that I’m now bald and one towel would likely suit me, but I didn’t call back to cancel the order. I needed to pee, so I walked back into the bathroom where I noticed the vanity was way taller than normal, and the sink bowl was molded almost eight inches from the front edge. Aren’t you tired of “cultured marble” vanities with molded sinks? That shit is so 1970’s.

I’m six-four and I literally had to stand way up onto my my tippy-toes to get the right angle on my pecker dangle into the molded sink. I was slightly off balance, so I was bracing myself with my hands against the mirror. I enjoy peeing with no handsees in much the same way I do riding a bike without hands on the handle bars.

I remember this one time back to grade school when Woozie Wozniac—now AKA Sheriff Wozniac—was riding his bike with no handsees and crashed into a parked car. He did the infamous “crotch on the crossbar” dealie and we all laughed.

I’m taking a pee with no handsees in a bathroom at the Embassy Suites up to Dallas, and there is a loud bang on my door followed by the words, “Housekeeping, I’ve got your towel, sir.”

Did I mention that I was in that part of a pee where you get all the muscles relaxed and the flow is at its fullest? I jumped at the knock and peed all over the bathroom, and myself.

“Just leave it outside the door, please.”

“Are you OK, sir?” It was a pleasant voice, an accented woman’s voice—maybe Russian.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

I heard the plop of the towel on the floor and her steps as she left. I won’t bore you with the details, but I managed to spray the mirror and vanity, the wall up to the CFI plug, all of my toiletries including my new toothbrush, my hands, shirtsleeves, underwear and shorts, and my right leg from thigh to sandled foot.

“Mother fucker,” was the net of my assessments. I’m not always verbose.

I got back in town late last night and stopped at SAC Ellen’s place. She wasn’t there and I called her cell to find she was waiting for me at the ranch. I drove there where I was met with a kitchen full of demanding women. “What cha serving fer dinner Friday, Mooner? I’d lik some a them taters with the grass stains, an maybe them grapefruit drinks ya make.”

“You are a winner, you old gas bag. Potatoes Au Gratin are on the menu and I’ve got the grapefruits to make you a cocktail.”

I kissed my sinewy grandmother on the top of her head. “Now look, you need to promise me you won’t try to start anything with any of the gay men at my party, OK?” My grandmother thinks that she can turn a gay man straight given enough time and lube.

“Oh don’t chu worry ’bout that a bit. Lloyd an Mike is like family. Asides, Friday I’m booked with Mr. Dave fer tha night.”

“Ah, Mooner honey, may I have a word with you?” My mother was asking to get me aside. May I have a word with you is Mother speak for, “May I speak with you in private?”

“Let me kiss SAC Ellen properly and we’ll talk.”

We kissed, I gave her amazing butt a little grope, and she whispered in my ear, “I brought my stun gun, big boy. I hope you’re not sleepy.” Then she nipped my ear and swatted me off to talk to Mother.

“Mooner, I’m concerned about something” my mother told me when we had walked into the other room. “I was talking to Leticia at church yesterday, and Mrs. Browningwell told me something quite disturbing.”

Leticia is Pastor Browningwell’s wife and a Grade-A, First Class pain in the ass. “What’s the problem?” I asked.

“Well, her husband just got back from Nashville at the Southern Baptist headquarters there. It’s a lovely campus there, with dogwoods and…”

I cut her off with, “Might you tell me what it is that’s concerning you, Mother? I’ve still got four women to speak to before I can get to my sexing, and I’m already impatient.”

“Well, he was there getting some sensitivity training on today’s modern social issues, and…” she paused for effect. This pause is thematic with Mother and I never like whatever it is that follows.

“And, well, I may as well just come out and say it. Mooner, there are homo-sex-u-al people who actually act as recruiters. They trick and convince straight people to be… Well you know. I’m worried about Friday night.”

Huh?

“What the hell are you talking about?” Really, the the fuck is this woman saying?

“Mooner, there are homo-sex-u-als who will try to make me one. Are any of Mike and Lloyd’s friends, you know, like Sister and Anna?”

I just stared at her as my blood started to boil and my amazement factor swelled. My mother just asked me if any gay women will be attending Friday’s dinner party because she is worried that one of them will try to turn her gay. Jesus fucking Christ.

“OK.,” I gathered my thoughts. “Since I haven’t asked for my guests’ sexual preferences, let me give you a tried and true method to prevent your contacting the homosexuality from any of my guests. Are you ready?” I paused for effect.

“Don’t lick any vaginas and don’t let any women lick yours. If you accidentally find yourself with your tongue in a vagina, as soon as you take your tongue out, remember to say, “Supercalafragilisticexpialadocious” three times. That will break the spell.”

My mother looked at me like I was the one who had lost their mind. “Why won’t anyone take me seriously around here?”

She stormed off leaving me making a mental list of the many answers to her last question.

Anyway, today, Thursday, I went shopping at Whole Foods at the Arboretum to get ciabatta bread for the party. They bake the best in town and I needed two loaves. Whenever I check out most anywhere, I ask my attendant if they read. I’m constantly marketing my stupid book, and the people who check you out in retail stores are somewhat required to listen to you.

Today, Scott was my man. He’s tall and fit and I’d say handsome too, and likely one of the more honest young men I have met lately. Scott is the first of hundreds of retail register operators who said, “Not really,” when I asked them if they like to read.

Further probing by me led to the fact that he does like to read, just not enough to buy my book. I’m fine with that. I’d far rather you say you won’t likely purchase my book that lie to my face to get rid of me. Then again, getting rid of me can be difficult and I can understand a person resorting to lies to do so. Wait. To so do.

Oopsie, 500 words already, and I need to rub my pork. OK, wait again. I want to put a dry rub on my big pork roast so it will marinate for tomorrow.

Manana, y’all.

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