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First Free Book Review Is Here; Rick Perry Still An Asshole!

Wednesday, February 22nd, 2012

 

So. I have the first book report from one of the books I have given away. I was starting to worry that I’d made bad evaluations of the give-ees since it’s been almost three weeks since I gave the first book away. But the first review arrived by email last night, and as promised, I’m printing it as it arrived. OK, except that I’m not printing Barbara’s email address and Barbara isn’t her actual name.

This is Barbara’s evaluations of Full Rising Mooner:

 

 

I don’t know how to do this so I’ll just start. One morning a few weeks ago I was sitting at a table at Pasha, my neighborhood coffee shop, reading a book. A large man wearing shorts and a long sleeve knit shirt came to my table holding a cup of coffee and a book. He had a very big smile, and the twinkle in his eyes told me he was either one of the charismatic Christians that bother me while I try to read, or he was going to hit on me.

“I see you are reading and I’d like to ask you a favor,” the man said.

I gave him my best “I’m a lesbian atheist look” and said, “What do you want?”

“I’ve written this book,” he held the book in my face, “and I’ll give it to you if you pass the test.”

When I didn’t answer in two seconds time, he said, “Are you a Baptist?” I shook my head “No”. “Would you ever vote for Rick Perry for President?” An emphatic “No” from me. “OK, here’s the deal,” he said. “I’ll give you this book if you promise two things. First is that you will go to my website and make a comment, you know, do a book report. Second, you have to promise to give the book to another reader who makes the same promises. Deal?”

“Deal,” I told him. Then I told him I’m a writer also, and that I’m going to steal his test marketing system. He laughed and said, “OK, steal any of my shit you want.”

Then he simply walked away. I looked over the book jacket and laughed at the back cover. I put it into my book bag where it lay hidden until two days ago. I opened it Sunday morning and finished it Sunday night in bed. I read it all day with only stops to eat and go to the store.

Here is my review of Full Mooner Rising- the Most Inappropriate Man in the World. This was the weirdest book I have ever read. I can’t decide if it is weird by accident or on purpose, but it’s weird and in a good way. The book’s narrative style takes some mental adjustment and the constant cursing and ranting at Christians can be off-putting. I almost put the book down when it seemed as if I’d read the word “fuck” more often than the word “the”. Then I realized that this is how some of my friends speak, so I plowed on.

I’m glad I did. Once I relaxed into the rhythm of this book I found myself laughing out loud on almost every page. When I got to the camel toe chapter, I read it three times, laughed each of the three times, and made a mental note to give all my leotards and stretch pants to Goodwill.

I was racing through the pages of preposterous situations and hilarious outcomes and all of a sudden the main character tells a story about the flag that draped his father’s coffin. That story wrenched my guts and I started crying like a baby. It was so like my own experience at my father’s death that I cried for a good ten minutes. When I gave the book to its next reader, a young man attending the University of Texas, I opened the book to that chapter and showed him the tear stains so he wouldn’t worry what they were.

I now believe that dogs can talk; I now will seek a drug dealer to get me some magic mushrooms; I’m working on a method so that I can pee in sinks; and I made an appointment with a therapist to see if I caught Mooner’s ADD.

I didn’t like the ESPN part of the ending, it was too over the top for me. But I have started doing exercises to strengthen my tugging muscles, and I furted my sixteen-year-old daughter as she stood brushing her teeth. Sick as it is, watching my eldest child jump out of her skin was way too funny.

The author gave me a Clarion Forward review of the book when we made our deal. I think the review is spot on in every way. I find myself thinking about some of the social commentaries made in this book and talking to other people about them. Maybe that’s the best thing about it.

I would have paid to buy this book if I knew how much I would enjoy it. [Finis]

 

Mooner here and please allow me to say, “Hoo-yah!” Another good review even though she got the book’s name wrong. I started to correct that but decided that if I promised to print reviews without censure, I’d do so.

I wonder if anyone would bother to give me a bad review? If I hated a book would I take the time to bitch about it? I’d bitch for sure if I paid for it, but would I complain about a free book?

Ugh. Leave it to me to find the black cloud.

But I don’t really give a shit, I got another good review. So, go buy my fucking book!!!

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Bacon, BookPeople & WholeFoods; Mooner Gets Fed, Shelved And Disturbed

Friday, February 17th, 2012

 

So. This is a banner day for me, a day that will be memorable in various ways. I got me a little sexing early—a fact in and of itself banner-worthy these days—I met some interesting people, and I finally got my book stocked on the bookshelves of a local bookstore. Getting sexed isn’t usually quite so remarkable, but the Special Agent in Charge for The US Department of Homeland Security that I call “Sweetie Pie” has been so busy with “special assignments” that having her in Austin overnight is a remarkable event.

SAC Ellen has been on high alert status, what with all the bullshit going on with Iran, and I’m not even managing two-person sex on a weekly basis. But she was here last night and I’m the better for it. The interesting people I met were part-and-parcel to me getting accepted to go onto the shelves at Book People—Austin’s premier not-so-national-chain bookstore. Michael McCarthy, the Corporate Sales Manager for Book People, set a meet with me for noon today wherein I would execute a Consignment Agreement and pay the shelving fee required to get Full Rising Mooner legally stocked inside the store.

I say “legally stocked inside the store” because I have been standing out in their parking lot for several weeks, selling my book to passersby like counterfeit Rolex watches. “Wanna buy a book, little girl?” Actually I only direct-sell to proven 18-year olds and I do card if I have any question. But I live twenty miles from the store and the return on my investment of time and gas is too small to have kept it up much longer.

I’m a little pissed at the dogs because they managed to piss off SAC Ellen, so I left them home and took only Honor the fucking cat book storing with me. Yoda and the Squirt snuck into the bathroom last night while SAC Ellen was lounging in the tub and, apparently, napping in the hot, sudsy water. She was awakened with a start when both dogs jumped in the big tub with her. My sweetie pie pulled the Glock 9-MM Howitzer handgun that is her constant companion and came close to ending my dog problems.

“I could have shot them both, Mooner. Please tell them to stop sneaking up on me.”

I did, Squirt talked back at me and said that SAC Ellen has no sense of humor, Yoda thought that was funny and so I grounded them both. Ever a wise ass, my smart little female puppy talked my not so smart male puppy into shitting in my slippers. “Ground that, motherfucker,” she told me when I discovered the load in my lounging footwear.

I didn’t know that “snuck” isn’t a word, did you? I guess I was supposed to say that the dogs “sneaked” into the bathroom up there. But who gives a shit, I mean really? Snuck feels better in my mouth than sneaked.

I loaded Honor into the GTO along with her little Hello Kitty backpack to make the trip into town to meet at Book People. I keep the pack loaded with cat snacks, her Hello Kitty water bottle and a Governor Rick Perry rag doll filled with catnip.

Not much gives me the same tingle as watching the fucking cat shred a Rick Perry doll.

Since I hate being late for anything and I’m always early for everything, we got to the store at 11:15 am for my noon meeting. I was hungry, so I decided to spend the time eating. We drove north up Lamar from Book People and spotted an interesting sign to the right on 10th Street. The sign said, and in a quite simple eloquence seldom seen on modern signage, it said, “BACON!”

“Oh look, Honor—pig meat!” I whipped the GTO right and made the tight, curled driveway that hugged the little building. There were few cars in the small lot, so I found a safe spot for my prized goat. We aficionados call the old Pontiac GTO’s goats.

“Stay here and shred Pricky Perry, sweetie,” I told the fucking cat. “I want to see some serious damage when I get back to the car.” I pitched her the Perry doll and she immediately went to work towards fulfilling my wishes. She always starts on his crotch because that’s how Squirt taught her.

I walked inside the building and was in heaven. I had stumbled into a place where every menu had pig meat on it, and the sweet smell of bacon made my heart sing, my mouth water and my loins stir.

What is it about bacon that it sometimes gives me a woodie? I might should talk to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson about that one. Maybe my psycho therapist can shed some light on my pork meat attachments.

I was distracted by the mother and daughter in line in front of me as they ordered, and the loin stirrings eased into a stomach grumble. The mother ordered a bacon wedgie—your basic Cobb-style salad with extra bacon—and the offspring bacon waffles. I was next and decided upon a classic BLT, an order that received full approval from Emma, the appealing young woman behind the counter.

I got fries as a side, and since Emma had a tattoo I decided to give her one of my books. I love tattoos on a woman, and Emma had some tatts and reminded me of my Aunt Hilda. Quick smile that reaches from eyes to mouth and all the way to the heart, a sweet countenance and I could tell, tough as nails when need be. She made the required promise to do a book report when finished with

Full Rising Mooner, and I ate the best BLT sandwich in Austin, Texas with a huge mound of the second best French fries in town. Only mine are better fries than were those, and only because I have a potato frying secret (duck fat) that I refuse to share with anyone.

I am hereby giving the eatery, BACON!, my hearty endorsement. Should I be giving my “hardy” endorsement as well?

I took the small bit of bacon I’d set aside to give to Honor went out to the car. The Rick Perry doll looked like it had been passed over by a lawn mower, and there was little bits of fabric and catnip on every surface inside my GTO. As for the fucking cat, she was so stoned on the kitty khronic that she was languishing on her back making love to the car’s Hurst Four-Speed Shifter. She was purring loud enough to make my keys rattle when I put them into the ignition and I can now say that I know what love looks like on a cat’s face.

After cleaning the car I barely got to my appointment on time. Michael was a very nice man and quite supportive of my efforts as a writer. He said he is going to read my book (we’ll see) and handled the paperwork with aplomb. I’m certain that Michael’s name will be mentioned on these pages in the future.

I needed some fresh veggies, so I walked to the Whole Foods flagship store across the street from Book People, grabbed an artichoke, turnip greens and a tapioca pudding, and went to check out. The pudding wasn’t on my list, but I’m a sucker for good pudding and tapioca from Whole Foods is a favorite.

My checker-outer person was Hannah—a dark-haired beauty whose eyes melted my heart in the first second mine were caught in them. I forced my glaze away to avert a scene and noticed a nifty tattoo winking at me from beneath the sleeve of Hannah’s shirt. “Are those roses, Hannah?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s a hot air balloon and those are flowers on its side.”

OK, let’s stop the presses. I think I might be a sex addict. At least I know that I think like one. I don’t ever act out like a sex addict… Maybe I do. I mean when SAC Ellen is in town I’m like the cat with a head full of catnip, but Ellen’s my steady and not a random partner. I find every woman to be a unique creature yet I seem to find something sexy in every woman I meet. I’m thinking I should be bothered by that.

But I’m not, so fuck it. It’s Carta Blanca beer time somewhere, so I’ll see you manana, y’all.

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Mooner Johnson- An Asshole By Any Other Name

Tuesday, February 14th, 2012

 

So. Happy Valentine’s Day, one and all. My V-day is a pisser as my sweetie is “on assignment” somefuckingwhere, and I have decided that I might actually be, an asshole. I’ve often thought it a possibility and if my skin weren’t as thick as an elephant’s hide, I’d have believed it when I was told any one of the thousands of times I’ve been told it.

“You’re an asshole,” might be one of the specific word strings said most to me by the most people. “Hands where I can see them,” would be a close second followed by, “Are you done yet?”

But the statement that I am an asshole would be number one on that Hit Parade. Do any of you remember that show—the one where each week they would live sing the week’s top pop music hits? It was on the radio first and then on NBC TV, I think. Or was it CBS? Doesn’t make a shit which one, it was sponsored by Camel ciggies—LSMFT. Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco.

OK, stop the presses because I just fritzerd my entire brain. I know it wasn’t Pall Mall or Kent that sponsored the TV show because it was one of the non-filtered brands, and Daddy smoked Pall Mall and I’d have remembered. For some reason I also have this niggling memory that the advertising agency for the show rigged which songs were the “hits” of the week.

Anyway, by the time I sat down for lunch yesterday, I had counted eleven times that I had been called an asshole and by seven different people. I’mma delete the three times the Squirt told me because she is neither a person, nor is she a reliable witness as to my assholedness. Assholenessess?

I think my little puppy calls me an asshole in the same manner as I call her a “little shitbird”[.] I choose to think of it as a term of endearment. Three from eleven assholes are eight, and one from seven people are six. So, I need to evaluate a half-dozen people having called me an asshole an average of 1.333333333333333334 times each, and all before the noon hour.

Here’s the breakdown. I first heard that I’m an asshole when I walked all the animals out to the road to get the newspaper. Rick Perry was feeling frisky, and my pet ostrich ran across the Ranch Road in front of a car. It was a neighbor’s son driving the car—a piss poor poker player who lost his family’s land to me in a poker game a few years back. The entire story is in my stupid fucking book that you can buy by clicking over there =======}}}}}}. But I will say here that the fishing dock sits on some of that land. All of the lake frontage and one of the wet creeks is on land formerly owned by this asshole.

The man slammed on his brakes and avoided hitting the 350-pound bird by ten car links on a 45 MPH roadway. I think he was just being an asshole for effect as he had way plenty time to safely stop. But that didn’t keep him from rolling his window down and shooting me the finger. “Keep your goddamn stupid bird out the road, asshole. Next time I won’t stop!”

“And next time I’ll send the pig in your way and fuck you all up.” With that, I spun around and dropped my shorts to my ankles and gave him what I call a “cracked smile moon with a Dead-eye Dick”[.] If you think on that one, it’ll come to you.

“You really are an asshole, Mooner Johnson. This just proves it.” That was said disgustedly, and he drove off.

We all laughed about the indecent on the way back to the house. When we got inside to the big, cozy kitchen table, Gram said, “What ch’all laughin’ ’bout? You sound like a sack a wild hydrangeas.”

That, of course, set more laughter in motion. When I got my giggles under control, I told the story about the Dead-eye Dick, and Gram almost fell out of her chair hooting. Mother had a quite different reaction. “Mooner, have you ever wondered if he was right? Maybe you are one.”

“Maybe he are one what, Mother?” Gram didn’t connect the dots right away.

“Well, you know that I won’t curse, but I think Mooner is what the neighbor boy called him.”

OK, first, the neighbor is hardly a boy—he’s my age. And second, he’s far from qualified to determine the voracity of his claim that I’m an asshole. He’s the one who lost his family ranch with a weak poker hand, not me. Besides, I’m letting his mother live on the homestead until she dies and I let him come visit.

Actually, I had to force her let him visit when she found out he called off 1,500 acres with waterfront while holding just a flush when there was a pair on the board. She plays way better poker than he ever could.

Which reminds me. I’m still major league pissed that I can’t play poker on the I-net. There’s some important legislation in the US Congress to legalize it, but it will give the individual states the right to ban it. I, of course, live in Texas, where the giant flaming fuckball named Governor Rick Perry resides. And they say I’m an asshole.

Anyway, Mother was going on and on about me being an asshole without saying the word asshole, and Gram had had enough of it. “OK, Mother, ya raised yersef a right proper little assholie an’ Mooner’s his name. Now shut yer yapper an’ pass me tha butter.”

Then the phone rang and I answered it to a solicitor for extended health care insurance. Whenever I get a first call from a phone salesperson, I always start the conversation with the following words, “You’ve got ten seconds to impress me starting… Now! Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five… Oh fuck it, goodbye.” Then I hang up on them.

I answered and hung up, grabbed a Carta Blanca beer from the friggie, and sat back down to my huevos rancheros. I always drink beer with the spicy, runny eggs with beans. The phone rang again, I answered, and it was the same guy. “You said I had ten seconds, asshole, and I’ve got four seconds left.”

I said, “No seconds for you shitwad, goodbye again.”

Aunt Hilda was sitting closest to the phone and when I hung up, she said to Dubbie-J—her shrunken head in a box—she said, “Mooner really can be an asshole, Dubbie-J. Don’t you think so?”

Apparently he did, and that brings up a problem with my prior calculations. If Dubbie-J called me an asshole, is that a person calling me asshole? Is a 150+ year-old shrunken head still a person?

Have you ever seen a shrunken head? They are really cool. Different head shrinking societies shrink them different ways, but this one was carefully crafted to produce the smallest possible results.

After I showered and dressed, I packed all the kids into the farm truck and headed to Callahan’s to get some provisions. Callahan’s is a nifty old fashioned farm store and one of my favorite places to shop. The animals love to shop there and everybody loves to watch them shop. I leave Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry outside in the truck for economic reasons. The last time I took my gay pig and ostrich inside, they got into a lovers’ spat in the medical section and I paid for $1,200 of damaged goods. They broke all the vials of veterinarian’s “death potion” or I’d have bought a few vials and put them to good use.

The dogs, Honor the fucking cat and I shopped and paid for our goods and returned to the truck. There was this big guy standing beside the truck and he didn’t look happy. “Is this your bird, asshole?”

Since he used the word asshole, I figured he was speaking to me. “Yes sir, he’s all mine. Magnificent specimen, don’t you think?”

“He just shit in the back of my pickup, and I think you need to buy me a new paint job.” This sounded like a threat, which brought the Squirt to my side.

“I’d like to suggest that you take a civil tone with me, sir. Otherwise the ten-pound predator now standing at your feet will give you cause for regret.”

Squirt snarled, revealing the set of miniature daggers set in her jaw. “She goes for your crotch first thing. Sometimes she releases when I tell her to, sometimes not. Sometimes I don’t tell her to release.”

The nice man and I reached a reasonable arrangement with his truck. I called Bobby over to the body shop where I get Gram’s Ferrari repaired. I have an open account there, and Bobby has three Ferrari parts cars in his yard to effect quick repairs. Bobby agreed to get the man right in to do the repairs.

I was feeling pretty chipper, so on the way to lunch from Callahan’s, I put the phone on Bluetooth and dialed by saying, “Call Rick Perry Campaign Headquarters.”

After three rings the truck cab filled with the sound of a young woman’s voice. “I know it’s you, asshole, we have caller ID service. Now go away before we get a restraining order on you.”

We all laughed and Squirt said, “Nice one, asshole.”

Manana, y’all.

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Guest Blogger Bully; Yoda’s Still Homely

Monday, February 13th, 2012

 

So. I’m working my brain overtime to discover new ways to stimulate book sales. I’ve come up with another possibility—actually I came up with it two weeks ago—but as is typical with anything involving technology of any variety, I’m more lost than that time when Gram and Aunt Hilda were running from the bad guys over to Africa. That’s when they were Baptist missionaries as young women and had to be smuggled to safety by large African men in a dugout canoe.

That canoe trip is when Aunt Hilda went batty and, I think, when my Gram first exhibited her randinesses. Aunt Hilda came home talking to a shrunken head in a mahogany box, and Gram came home talking lusty thoughts about large mahogany-skinned African men. The complete story is in Full Rising Mooner, the book about which I am bitching about it’s marketing.

You know, the more I authorate the more I have doubts as to the likelihood that there really is a benevolent God. A loving God would make it easy to communicate between His peoples. That last sentence up in the previous paragraph is a perfect example in explanation of my doubts. I edited that fucking string of words five times and that was the best I could do. Since a book is not a person, I can’t say, “… Full Rising Mooner, the book whose marketing is perplexing me…” I’ve spent so much time with that book that it has assumed a life in my life, but it’s still just words.

In the last three years I have written the afore-over-mentioned book of 120,000 words, an endeavor that required me to keystroke more than 550,000 words before completion. That word count ignores all of my multiple self-edits, and includes only the rewritings required by my fancy-pants Editorators. I had already written 54,000 words of a second book before deciding to start this silly fucking webber and bloggie.

Since I postered the first bloggie story in March of 2010, I have pasted 1,636,8992 words herein to the pages hereof. Since Amin only counts words that show up when you guys read this mess, I’m guessing that I actually typed over 2,000,000 self-edited words. When I add onto this word count, I have emails, US Postal Service letters, my scribbles on my beloved Postie Notes and the reminders I scribble on the palms of my hands.

I took the time to calculate the sum total for all of this word smithing and I obtained a number that approximated 3,250,000 words. That, dear friends, is over a million words per year and about 2,900 words every day—a number that feels a touch light. And after writing more than 3 million words of self expression, I still lack any quality to my expressions. I work my ass off to say exactly, specifically and with great precision, what I mean to say. To no avails. Like what I was trying to say up there about the book.

Which reminds me that I had an idea that I will sell books directly from here and I can do personal autographs and dedications to the buyer—that’s the idea from two weeks ago. I’ll set up a Pay Pal dealie to insure safety for both buyer and seller alike, and I’ll be in business. My thought is that I’ll be so busy signing and mailing sold books that I’ll have little time to give books away. All I need to do to implement this plan is set up a Pay Pal account and get it plastered here. Easy-peasy!

Riiiiight. Did you notice when I said “I’ll” set up a Pay Pal dealie? As I said above, I had this idea fourteen days ago and I’ve been frustrating myself with it ever since. I’m almost frustrated enough to ask for help. Almost.

Which brings up another technologies point. After reaching a point just north of suicidal tendencies, I got help from BJ and Squatlo to get a photo of Yoda eating yard weeds postered. Since nobody commented, I’m going to paste it herein once more. Please notice how cute a truly ugly dog can be when photographed at the right angle, and in the soft light of late afternoon. Squirt says of her younger buddy, she told me, “You know, Bwana Mooner, he’s so ugly the flies won’t land on his ass.” This single photo is the only one from the hundreds I took of him and the Squirt grazing that was worth a shit. I literally wore the batteries down in the camera taking pictures, and that’s the only one that worked. This is the pic of Yoda eating a dandelion leaf from my hand, proof positive that he eats weeds like a goat.

 

 Oopsie, let me try again.

Yoda eats a dandelion

Now that prior reminder reminds me of another thing I need to remind us about. I want to have some guest bloggers here. I want some of my friends and enemies both to write stuff for me to put up. So far the only responses I’ve gotten to this request have been polite, “I’m not suited for your site.”

Who, in the fuck, is suited for this site? You think I’m suited for this site? Really? Do you truly think that my ramblings are suitable for print? And they say I’m crazy.

OK, I actually am crazy, which brings up my psycho therapy session from last Friday morning. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson was asking me how I feel about getting older and I of course asked what the fuck she was speaking to—did she mean does my body aches, or my thoughts of an early death or the abject fear I have that my pecker could stop working? If my pecker ever stops working I’ll have no reason to live.

“No, Mooner, you bat-shit loony bird, I’m speaking to your inappropriate behaviors. You’re at an age where you can’t maintain the pace required to be as crazy as you are. As the zoo keeper for your mental health, I feel obligated to recommend that you scale-back your proclivity to cause a ruckus.”

What the fuck? (That was me thinking to myself so I italicized it. I think was was the correct way to do it)

“What the fuck?” this time aloud. “Are you accusing me of getting into trouble on purpose?”

Her answer was a sweet smile, and a nod of her perfectly coiffed head. She has her hair cut into this pixie cut that has always been my favorite hair style. I’m not a long hair man, I like short hair on women.

“Bitch,” the best I could manage under the circumstances.

“Look, Mooner. How many more times can you be arrested and released unharmed? The Sheriff’s catch-and-release license is going to expire if Woozie ever loses an election, and you’ll be in some serious trouble.”

“Woozie will die with that star pinned to his chest, Sammie. Besides, you talk as though I do shit on purpose.”

My psycho therapist chewed on hep lip—an action that still springs my loins—and then gnawed on the fingernail of her left middle finger. My first ex-wife and mother of my children is a sexy little thing. Always was and likely always will be.

“Don’t look at me with those dewy eyes of yours, buster. If you think I’m falling for that Johnson charm again, you are crazy enough for Shoal Creek Mental Hospital.” Here she pointed to the buttons on her desk phone and said to me, she tells me, “I’ve got their emergency intake number on speed dial. I push button number 3 on this, and you’ll be the prize behind door number 7 in the close watch unit at the hospital.”

And now, dear friends, I have hit 1,286 words. I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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Invitation To Be A Guest Blogger; Rain Sex Better Than Make-up Sex

Friday, February 10th, 2012

 

So. It’s Friday and rainy and gloomy here to Austin, Texas, and I love it. We need rain and I need an excuse to stay inside, and I love rain anyway. Ever had sex in the rain?

One of my ex-wives, a woman of robust sexual proclivities who shall go herein unnamed, would get all hot and bothered with just the mention of rain in a weather forecast. We’d be watching the late news on TV and the weather guy would say, “… and there’s a ten-percent chance of light showers Saturday afternoon…” and the next thing I know I’m in the big shower stall with my eyes crossed.

Woman didn’t care about the temperature outside, wind velocities or any other inclemency attached to the rain. If it’s raining, she’s getting wet and laid. OK, wait. She’s getting laid wet. Actually, she used to say, “Just the thought of getting laid in the rain makes me wet,” so, maybe I should have said that, “If it’s raining, she’s getting wet and getting laid wetly.”

There was this one time we were out to the barn when a big Springtime thunderstorm rolled through. The barn had—still has—a full-metal jacket of corrugated roof and sides. She heard the pitty-pats of the first raindrops hit the side of the barn and she was all lathered up. “Come on, Mooner, let’s go the the pasture and screw in the grass.”

This was said with her hot breath on my neck and her hand jammed up and beneath the leg of my loose cotton shorts. I wear loose cotton shorts whenever I can. If I remember correctly, her hand was up the left leg of my shorts, and my initial reaction to those first pitter-pats of rain was a pecker expansion. We’d been married long enough at that moment for me to know how she got with inclement weather. In the time it took for her to squeeze me, me to issue a resultant moan and her to re squeeze, lightening flashed and lit up the dim barn and the thunder clapped and shook the metal covering almost simultaneously.

Now most of you are thinking the lightening would have been a discouragement, but you are wrong. “Oh, my God, Baby, let’s hurry outside,” she stammered with shaky breath. “You know how I love light shows.”

See, I told you. I dropped the pitchfork I was holding and grabbed her by the waist and kissed her hard. In that instant it started to hail. At first it was the small rock salt-sized pellets that I knew would make the pasture sex especially rewarding. But quickly the hail grew in size and was suddenly a waterfall of ice balls from golf-to-softball in size. The metal skin of the barn was like a thousand kettle drums as the hails pelted and hammered away.

“Hurry, Mooner,” she gasped and pulled me to the west wall where the wind was pushing the rain and hail in torrents. She quickly stripped and pulled me against her as she leaned against the metal.

“Holy shit,” she said when both the hail and her passion had passed. “That was better than using two vibrators.” When she said this her voice had a quiver like when you put a vibrator on your Adam’s apple. Of course she doesn’t have an Adam’s apple, I was using metaphor, but she did have a splendid neck. Creamy skin, and her big arteries would bulge and pulse when she was in heat.

Anyway, Rick “The Pompous Prick” Perry spoke to the right-wing Republicans gathering yesterday and promised to fight for the Tenth Amendment until his last breath. The Tenth is, of course, the “State’s Rights” amendment on the Bill of Rights, and what these silly fuckballs in state legislatures use to take away our rights in the name of family values.

His “last breath” comment caused me to cogitate a moment, and I ordered a sleeve of dry cleaners bags. I had the bags printed to say, “Executive Privilege Dry Cleaners- these bags are safe to put over your head.”

I’ll try to get someone to place them in Ricky’s closet.

Sister and Anna were over to dinner last night and we were discussing Lloyd’s coming visit and then the subject of gay rights. We all think that maybe it’s a good thing how the Christian right is pushing so hard and cruelly against gays and that the vitriolic nature of their attacks is awakening quiet America’s eyes. We’re starting to think that things are turning to the good on that front.

OK, stop. Somehow I have managed to kill the messenger and forgot to tell you what I intended to in this posting. If you check the prior posting to this one, you’ll notice that I managed to hang a photo of Yoda eating dandelions but not one of his acrobatic crappings. The weather is dismal and I can’t risk ruining the camera. So that pic will have to wait for the rain to pass—an event the weatherman says is likely a week away.

But, again, that’s good news since we need rain.

But here’s the deal. Brandini wrote about how smart it is to have/do guest bloggies at other guys’ webbers. I think that’s a great idea. Therefore, and herein requested, I am offering an open forum for anyfuckingbody to be a guest blogger. I’ll not censure, save for legalities and maybe dumb meannesses, and I’ll print every one of them.

That way we can cross-pollinate our readerships and gain critical masses. Come on, guys, step up to the plate! Maybe it’ll be you manana.

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When ADD Loses Focus; How To Write A Bad Bloggie

Thursday, February 9th, 2012

 

So. I got frustrated today and hopped into the GTO to go fix the problem. The problem is that after weeks of following procedures for getting my book for sale at the local bookstore, I am exactly where I started, when I started weeks ago, and that is no fucking where.

That has to make sense.

There’s this one guy who holds the golden key to unlock the gates to shelf space at the bookstore, and he is ignoring me. That or he is too busy to do this part of his job, or he is a right-wing fascist fuckball who won’t put my book in the store because of my politics. Whatever the reason, I find it unreasonable that the bookstore that touts itself as “local author friendly” is so very unfriendly with a local author.

In case things got out of hand, I left the cat and dogs behind. I can’t always find someone to pick them up from the jail right away and the Squirt says Yoda doesn’t like jail. As for the fucking cat, Honor would shred somebody’s arms and then I’d have to deal with that. Squirt likes jail, thinks of getting locked up as personal growth.

Anyway, I was alone and headed to the bookstore to pay my fee and get my book on the shelf for sale. Nope. Didn’t happen. I’m giving this little situation until the end of the week, and if we get no resolution by then, I’m gonna full-disclosure their asses.

After becoming ever more frustrated with the as yet unnamed bookstore, I left their parking lot and headed south on Lamar. At 5th Street I turned left and headed to Congress Avenue. I decided to eat lunch at one of the South Congress food trucks that are set on a gravel lot near Guerros Taco Bar. It’s a mobile food truck park, like a trailer park, but with food. Good food.

I turned onto Congress, crossed the river and headed up the hill. I got just a couple blocks when I noticed a young woman on a moped. She had a big mop of bright red hair tied into a tangled knot atop her head, she wore a black bomber jacket, a huge bug-eating grin, and a mini dress that exposed half-a-mile of creamy legs. I saw her approach in my left rear-view mirror and my eyes seemed to catch a glimpse of a Sharon Stone.

With my eyes on the rear-view, the GTO almost hit a parked car on my right, which reminds me. In its infinite wisdom, the City of Austin has installed these silly-assed reverse-angle parking spaces all along South Congress. Instead of pulling forward into a 45-degree angled slot head first, you drive past your chosen spot, stop and then back in place into a reverse-angle slot. I’ve heard all the reasons why this is a good plan to increase the numbers of slots and safety and all of that…

But that is the single dumbest parking dealie I have ever seen, and I’ve been to San Francisco and Rome.

The car I almost hit was an old Cadillac with its tail fins stuck a few feet into traffic. Obviously its owner has no more respect for this reverse angle silliness than do I. I swerved and honked, of course I honked, and scared the woman on the moped. She jumped off the seat and almost crashed. When she jumped off the seat I got a confirmed sighting of a Sharon Stone.

She regained control of the little motor bike and passed me with a flip of a bird and a screamed, “Fuck You, Asshole!”

I felt like an asshole for scaring her, so I followed her to apologize. I opened my window and waved at her six or eight times, but she kept looking back at me and speeding up. I’m tenacious if I’m a day over twenty-one, so I kept it up. I wanted to say, “I’m sorry if I scared you, maybe you should wear undies when you drive that thing, are you married?”

I’d followed her a mile or so south when a cop ahead of us pulled into the shopping center at Oltorff, and the redhead sped in after him. That’s when the red lights went off inside my skull and I passed the center, pulled into Habana and drove behind their building. Habana is a good place to eat, but not a trailer, so I watched until the cop sped past and I exited to drive back north up Congress.

Holy shit but this is starting to sound like an Incident Report. I didn’t get arrested but I did lose focus, and I ended up on this little one-block long street named College Avenue. On it is Lucy’s Fried Chicken, a new chicken joint. It’s this nifty little Austin funky place with a varied menu and nice staff. Will waited on me and was very helpful. He wasn’t afraid to say what he likes best from the menu and he wasn’t stuffy.

I got what they call Gizzers, a gizzard and liver combo basket of chicken fried wonderment. The meat was sweet and clean—soaked in buttermilk before frying to crisp perfection—and they were served with a spicy chipotle dipping sauce that was perfect. The also serve raw oysters and good sides and have daily specials that indicate not just cooks, but a chef resides in the kitchen.

OK, wait. They called them Lizards, not Gizzers. But who really gives a shit what they called them, they were great. I gave Will a copy of Full Rising Mooner and he promised to report back when finished.

Having successfully given one book away, I decided to push my luck and go for a second giveaway. I drove to Flipnotics coffee shop on Barton Springs, one of my favorite places in Austin. I could go on for hours about this place, but let me say that Chris was making coffee when I walked in. Chris is an author so I gave him a book and walked to the upstairs and in the back area and sat on the sofa.

There was a young man of maybe thirty holding court with three women. I think he was a writing coach or something and he was speaking rapid-fire and waving his arms, as if arm waving would add importance to the over-wrought erudite-ness of his patter. I couldn’t understand what he was trying to say, but he had the ladies full attentions. I decided to not bother them, finished my coffee and walked out.

Is this boring you as much as it is me? I realize that my mind has been focused since the third paragraph up there, and I’m starting to realize that I’m boring as shit without my ADHD. Which reminds me. Brandini over to My Private Idaho is a bloggie expert, and last week he wrote a smart story on proper blogging etiquette. He says that you need fewer than 500 words in each posting and that you have to put three photos or picto-graphics in each, or you lose readers.

This little ditty is already more than 1,300 words, and I don’t have a pic for you and couldn’t post a graphic to save Brandini’s life. Which in turn reminds me that I might have a pic to post. Squatlo accused me of dishonesty when I was talking about the dogs eating weeds. I’m going to go take a photo of some weed eating and I might get one of his acrobatic dog squats as well. I can get him to eat on command, but he’ll only shit at will.

If there is a photo attached after all of these too many words, I was successful. If not… I don’t know what if not. I’ll keep trying. Manana, y’all.

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Mooner Not On New York Times Bestseller List; Lloyd Is Coming To Austin

Tuesday, February 7th, 2012

 

So. I’m trying to make an evaluation of my success as a writer and I’m completely lost with it. I was Googlelating around for some sort of criteria that would help me compare my results, and it was nothing if not frustrating.

In the publishing world, the standard for success is the New York Times Bestseller List. Getting on that list is the benchmark for authorating achievements. Ever the practical and self-honest man that I am, I know I’m not ever going to see my name on that particular list.

Unless, of course, they start counting the thousands of books I’ve given away as “sales”[.]

But I don’t think that’s how they mean you get sales. Maybe I could charge a penny for each book rather than give them away. Then again, that might not work either. I can’t tell you how many people have told me I couldn’t pay them to read my trashy book.

Then there would be success as a writer that comes from helping people. Like if I invented a cure for dumbass and I wrote a book for proctologists. There aren’t enough total asshole specialists to buy that book and put it on the bestseller list if all of them paid full price. But you could say the book was successful if some docs read it and saved lives resultantly.

My book won’t cure anything but insomnia so the helpful method of success doesn’t apply here. Which reminds me. I was talking with a guy on the phone about doing some roofing work out to the compost plant and he got all up in my ass about what I said about Jerry Jones a few days ago. “You got no right talking about Jer-Jones like that. He’s a true Texan and I think he looks just fine.”

Now me, I appreciate a man’s dedication to his football team in the face of a full-frontal attack, but I always make sure of my facts before shooting off my mouth. I make way aplenty fool of myself when I know about what I’m saying. I don’t need to be foolish on purpose. I responded to him, I said, “Well first thing, Roscoe, your boy was born in California—somewhere near to Los Angeles if my memory is clear—and he was raised up in Arkansas. That part was near Little Rock, again assuming my memory is un-muddled. He’s not a Texan by birth or raising.”

I gave that a few beats to sink in. “Then he went to the U of Hoggies and played football against my Texas Longhorns and for Coach Broyles, on a team that had many players and assistant coaches who have gone on to become outstanding head coaches. Those guys would include our very own Jimmy Johnson, Johnny Majors of Vol fame, Batty Barry Switzer, Ken Hatfield and Hayden Fry.”

Again I gave him a minute to digest before I continued with, “Your boy Jerry likely got his idiotic desire to be a head coach from his jealousy at having so many of those other guys become successful coaches. Since he was born with a silver shoe up his ass, he likely thinks anything he wants he can have. I’m not saying he hasn’t taken what his daddy gave him and done well with it in the business world, I’m just saying it wouldn’t be his concussions keeping him out of the White House.”

This got me a, “You’re a real asshole, Mooner Johnson. You need to take back what you said about his titties twitchin’ when he talks.”

“Well, Roscoe, I didn’t say that, I said his nipples twitch when he smiles, and I meant it. Be glad I didn’t tell you what his plastic surgeon asked him in the middle of the operation,” two, three, four.

“OK, smart guy, what did his plastic surgeon ask him in the middle of the operation?” Some people can’t feel the prick of the hook through the meat of the bait.

“Now Roscoe, you understand that they put you all the way out for facial surgeries, so they had to wake old Jer-Jones up to ask the question. Once he was awake enough that the doc felt he could get an intelligent answer, he said to Jerry, he asked, ‘Mr. Jones, after pulling your skin tight enough to get all the wrinkles out of your face, your belly button is in the middle of your chin. I can either cut it off and graft it onto the end of you pecker—we call that foreskin retatchment—or I can just leave it as a big dimple.’”

Two, three and four, “Me, and here I’m just guessing when I say that since old Jerry’s not sporting a big chin cleft, he’s got himself a nice, soft new pecker hood.”

Then my silly brain started fritzing around and I thought, out loud, “Hey, that’s funny. A new pecker head hood for the head pecker wood.”

It took a couple more calls to find a roofer and I got wondering about pecker hoods. I was violated with a hood removal as a newborn like most the rest of us white boys back in the day. I have always wondered what it would be like to have one. Daddy and granddaddy both had them and bitched about their care. “Gotta keep it real clean, Mooner, or your Gram won’t sleep in the same bed with me.”

I loved my grandfather with deep respect. He was the first Johnson in my direct lineage with the dreaded ADHD and ADD. Granddaddy died in a farming accident with a 1940′s era combine. The story is in the stupid fucking book I’m discussing, said book available over there ====}}}} on the Bloggie Roller. Those of you with knowledge of a 1940′s combine know how terrible his death must have been.

Which reminds me to tell you about the dogs. I had to cut back a touch on their food to keep them healthy, so they have started supplementing their diets with roughage from everywhere. These two fucking dogs are now eating anything that resembles salad components.

It first started when Yoda was outside taking a dump. He gets all hunched up like a dog except to the extreme when he shits. Remember that yoga stance where you put your hands on the ground and then rest your knees on your elbows and lift your feet off the ground? That’s what he does and sometimes he’s got that look on his face like that little Russian gymnast, Olga Carmichael or whateverthefuck her name was. You know that time when she’s all balled-up on the balance beam in some silly position and she’s shaking and sweating and grimacing?

That’s our Yoda when he does the number two, and it was Olga Korbut. The Russian girl was Olga Korbut, and Yoda was dumping a few weeks ago and his lost his balance and fell nose first into a pile of dandelions. The weather has been so mild that the dandies have come out early, and often. I had pulled a dozen or so and piled them up to collect later for composting.

Yoda’s nose was buried in the pile of weeds while he finished his business and he came out of the pile with a big leaf stuck to his nose. He sniffed it where it lay, liked what he smelled and decided to take a nibble.

I haven’t had to weed the patch of grass where the dogs shit since. Once they ate all the dandelions, they went on to eat the winter grass, small milk thistles—the babies before the sticker gets hard—and this little vine that grows close to the ground.

“How in the hell am I supposed to control your diets if the two of you eat every weed that grows on 3,000 acres?” I thought this a thoughtful question of the Squirt and Yoda.

“Fuck you, asshole,” Squirt responded. “Who the hell you think you are, anyway?”

“I’m the asshole who can stuff your fat ass in a gunny sack and take you for a swim. That’s who the fuck I am, you ungrateful little bitch.”

Squirt gave me a smile and turned to go eat some more weeds.

Which reminds me. I just got an email from my buddy Lloyd. Lloyd is the man I most admire in the entire world. He and his husband are coming to Austin in March and I’m way too fucking excited. I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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Good To Be Gay On Bloggie Roller; Fuck Rick Santorum

Friday, January 27th, 2012

 

So. I’m still stinging and laughing at myself over the entire Theo business. Squatlo and I have been terrorized by our buddy Wild Bill BJ for so many months, now that the gig is up I’m feeling a sense of loss. I guess it’s like a separation anxiety or whatever psycho analytical term you would use.

In other news, I was at a coffee shop yesterday to give books away and encountered a nice older man with opinions on life that are my polar opposite. He was reading a Baptist Daily Prayer book and sipping a cup of tea. He sat at a corner table with the sun shining squares on his face through a lattice hanging outside the window. He and his table were checkered with sun spots.

I asked if I could sit and discuss a book with him—my book—and he welcomed me with open arms. Literally, he stood and opened his arms to me. We shook hands and introduced ourselves, and I will tell you that his first name is Bill, a coincidence, and he sits at this table at this time of day every MTTF and Saturday, five days every week. The reason he doesn’t sit at that table on W’s and Sundays is because he sits at the First Baptist church those days.

Baptist Bill is a true Southern gentleman—polite to the point of aggravating, gushingly supportive and very slow to burn. Did I say slow to burn?

We exchanged pleasantries, as Southern gentlemen do, and then he listened to my book pitch. I decided to let him read the Clarion four-of-five stars review before wasting any additional time, so I handed him a copy. Those of you who have read said review know that the last sentence of the second paragraph says, “Using strong language, he (the author) constantly lambastes the two things he dislikes the most: Republicans and Baptists.”

Baptist Bill began reading the review, and chuckled right away. He looked up and said, “Oh, you’re Mother Johnson’s son, aren’t you,” and he continued reading. It was a statement and not a question, and the chuckle came quickly, like at the “ten ex-wives” dealie in the first paragraph.

He read for maybe another twenty seconds, stopped and removed the half-lens glasses that perched on the end of his nose, and sighed. A deep, cleansing sigh. “I know all about you, Mooner Johnson, and I approve of none of it. Go away before I call the manager.”

What, no Mr. Johnson from the Southern Baptist gentleman? “Before you call the manager on me, might you tell me what it is about me that you find so disapproving?”

“How about everything, Sir. You are a disgusting heretical spawn of the devil. I heard what you said about Governor Rick Perry, and you should be ashamed of yourself.”

I asked him what it was I said and he told me, “You support homosexuality,” and then he said he would call the manager if I didn’t promptly leave his table.

He’s right, I do support homosexuality. I thanked him for his time, as a Southern gentleman would, and left his table to take a stance and find my next victim. I noticed the old fart picked the review off his sun-spotted table and started reading again. Baptist Bill grimaced as he read.

I found someone to approach, did, sold the book giveaway concept, and left the shop.

At last night’s dinner, at a point sometime before telling my Wild Bill BJ story, I mentioned Baptist Bill. “Oh, that must be William, the retired accountant from the First Baptist Church, a true gentleman. He came to our church to hear Pastor Browningwell’s special message on the sanctity of man/wife marriage.”

Have you guys ever noticed that these fucking right-wing Christian fuckballs still say, “Man/wife marriages,” when they think we aren’t paying attention? It would be a man/woman dealie, you ignorant shitwads. Sometimes preachers still announce at the end of a wedding, “I now pronounce you man and wife.”

That shit scorches my balls. Which reminds me. I want to name a new member to my Bloggie Roller. The new member isn’t a person but it’s rather a newsletter. It’s called “Good To Be Gay” and it has been a very good read for me. You can find it at:

http://paper.li/MaleFollower/1309626956?utm_source=subscription&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=paper_sub

You can also click over there ====}}} on the Roller to get there. Today’s issue has a story about the other Pricky Ricky running for President, and a situation that came up yesterday in Florida. Rick The Prick Santeria was asked by the mother of a gay American why her child, a productive and law-abiding citizen, shouldn’t be allowed to marry. Oopsie. I just noticed that my spell checker just changed Santorum to Santeria, a voodoo term. How fucking appropriate is that?

Anyway, the article has the following quote from Ricky S:

“There are certain things that government does that gives people privileges in order to promote activity that are healthy for society and are best for society. And those things we promote would give people advantages or benefits, government benefits because we think that is healthy activity. Mothers and fathers coming together, forming healthy marriages, having children and raising those children. Every American child has the right, and the government should support the right to have and know their mother and father and be raised by their mother and father.”

  • Rick Santorum

Which of us knew that our Constitution gave Rick Santeria the right to grant privileges? Can you even get your heads around what this man said there? This asshole just said that the government needs to enforce (“support”) the right of every kid to have a mother and a father who raises them.

Does that frighten anyone but me? I can’t be the the only one. I’m now officially adding a Rick to my Fuck List. Fuck Rick Perry.

And FUCK RICK SANTORUM TOO!!!

Manana, y’all.

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K, K, And K Kardashian’s Kamel Toes Displayed; The Commentor Formerly Known As Theo Returns

Tuesday, January 24th, 2012

 

So. I’m headed off to South Austin this foggy morn to give more books away in coffee shops. I’ve taped the Author’s Request disclaimers into some books, signed them to: “Whomever you are”[,] and then penned my John Henry at the bottom. I’ve got a handful of books ready to go, and I’m going as soon as I finish this writing. To catch a glimpse of what book I herein speak to, click over there to my Bloggie Roller ====}}}} and you’ll find a video book trailer, Clarion four-of-five stars review, and Amazon sites for a paper-paged book and Kindle, both.

And maybe I’ve got a handfuls of book, each book with a John Hancock, and I might should have said, “To catch a glimpse of what book I speak of herein…”

I’m somewhat scattered, smothered, covered and extra-crispy with ADHD-fueled brainwaves. As my longtime readers know, I am visited by recurring-themed camel toe dreams on a routine basis. At least once each week the female dromedaries pay visit to my sleepy time. I get frequent overnight stays from actresses and political figures and even Queens and shit. For as long as I’ve had these dreams, I’ve never encountered pseudo celebrities. I’ve never had a visit from the Kardashian sisters.

Until last night.

I’ve been happy to lay claim to the fact that those three apparent nitwits and their nitwittier mother have been off the radar screen of my subconscious dream brain. I don’t have anything against them as I love pretty dumb women just as much as smart women and women without great physical beauty. I don’t have anything against them, I simply don’t want to waste valuable focus on them.

If you have ADD, you know how valuable a little focus can be. We sufferers like to make our focus count.

This dream likely grew from seeds planted at dinner last night. Gram cruised down to College Station over the weekend and returned with her Ferrari packed with Aggies. Freddie, a space science major from the Philippines, is a talky little fucker that even the Squirt can’t understand. When I asked what the cute little chatterbox said this one time, she said, “Oh for shit sakes, Mooner. I can’t tell if he’s speaking Tag A Log or Bikal. You need to call the Reckmonster on this one.”

Squirt went on to tell me that for starters there are over 7,000 individual islands in the Philippines and that there are sixteen different MAJOR languages spoken there. “Then,” Squirt told me, “you have all the different dialects. Like the Bikal has Bikal Central and dozens of regional Bikal slangs. It’s a fucking linguist’s nightmare!”

The second young man my randy old grandmother brought home was Dave, a pimply-faced eighteen-tear-old bovine husbandry ag student who is not to be confused with Mr. Dave. Mr. Dave, the giant-peckered older gentleman of Johnson Manor, is on an extended visit over to the house of P-cubed. Mr. Dave has managed to quench thirsts around here for now, so the ladies of my house loaned him out to Penelope Paxton-Parades—Gram’s best buddy.

Anyway, we’re sitting at the dinner table last night when the subject of booties came up. Sister and her wife Anna the Amazon were here, and Dave couldn’t keep his eyes off Anna, my ex-wife and my lesbian sister’s wife now. Gram was editing his watching of Anna’s ass and grew tired of it. She gave Dave the Evil Eye and said to him, she said, “What ya lookin’ at, sonny boy? I thought ya said ya was all tuckered out.”

Dave grimaced but held his back straight. I admired his spine in the face of the Evil Eye. “I’m worn right on down to the bone, Mrs. Johnson. But Anna looks like Khloe Kardashian except with Kim K’s bootie and that beautiful blond hair. Is that your real hair color Ms. Johnson-Johnson-Johnson?”

Now Sister’s face started the twitch towards an Evil Eye, but Dave saved his own bacon before I could intervene. “I don’t mean any disrespect, Ms. Sister, it’s just that your wife and you both look like famous people. I, simply said, like Khloe Kardashian’s looks better than Demi Moore’s.”

If you would buy my fucking book and read it, you would understand the full width and breadth of calamity Dave avoided with his further explanations. And why nobody asked young Dave what he was doing with my bony old grandmother if he liked his women plump is a second answer you’ll find should you read the book. But I’ll not give additional enlightenment for free at this time. What I will do is tell you that sometime after 3:00 am last night, I had a celebrity camel toe dream. OK, a pseudo celebrity camel toe dream.

In this dream I was sitting at a coffee shop in South Austin looking over the crowd to determine who to approach for a book giveaway. I guess I was in a South Austin coffee shop because I had already planned today’s visits. I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see who it was, but was forced to turn and look up. Waaaay up. It was Khloe, Kim and Kourtney K., and Khloe was in the lead.

“We want a free book, Mister,” they all three said in unison. Their unified voices were a chorus of estrogen and sex and youth. “We’ll show you our booties if you give us a book.”

“Well, ladies,” I explained, “I like butts, and a lot of like at that, but your booties are not what will attract my affections, it’s your camel toes. I’m Mooner Johnson, and I’m a pocket meat man.”

They all three giggled in unison and invited to to join them in the private room at the coffee shop. I didn’t know coffee shops had private rooms but this one does. I followed them back and admired the three world famous and world class booties every step of the way. Nothing, and I mean nothing, can beat the look of a well-groomed camel toe as it does the pocket rumba when its keeper is strolling towards me. But have to admit that this trio of asses gave cause to reconsider.

“OK, ladies,” I said as the tuxedoed attendant pulled the curtains shut behind us and I sat in a deep-cushioned chair. “Show me what you’ve got.”

I’ve got an observation for you guys. I think I can now say with a reasonable certainty that, “Big bootie in the back—robust camel toe leading the way.”

I was squeezing and tugging as I inspected the girls’ worthiness as recipients of free books. Then it dawned on me that these three young women gross more annual income that Guatemala.

“I’m sorry, ladies” I told them. “These appear to be world-class tootsies. If all I get is a peek and a squeeze, you’ll need to pay for books.”

Kim says to me, she says, “Oh, Mr. Johnson, I thought you’d ne-ver ask.”

Me, I’m dream-thinking what it was, specifically, that I asked when Kim hiked her already-hiked short, sequined dress over her waist and hooked her thumbs in the edge of the deep maroon-colored thong she wore. “Close your eyes, Mr. Johnson, and open them when I say ‘When’[.]”

I squeezed my eyes tight and might have started shaking. My mind started running through all the previous times I have been waiting for a woman’s panties to fall. Each and every one of those times I opened my eyes to a different wonderment. I tried to find a prior visage that I felt would match this one and came up empty.

I heard the rustling sound that tight ladies undies make as they are removed over two legs, slowly. I heard a deep intake of breath and then felt its hot, humid air as it was slowly released towards my face. The “shoosh” of air stood the hairs on my neck into bristles. The cushion of my seat depressed on either side of my head, and I sensed rather than felt soft fuzz approaching my face.

To my self I thought, “Do I stick my tongue out- yes or no?” I answered to myself, “No, not on the first date.”

Just at the moment I felt the feather-light contact of fine hairs on my chin, I heard, “When!”

I jerked awake with Honor laying across my face with her belly parked my mouth. “Shit, Honor, you managed to ruin my best camel toe dream in months.” Actually, it sounded like, “Thith,”

Fucking cats. Would somebody please remind me why I even have a fucking cat?

Good thing I have first date rules in my dreams. Manana, y’all.

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Bookstore Bingo; Readjusting To Prick Perry’s Return

Saturday, January 21st, 2012

 

So. It’s Saturday morning and things are swirling in my head. BJ posted a video story over to Dumb Perignon about an elderly man in Florida who was beaten by an asshole cop for no reason. The cop had turned his dash-cam off, beat an old man senseless and his bosses’ only reprimand was for turning the camera off. Someone somehow retrieved the video from the hard drive. Click over there ===}}}} to BJ’s place and see why I’m pissed.

OK, wait. BJ actually calls his place “Un-Original Thoughts” now.

I’m also conflicted about Rick Perry’s aborted Presidential run, the case for which I made yesterday. Rick Perry is a sickness that threatened to be pandemic should his authorities stretch beyond the borders of Texas. Confined within my state’s borders he’s managed to kill or maim most state governmental civility, and I fear he returns to finish us off.

I look around myself everywhere I go now, searching the faces of the people I see. They don’t all look that stupid. Most, actually, appear to have moral intellect. So how, in the fuck, has Rick Perry been elected over and over again? What, in the fuck, has happened to people?

Then, there is my guerrilla marketing program to stimulate book sales. That would be the plan to stimulate sales of the book I wrote, called Full Rising Mooner, that you can investigate by clicking to one of the linkster tabbies over there ====}}}}. There’s linkster tabbies for the book’s video trailer—a masterful advertisement if I say so myself—and also one for the four-of-five stars Clarion book review.

I have encountered both a conundrum and a dilemma with marketing the book in local bookstores. I’ve found myself in a perplexing situation with a difficult selection of choices to make, and I must say that this dilemmonic conundrum has dichotomous aspects as well—it’s full of diametrically-opposed aspects that are about to bring me to my knees.

Here’s the deal. I told you the other day about how Barnes&Noble Bookstores don’t give store managers any authority over book choices and that if I want my book stocked at the one store here to Austin, I must endure a vetting exercise somewhat akin to that time I was suspected of being a homegrown, domestic terrorist. I think the only thing missing is the rectal probes, but I’m only half way through the forms.

I’m normally a local business supporter but I shop at that B&N because I always buy my daughter gift cards to the bookstore and she has no local bookstore where she lives that I can online purchase from, and none of our local Austin bookstores are also local in Vermont, and this particular B&N is convenient to me and has a sister store up there with convenience to my daughter.

Rather than purchase from one of the two local new book bookstores of which I am aware, I go to the B&N in the Arboretum. Somehow in my ADHD-addled illogic, that makes perfect sense. Somehow, that is one of those rare ideas of mine wherein I feel no remorse for having locked, loaded and fired.

But I got to thinking after I wrote about my visit to B&N the other day. “Why,” I thought to myself and maybe out loud, “don’t I focus my marketing efforts on local bookstores?”

“A very good question, Sir,” was my response, aloud for certain. The first of Austin’s independent, local bookstores is Book Women. The title says it all. If I was a woman or had written a book aimed at a woman audience, I’d be all over Book Women. Hell, I might be all over Book Women anyway, but I’ve never met them.

The second local retailer of new books is Book People. Located near downtown, Book People is across the street from Whole Foods Market’s flagship store and universal headquarters building located at Sixth and Lamar. It’s a popular store and supports local writers.

But that support has a price. In order to be displayed on their shelves at Book People, a writer must be vetted—not FBI-styled like at B&N, but vetted just the same—and then if approved, the writer must choose from among a market basket of payment plans. Priced from $25.00 to get on the shelves and up to as much as $225.00 for shelf space, Local Author Display time, mention in the online store and a book signing in-store with three other locals, a writer is required to spend money to be read.

Intrinsically, as a businessman I get that. I understand that Book People cannot afford the shelf space to stock the book of every crackpot who can string 125,000 words together. Their store is maybe half the size of the B&N, and it already has the more crowded feel of an old corner bookstore. They can’t afford to support my bad habits and require me to support myself.

You guys are smart so you know where all of this bookstore bullshit is going. It’s only 9:00 am and I’m headed to the walk-in friggie back in our kitchen to load a cooler with Carta Blanca beers, and I’m taking the circus I call my pets fishing.

My gay ostrich and pig are both as pasty looking as a beached whale from all their time in the closet, and Rush Limbaugh has put on enough weight during the holidays to look like a whale, un-beached. His lover, the ostrich I named Rick Perry, called him “Fatso” last night at supper when the two of them fought over the last of the fried quail on the table.

That started a terrible row with the two of them bickering and spitting nasty remarks around. Rush Limbaugh told Ricky that he is as stupid as his namesake and then Rick Perry countered with, “And you are as fat and mean-spirited as yours,” and then the crying and hissy-fitting ensued. Rick finally had a belly full and stormed off to hide his head in his sandbox, and Rush asked me to refill his trough with beer.

“Nope, not gonna happen,” I told him. “You get your lard ass in there and apologize to him. And I don’t want to ever hear you tell him he’s as stupid as our Governor again. Once more and you’ll be served as the BBQ pork you so love to be served. That’s the meanest thing you could say to anyone.”

Later last night I got the payback for exhibiting good parenting skills and responsibilities. The make-up sex happening in my closet kept me awake until all hours and when I finally got to sleep, I had nightmares.

I’m a mess. I need another vacation to Tennessee where my most important decision was which kind of prepared pork food would be the first of the flavor of my day, and my biggest concern was if I could outlast BJ in the cold contest that is a visit to Squatlo’s Ice House.

Or maybe I should go stick my head in Rick Perry’s sand box. Hiding from your issues doesn’t solve any problems, but it is nice to escape them for awhile. Manana, y’all.

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Coffee Shop Giveaways; Bye-Bye Ricky, You GFA

Thursday, January 19th, 2012

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

“The Author’s Requests

 

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

 

These are my requests:

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

Thank you for your consideration.”

What do you think?

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Mooner Takes On Barnes&Noble And Starbucks Too; A Writer’s Tale

Wednesday, January 18th, 2012

 

So. This is a big day for me. After visiting the Barnes & Noble store over to the Arboretum yesterday and having a discussion with the store manager, Charley, I have been doing some serious thinking about book marketing. I shall endeavor to persevere the battle that will be my ADHD-riddled self completing the “Barnes & Noble Acceptance Criteria” to get my book on the shelves of my personal B&N brick and mortar store, and I have come up with what might be a brilliant alternative marketing strategy.

Think about this. Where do people read books? At home, of course, at work during lunch, in bookstores, on benches outside and in coffee shops. Those are the places I think of when I asked myself the question. From the marketing perspectives, I can’t reach many people at home—few sane people open the door to me as a stranger and likewise few businesses would allow me to intrude with a fucking book to sell—you don’t find many benches crowded with readers and I’m already denied access to the fucking bookstore, so that leaves coffee shops.

Here’s my plan. I’m going to print a sheet of requests, I’ll call it “The Author’s Requests” or some silly fucking thing, that states my wish that a person reads the book and then passes it along to another reader who will agree to do the same thing. Then they have to agree to place a comment—good or bad—on my website and they agree to say something on their own site, should they have one.

I’ll paste a copy of The Author’s Request on the blank inside cover page and I’ll tape a business card with all the contact info there as well. I’ll make rounds to coffee shops around town, buy a cup a Joe, ask the manager if it’s OK to give a book away in his store, and then I’ll find an unsuspecting but visibly suitable candidate as reader and request follower.

OK, wait. Maybe I should cut the “ask manager for permission” part out when I enter shops controlled by big corporations, like Starbucks. I can see the corporate rulebook for managers now. “Unyielding Starbucks Corporate Rule Number 793.2, Part B.: Never, and we mean NEVER, allow writers to use your store to market their wares. Most writers are poor and have loose personal boundaries, so they likely will not purchase a premium upgrade product, and they will accost your paying customers. Many writers also have poor personal hygiene and smell of onions and garlic. Onion and garlic odors do not combine well with the rich aroma of fine, free-will and perfectly-roasted coffee beans.”

Ugh.

But I don’t give a shit, I’m forging ahead. I’ve got waaaaay more things to tell you but I’ve got books to move.

Manana, y’all.

 

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Mooner Takes-On Barnes And Noble; A Pope Story

Tuesday, January 17th, 2012

 

So. I was surfing around yesterday and somebody was wondering why the Pope is against same-sex marriages. To me the answer was patently obvious—jealousy. That’s right, the Green-eyed Monster has Her Royal Highness La Pope gripped firmly by the balls.

See, back in the 1950′s when the Pope was known as Joey Ratzinger of Marktl am Inn, Germany, openly-homosexual lifestyle options were limited to the Catholic clergy, Hollywood, a limited number of writer colonies, and the occasional big city bathhouse. Marking an exception for the bigoted fuckwad Christian right—who have their heads stuck so far up their asses it’s still 1959—today’s American populace both excepts and embraces gay folks simply as folks.

Gay people are in important elected positions as legislators and husbands of women running for President, they head giant corporations to be important members of the One-Percent Club, they cut our hair and work on our cars, and hold responsible positions in every aspect of American society.

Gay people are in every… single… place… in… America.

But back in little Joey’s time, openly gay lifestyles were not expectable. Gays were shunned and treated sometimes worse than blacks and Hispanics. Which reminds me. If we say Hispanics with a big H, why isn’t it Blacks, and even Whites for that matter?

Back in the day, almost every extended Catholic family had someone who joined the priesthood or a convent. Hell, my family is Baptist all the way back from before the family name was changed from Jones, and my third cousin from over to Virginia ran off and became a Catholic monk, or some fucking thing. That’s right, Bubba Jones become Brother Eusebius.

I didn’t know him well—just met him the one time at a family reunion—but I had serious questions about Bubba. I was but a tyke, but he seemed out of place at a Jones/Johnson family reunion with his bowl-cut hair and brown robe.

I had this great uncle who was an especially large asshole. My own daddy found cause to place a particularly tight left cross on his nose for how he spoke to a Mexican worker at our place one time. Uncle Herman was his name, and what sticks in my head most about my cousin Bubba was that Uncle Herman kept telling everyone that, “Bubba’s a queer,” or “That boy’s a sissy-queer.” My Gram’s the one who made him stop saying that, and did it with just a look.

Anyway, poor Joey must not have been a good actor or artist, and anyone who has listened to him speak knows the silly sonofabitch can’t write for shit. So, he joined the priesthood and became a member of that “secret” society. And now, dear friends, he’s mad as all hell that all of these other gay people can live openly and get married and shit.

Hell, I’d be jealous too. So would you if you had spent your entire adult life living a lie for the same thing that today’s gays are openly proud.

And look, all of you pious Catholics. Before you go getting all pompous and pissy with me, think about what the reason the Popester is down on gay marriage if I was proven wrong. He’s either jealous, or he’s a ranting, raving bigoted flaming right-wing fuckball. Take your pick, and I choose to give the boy the reasonable doubt.

Which reminds me of something else. I went to the Barnes and Noble over to the Arboretum—that’s the one my regular readers already know about. I needed a b-day gift for my daughter and she loves books more than me, so I always get her gift cards to B&N. There’s a B&N within walking distance of her apartment in the town where she lives.

Anyway, I’m walking out after making my purchase and it dawned on me that one, I’m standing in a bookstore, and two, I have written a book that is not stocked on the shelves of said bookstore.

I stood near the exit to the store while my ADHD-addled brain processed a few thousand ideas as to precisely what steps I might take. Long story short, the very nice woman at the information counter whose name I failed to obtain but I will tell you was nice, helpful, interested, and interesting, listened to my requests and turned me over to Charley, the store manager.

Holy shit was that a complex and confusing sentence. Maybe I’ll self edit later and fix that. Maybe not.

Now, I know that at least 87% of you have already jumped the gun on me and assumed that the manager was a man, because that’s what 87% of us do. But Charley was no man, and I found her as attractive as the woman whose name I failed to get, and for all of the same reasons. We had a discussion about her stocking my book there to my personal B&N, and although she was EXTREMELY helpful, she couldn’t help with this one. See, they don’t allow the store managers to make any decisions as to what books are stocked on the thousands of fucking feet of shelf space in a B&N store.

Charley gave me a few sheets of paper with instructions as to how I go about getting my book into position where they can “special order” it if someone requests one. “We can’t even have it listed in our computers if you don’t follow those procedures first,” Charley told me.

I went to the car and retrieved a copy of Full Rising Mooner, brought it into the store and signed it, “To: the store.” The woman whose name I didn’t get because I can be a thoughtless jerk said she needed something to read, and Charley agreed to place the copy in the break room as what I think she called a “reader”[,] but maybe she used a different word.

And that, dear friends, is the reason I sat down to write this posting. I could never be a big company boss because I don’t think their way. I could never be the boss of people that I hired, trained and paid big bucks to run multi-million-dollar retail stores without giving them some at least small measure of control over store inventory.

I’ll bet you that there aren’t a dozen local, Austin writers who would give that store the kind of service and support for one silly book the way that I would. I’d give them books on consignment, I’d visit the store for signings and stand outside on the sidewalks and invite people to come inside. I’d dust their shelves, for shitsakes.

I read all the time how the bookstore is a dying animal. Hmmm.

I love bookstores and buy every book I buy from one, and I buy many books. I read like a machine and I give books and book cards as gifts. So, I’m going to attempt to follow the procedures for getting licensed by B&N and see what happens. Whatever happens, you’ll hear it here first. OK, here first unless something happens and I accidentally get arrested on a visit to B&N. Again.

Manana, y’all.

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Book Launch Party News, #Dos; Ta-Ta Timmy T.

Monday, January 16th, 2012

 

So. This is the second posting in the book launch party series of updates written by me, and, hopefully, read by you. I don’t want to beat this too deeply into the ground, but it was a nice party. I have ruminated the entire last twenty-four hours as to what form and format these informative pieces should take, and I’ve also wondered what happened at the party that you will give a shit to hear me yak about.

Was that a dangling participle back there, you know that “about” I was yakking about?

I lay awake most of the night last night, tossing and turning as my ADHD-fueled anxieties swirled and swilled in my skull. I was experiencing what I imagine hot flashes would be like for a menopausal woman. First I’m hot, then I’m cold, then hot, cold, hot/cold/ho/co/h/c… I was flipping from side-to-side like a gymnast—spinning like a top from resting on my right hip to the left, then back again in one motion. Covers off, covers on, repeated.

“Por el amor de Dios, Bwanna Mooner. Werden Sie liegen immer noch für Scheiße willen?” The Squirt was obviously displeased with all of my tossing and turning.

“I knew how to say ‘for the love of God’ in Spanish, but I have always wondered how you say ‘Oh, for shit sakes in German,” my response to the aggravated dog. I hear my Gram say that phrase in her back-woods redneck so often that I was wondering how it would sound spewing from a German’s mouth.

“I’m sorry, little lady,” I told my puppy, “I’m all distressed about the party. I don’t know what to tell people about it over to the bloggie on the webber.”

“Well, asshole, if you had taken us to the party we could help.” With that, at three in the morning, my sweet little dog waved her ass in my face and disappeared beneath the thick down comforter.

She was right, you know. My diminutive puppies are far better observers than am I. This realization came to me as I was reading your comments here awhile ago. All I need to do is listen to people and they will tell me what they want. Listening is a difficult task for me as it requires concentration and focus of thought. To be a good listener, you need to be able to look a person in their eyes, hear what they are saying and focus on their words.

To be a good listener, you need to be able to look, hear and focus for longer than thirty seconds at a time. Not traits I have in spades.

I lifted the edge of the comforter—a family heirloom stuffed with the fluffy down from a family of geese I fostered as a kid—and said to the lump of dog flesh now planted at the foot of the bed, I said, “I know, sweetie, but I was worried you’d get squished underfoot.”

“Harrumph,” was all the response I got.

Have you ever smelled the hot air that escapes from under tight covers where dogs lie? The cleanest of hounds produce an odor that can only be described as “dog smell” and it escapes from under the covers in a blast of fetid air when you lift the edge of covers. I know I’m sick, but that smell is comforting to me.

I was worried that the dogs would get stepped on if the party got crowded. It did get crowded and if they were attending the big bash, I would have worried that they would have been mashed under foot. My brain was too full of worries as it were, and I didn’t need to be concerned about the dogs as well.

Anyway, as I was reading comments from Mel and Granny Ook and others, it dawned on me that people just want to hear what happened and what was said at the book launch party that was interesting. So I’ve decided to start by telling you some of the questions that were asked of me and my answers, thereto. Therefore? Fuck, thereof, maybe?

This one guy, a writer himself, asked, “Where do you get the inspiration for your stories? Your writing seems to come from all over the place and lacks any cohesiveness at all.” He was dressed in a camel-colored corduroy jacket with patched elbows, brown slacks with faded knees, and a stained off-white shirt. The shirt looked as if it had been washed with too much bleach in the water too many times.

“OK, was that a question or a statement? I was distracted by the ink blots test printed on your shirt, so which is it?” I asked him.

“Both,” his answer and statement both.

“Well,” I started, “my shit comes from all over the place and ADHD fuels my inspirations.”

“Interesting.” This the writer said with an expression like he had just sampled a canapé of cat turd mousse on a rye crisp with dill and capers. I didn’t serve any frilly hors d’ oeuvres, so maybe it was the spicy artichoke with jalapeño chunks that soured his countenance.

“’Interesting’ is a microscopic slide of a new strain of syphilis, sir,” I told him. “My writings are suspicious and incredulous.”

Some writers are, basically, assholes dressed like writers. I have no patience for effete snobs, and I brace them at every turn of phrase. “Have you written anything of consequence, sir?” I asked him, “or are you one of the legions of writers who have nothing important to say?”

A second question, and one asked numerous times was, “How much of your book is true?”

How to answer that fucking question? “All of it,” would be an accurate answer in summation, but incomplete in its finality. “Most of it,” would likewise be mostly true but unfulfilling.

How would you answer that question if you were me? What would you say if you were a crazy redneck fuckball who wrote what happened to you and what you thought about the world? If you spilled your guts out in an unedited manner for all the fucking world to read, how in the fuck would you answer that particular question? Even if you remove all the “fucks” from my stilted prose, how in the fuck would you categorize it?

Fame is a frame into which I fit quite uncomfortably. With the keen knowledge and understanding of just how totally screwed-up I am, how can I accept the accolades given to a four-of-five-star reviewed author? Giuseppe Taurino, the Badgerdog man, said so many nice things about me that I could only hang my head in embarrassment. I know that I’m basically a good man, but I lack the chromosome in my DNA that allows a person to accept compliments with grace.

People laughed in most of the right spots and gasped when I wished them to gasp, as Rachel Wiese read Chapter 15 from my book. They laughed deep and long when I hoped for just such deep, long laughs. They laughed best at the “… scoop guacamole from a V-necked bowl..” part of the chapter. People said such nice things about me that I started to wonder if my body and soul had been taken over by some fucking Baptist do-good mother fucker who was out to trick the public with the smoke and mirrors of modern Christian dogma.

So many nice things were said of me that I started to question myself and my intentions. Did I write honestly? Did I tell the truth? Did I cast a clear eye on events, or did I look though the jaundiced eye of a bullshit artist?

I have the confidence of absolute certainty that I have written a four-hundred-plus pages book that is the truth as I see it—complete truth, unvarnished. But I have this nagging question that hounds me, a question steeped in the traditions of literature as timeless as man’s first turn of stain to flat rock tablet in vain attempt to chronicle events. I have a mother’s son’s lamentable, painful wish.

“O, that this too, too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew.”

Sleep, dear Hamlet, perchance to dream.

Ugh. Ugh, ugh and ugh once more.

I, dear friends, am a seriously ADHD-addled crazy and fucked up redneck shitball. More party news manana, y’all.

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Book Party Update; A Partial Posting- More, Much More, To Follow.

Saturday, January 14th, 2012

 

So. It’s now a full day and a half after my big book launch party, and my feet are finally approaching reentry into the Earth’s atmosphere. I’ve had a house full of guests to attend so I’ve been unable to attend to business and tell you about the party. I’m sneaking some time now while the others are eating breakfast, so I don’t have much time.

Which reminds me. Last Saturday I watched as Squatlo’s Vols kicked Florida’s ass in men’s basketball. I’m not planning to watch today’s game with his ugly orange and white-jerseyed team takes on Kentucky. My own burnt orange and white Texas team is on TV, so I’ll be tuned in there.

The party was a huge success. It was well attended, the guests were interesting and interested, the food and beverage was tasty and flowed freely, and the entertainment was top notch. Typically at book launch parties the author will read passages from their book—the book getting launched at said party. Not this time. See, I have ADHD and my variety of the ADD part prevents me from reading aloud.

I’m not shy, as many of you can attest, and I’m not completely illiterate. I simply cannot make my eyes follow the words written on a page for the time required to read an entire sentence. Unless, of course, the sentence is, “Fuck you,” or maybe, “Oh,” or something like, “My, what a lovely camel toe you have.”

Wait. Is illiterate an affliction of degrees? Can you be somewhat illiterate or all-the-way illiterate—can you be somewhat illiterate? Or is it a case where you either are, or are not, illiterate? Then, after concluding the answers to that, you would also know about the nuances of being literate.

My personal out-loud readings are burdensome as I skip words and rewrite as I read. When I write, I self edit each sentence dozens of times to insure that my words are as well crafted as I can make them. But I’m the Butcher of Seville when I read those same words aloud. Listening to me read aloud is painful and frustrating. Wait—Barber of Damascus?

The party was attended by some very neat people. My friends and family, of course, who are quite neat personages in their own rights, were all there. But here I’m speaking of the guests not directly-connected to me. The Badgerdog Literary folks and the writers and psycho therapists and such, each attending for their own reasons, are the interesting people I speak of here. And of course Justine and David with WriteByNight who hosted our shin dig.

OK, wait. All of my family attended except for Mother. I didn’t expect mother to attend and took no exception at her absence. My mother has not approved of my actions for long enough now that I can still remember the sting of her disapproval, but I don’t feel it. I admire my Mother for the force of her convictions and I find the steadfastness of her believing inspiring.

I would, however, be happy to state that my mother is a mostly Baptist and stogy woman with the closed-off mind and damaged intellect predominant in her type. I love you Mother, but you need to pull your head out your ass and think. You missed a hell of a good time because you worried what your fucking friends would think.

Nobody was arrested, nobody got TOO drunk or TOO wasted, and nobody had sex out in the open. So it was a great party but not a stupendous party. As I was saying, I chose not to torture my guests by reading my own shit and instead hired a reader. I chose to hire a young, professional reader and I chose a young, professional female reader.

And I chose to have her read Chapter 15 from Full Rising Mooner. Chapter 15 is the story from when I was over to the Sprouts Market there to the Arboretum. The time I saw the woman smuggling a fully-grown camel in her tight Lycra workout suit. I know some of you thought that was a bad idea—you know, having a woman read a man’s writings about a female pocket deli tray.

But you’d be wrong, Bosco, her reading was the hit of the night. And she wasn’t just a hit because of her incredibly near-perfect ass—displayed at the full moon stage as she stood atop a chair. She was a hit because she’s a professional, had spent enough time with me to get the jest of my temperaments, and because she had practiced both the reading and the moon show.

I say “near-perfect ass” not because there were any imperfections therein, or thereon. The only reason it wasn’t perfect is because I wanted to snuggle-up close to it and could not, would not if I could. Her name is Rachel Wiese and there is a Mr. Wiese. I never make married ladies the focus of my amorous attentions. And maybe her husband has a different last name. When Rachel introduced him to me, his name went in one ear and out the other. If it even went in the one ear. I was so distracted early in the evening with ADHD chatter inside my skull I could hardly think.

“Did I buy enough food… is the beer cold… will people come… will they donate to Badgerdog… will they like the reading… will there be a fistfight… will I fuck things up… will I get arrested… will I get tazered (a wish, as SAC Ellen was present)… am I being a good host… how do I write a smart book dedication to another writer who buys my book… what do I write in the book of the sexy lady writer who asked to see my moon show in the privacy of her studio apartment located two doors down from the party… other than the nice, large man standing at the food table, how many homeless people will wander in off the street?”

In the end, I said, “Fuck it, I’m having myself a good time.” So, I swallowed my concerns and washed them down with a giant swig of icy-cold Carta Blanca beer, told the nice lady I’d need to pass on the chance to have her slather my ass with ginger-scented edible body lotion, and autographed the books as they sold.

Actually, the books were not sold. If a person made a donation to Badgerdog Literary Publishing, they got a book as a gift. I was signing gift books, and quite happy to do so. As I have said before, if I can sell half as many books as I’ve given away, I’ll be three-quarters of the way to being a best-selling author!

OK, stop the presses. If I could sell AS many books as I give away, I WOULD be a best-selling author.

But I need to go now and attend to the crowd congregated in my kitchen. Mr. Dave is making omelets this morning and agreed to customize each to it’s eater. Mother was getting all prissy and pissy at some of the ladies’ requests. I thought my mother would feint when Gram said, “I want ya ta make mine an I’ll stand next ta ya an hold yer pecker fer ya. I hate when some of tha pecker gits in tha eggies.”

Gram laughed and clucked like an old hen at her own chicken/egg joke, and Mother almost passed out from the vapors. If I’m right on the timing of things, the Squirt is nearing her turn at Mr. Dave. If Squirt vocalizes her interests about Mr. Dave in front of my mother, I’ll need an ambulance.

Look, I’ll have dozens of photos from the party, I hired Nathan Black to take photos and he’s a good photographer—has this big digital camera like Squattie’s—and he spent the entire evening snapping-off shots. So I’ll write a bunch more and share everything I have with you.

Manana, y’all.

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Focus, Mooner, Focus; Book Launch Party VS Overlord Duties

Thursday, January 12th, 2012

 

So. Today is the big day! The book launch party for Full Rising Mooner is tonight. I think I’ve got everything in place to have a nifty event—food, Carta Blanca beer, entertainment and more Carta Blanca beer.

Which reminds me. Overlord of the Fucking Universe law alert. It is now illegal to have children under the age of sixteen in beauty pageants. It’s also illegal to tan any child under age sixteen. This ban includes tanning booths, spray tans and intentional exposures to the sun.

I need to start numbering my O, FU laws. Let’s call this one O, FU Law # 7. Offending mothers will be sold to Saudi Arabia as sex slaves. The money from those sales will be put into the Veterans’ Affairs budget for the Reckmonster.

Speaking of the Saudis, do you guys realize that all of this Middle East strife and all of the Muslim terrorism worldwide is the fault of the Western World? The nomadic Muslim peoples of that part of the world were quite content with their life consisting of a goat meat and fig diet, camel farts and sand storms. They spent centuries perfecting, adapting their lifestyle to the harsh realities of their environment, and were quite happy while at it. Proud people with strict rules.

Strict rules are required for people to remain civilized when living in harsh circumstances with limited resources.

Then here we come, first as Christians, crusading and slaughtering them because they were infidels. Infidels who occupied the reported stomping grounds of Jesus. We swept in with our iron-clad armies and we raped and pillaged in the manner practiced by armies of the “civilized” world. Just like the racists of modern times, Christians of the Crusades and Dark Ages looked at the dark skinned Islamics as sub-human creatures—not up to human standards, but not apes either.

The net results of the Crusades were, basically, they kicked Christian ass back to Paris and London, and we managed to plant the seeds of hate that grew into the poisoned tree that is today’s Muslin extremist teachings.

To make the extremist Muslims problematic, our greed for growth and possessions made oil the most valuable commodity on Earth.

Our lust for their oil finances their terrorism of us.

If you think about it fairly, that would be one of those “Even-Steven” kinds of dealies.

I hate what terrorists do. Any terrorist. But I don’t feel any differently about Muslim terrorists than I do about Christians who display the same religious-based ideas. When you attempt to force your religious dogmas on others, or you bully others because they don’t believe as you—that, dear friends, is terrorism.

O, FU Law #8 says, “Terrorist shall be punished in like kind, squared.”

Ugh. It’s difficult being Overlord while attempting to be a writer. I should be spending time getting ready for tonight, yet here I am pondering the world views of a monarch.

Which reminds me of another law. Yoda just shit on my favorite Navajo rug, so O, FU Law #9 states that any person caught running a puppy mill, or any other grossly inhumane animal husbandry operation, shall be caged in five-by-five-five-foot wire cages and removed twice a day for meals of grub worms and corn meal, to take a shit on raw dirt, and a beating. Any time they act up, they’ll be required to fight another offender to the death.

It’s OK to breed animals as pets and food but it isn’t OK to abuse them or harm them for sport.

Ugh, again. I need new products with the O, FU logo. And I need a beer. I’m going to start focusing on the book party now. That should be quite an endeavor, me focusing.

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Overlord Mooner Overloaded; Duties Of Office Overbearing

Wednesday, January 11th, 2012

 

So. I’m in a terrible rush and I have little time to talk. I never had any conception as to just how much work is required of an Overlord. I’ve been Overlord of the Fucking Universe (O, FU) for something less than a full day and I’m overwhelmed.

I’m more like an Overloadedlord. Who knew that being in charge of every fucking thing would be so much work?

All these details and I’m not a details sort of guy. Quincy ought to have his brain examined for naming an ADHD-addled redneck fuckbrain as Overlord. Q knows better.

Which reminds me. I have never heard anybody whine so much as Squatlo. I named him the First Underlord of something yesterday—Political Theory I think it was—and all he’s done is bitch and whine like a baby ever since. Wah, wah, wah, Ides of March and wah,wah, you need a defense minister, and wah, wah wah my nuts are still frozen because my wife keeps the house so cold.

Holy shit, man. Get a fucking grip! You can be the First Underlord and Defense Minister, for shits sakes. Now stop your whining and go start a war or something. Do some ethnic cleansing or go rape and pillage. Just stop your fucking pissing and moaning.

OK, wait. Stop the presses. Will you listen to me—do you hear what’s happening to me? Less than a day and I’m already corrupted by my absolute power. It’s true what they say about absolute power.

Ugh. This Overlord of the Fucking Universe might not be the party I expected it to be. If I’m to be the O, FU I need to be responsible and thoughtful and caring and shit. The very last thing I want to become is someone I want to assassinate.

Ugh, and ugh once more.

Have you ever noticed that assassinate requires two asses to complete? That might be poetic. Speaking of which, when I went to the Spec’s Liquor store to get all the booze for the big book launch party taking place manana, I met Francois Pointeau—poet and manly raconteur. Francois is the host of a radio show all about writers. He seems an interesting man, and I’m going to start listening to his show. Maybe more to come on Francois later.

OK, fuck it, I’m worn totally out. You guys need to buy my book, or else. The O, FU has spoken.

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Overlord Mooner: Quincy Names Mooner Overlord Award Winner

Tuesday, January 10th, 2012

 

So. I have been “awarded” another dealie wherein I’m named as a big fucking hotshot. This time the namer is Quincy over at Thank Q For Common Sense, and the category is “Overlord Award”[.] Please allow me time to thank Quincy for this vainglorious award. My ego is properly swelled with pride, and well, ego.

Those of you with strong vocabularies already know that an Overlord gets to lord over other Lords and has omnipotence. Said another way, an Overlord is King of all Lords. I’ve been granted the right to make laws and edicts and decisions about anything and everything.

Overlord Mooner. Has a nice ring to it. Which reminds me that I need to get one of those giant, gaudy-assed rings to wear for my subjects to kiss. I don’t like jewelry but I’ll wear that ring. My loyal subjects will want to be able to pay homage properly.

Let’s get started with the laws. Overlord Mooner Law Number One states that: No law or rule shall be made in this land based upon any religious belief. Any lawmaker who attempts to introduce legislation that is religion based will be summarily executed. Do not pass Go and head directly to Jail.

That law of Overlord Mooner needs to be out there to the Universe pronto and post haste. I want all the fuckball legislators to have fair warning on all of this. I don’t want to hear any, “What do you mean you’re cutting my nuts off and feeding me, crying like a little baby, to alligators?”

I want everybody to have a fair chance to straighten up and fly right. Choo-choo-cha boogie and get your ass right back on the tracks.

I’ll try to be creative in methodologies as your Overlord. I’ll attempt to make your punishments fit your crimes, and I’ll find interesting ways to reward those loyal subjects who do good deeds.

Like, for example, all you rapists need to listen up. The punishment for conviction of rape will be that you suffer the same rape as you inflicted, once a day for the term of your incarceration. You aggravate the rape with a beating—you get beat and raped, daily.

I’m concerned about overcrowding of prisons with rapists and religious legislative fuckwads, so I’ll release all non-violent drug offenders right away. Drugs will be legalized in various ways, so those guys will all get full pardons and sanitized criminal records. For the hard drug users, we’ll have colonies where you can waste away in peace if you choose to do so.

Yes, I did say release them “ALL” and I did say “NON-VIOLENT”[.]

I’ll set up thoughtful and caring rehab facilities in each colony to help you break your habits should you wish to do so. The colonies will cost far less than police and prison expenses to prosecute druggies. We’ll tax all drug sales and regulate their production. We’ll start shipping cheap drugs back into Mexico to help with our trade balance. We’ll even grow poppies and ship heroin to Marseilles, France.

I’ll place Streaker Jones in charge. He’ll be my First Underlord of Drugs and Other Stuff. Streaker Jones is a multi-tasker so I don’t want to limit him. I’ll make Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson the First Underthelord of brains and brain repairs. We’ll fund their fiefdoms with the money we currently waste on The War on Drugs.

You know what? Of all the silly wars America has chosen to start and drag the world into, The War on Drugs might be the dumbest of all. More lives lost, more money wasted and we’ve managed to ruin Mexico in more ways than we have Iraq. But here, again, when you try to rule based upon religion, things get all fucked up.

OK, stop. This is not the subject of today’s posting. Having assigned Dr. Sam I. Am to her new post has reminded me of what the actual subject herein was intended to be. I wanted to tell you about my recent psych evaluation. The one wherein I was evaluated by my psycho therapist evaluating the mental health of the Squirt, Yoda and Honor the fucking cat.

Sammie somehow has the idea that she can gain insight into my mental health through her observations of my two small puppies and the fucking cat. As unfair as it is, I’m to be judged based upon the behaviors of three of my pets. At least she chose the three most well behaved. If she’d decided to observe Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry for a weekend, I’d be writing you from the confines of a padded cell over to Shoal Creek Mental Hospital. My giant gay pig and his 350-pound ostrich lover have habits that even unsettle me.

“Well, Mooner,” Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson began my session yesterday. “What we have here is a mixed bag of tricks.”

“Fuck you and your mixed bag of tricks nonsense, Sammie. That’s the same thing as saying, ‘Good news, bad news,’ and you know how I hate that bullshit.” She knows how I hate that bullshit.

Don’t you hate those “velvet hammer” kinds of things? If what you’ve got is bad news, just give me the bad fucking news. If you want to tell me that my pecker is going to fall off because I let the gonorrhea go unchecked for thirty years, don’t start the conversation with, “The good news is that the gangrene hasn’t made it to your prostate yet.”

New law of Overlord Mooner. Anyone caught using the “good news, bad news” method of delivering bad news will have a clothespin stuck on their tongue and get both ears and their nose finger-thumped. Repeat offenders will be executed.

Ugh. Now we need to back all the way up because I have a new first law of Overlord Mooner. I have a new most important law of Overlord Mooner. I am hereby outlawing bigotry based upon race, creed, sexual preferences or religion. Lawbreakers will be forced to live with a family in an apartment building fully occupied with whatever group it is the offender hates on. We’ll manacle them like in A Clockwork Orange, and have their eyes and ears held open with those same wire devices they used on Alex DeLarge. They will be brainwashed until they come to love those they formerly hated.

Those that hate homosexuals will be turned into homosexuals. Unless, of course, like Dr. Bachmann you are full of self-hate. Maybe I need to rethink this one. Homosexuality is a complicated subject, and needs careful thought to adjudicate.

Have you seen those Funny or Die videos of Michele and Marcus over to Squatlo Rant? Priceless.

I’m naming BJ at Dumb Perignon my First Overlord of Uncommon Sense, and Squatlo will be in charge of Political Theory. Reckmonster will be charged with the care of all veterans, and Melanie, Melanie will be over all non-mental, non-military related health care.

Oh, shit on a shingle. My ADHD has digressed us. My psych evaluation—this posting is about my psych evaluation.

Ugh, once more and with emphasis.

As Dr. Sam put it yesterday, the good news is that I’m not headed to Shoal Creek to the loony bin and I can keep the pets. The bad news is, and I’ll quote my psycho bitch here when I say, “The bad news is that Yoda has some deep-seated issues requiring intense therapy, your parenting skills lack insight, and Honor is a cat.”

Then she gave me the bill for a weekend of therapies for three animals.

“Bitch,” I told her, my best under the circumstances.

“Crazy redneck fuckball.” Not her best, but really good.

I need to spend some quality time thinking on this Overlord stuff. Gram’s brewing me a magic mushroom potion formulated to give me insight as a ruler. “I’ll call it Ya cain’t git nothin’ over this here Lordie,” she told me. That and a long stick of mellowing hemp bud washed down with some icy cold Carta Blanca beers ought to do the trick.

Mooner Johnson- Overlord of the Universe. Has a nice ring don’t you think? Manana, y’all, when we’ll write some more laws.

 PS-  Overlord Mooner Special Rule:  Buy my book.  Click over there and buy it!

 

 

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Parental Concerns; A Religious Sentiment

Monday, January 9th, 2012

 

So. It’s 5 am and I can’t sleep. I’ve been without my two adorable puppies and the fucking cat this weekend, and I miss their pesterings so much I can’t sleep. Who knew that the absence of pain could cause insomnia? I miss getting crowded out of my own bed and I actually miss the cat’s needle sharp caresses.

I have a 10:30 psycho therapy session wherein I’ll get Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s evaluations of one, my animals’ states of mental health, and two, her clinical opines as to my mental health as reflected in my parenting said animals. Based on these evaluations, I’ll bring the animals home with me, or not. I’m not really worried about the results except that the Squirt is fully capable of fucking with me on this dealie to gain an advantage somewhere. It wouldn’t surprise me to hear that I need to be more responsive to their needs, or some silly shit like that.

If I was writing a book, that last sentence would be foreshadowing. Here, it’s but a simple prediction.

There is some foreshadowing in my just-released book—Full Rising Mooner—available by either clicking over there ===}}}} to the linksters, or by clicking on the STORE tabbie up top^^^. I would consider it a personal favor if you will at least investigate a purchase. Check out the book trailer—a 30-second video ad for the book. I put it over there on the Bloggie Roller as well. Over there ===}}} where it says “Book Trailer”[.]

Which reminds me. If you have been here before, you know with certainty that I am a staunch supporter in a woman’s right to choose. I support a woman’s right to choose any and every fucking thing as it relates to her body, person and mind. While that might have been a tad redundant there, it does properly describe my levels of support for a woman’s rights.

In my last posting, I mentioned my support of a woman’s reproductive rights and I showed a picture of my latest anti-anti-abortion protest picket sign. That’s the sign I’ll use when the anti-abortion protesters show back up over to Planned Parenthood. Squatlo made a comment that, “… conception begins at puberty…,” a comment aimed at the silliness of recent right-wing Christian statements that the instant a sperm sniffs out an egg you have yourself a baby.

That silly sentiment was debated by the Catholic anti-abortion lady and me on one of my last visits with her. I think a baby is what gets born outside a woman’s body, a plain and simple belief. Catholic A-AL now believes the sperm-meets-eggie bullshit. Since we’ve been protesting against each other, her “belief” as to precisely when a human exists in the procreation process has regressed from during the third trimester, to the second trimester, to when a sonogram can determine sex, to when you can detect a heartbeat, to now—egg meets sperm.

Following that illogical pathway, Squat decided the next place to look at conception would be puberty. The idea would be that as soon as you CAN conceive, you HAVE conceived. Not a silly idea in the previous context.

But here is my thought. When Catholic A-AL and I argued this issue, I asked her why she kept changing her tune, why she has so much trouble making her mind up about all of this. Her answer was somewhat confounding. “God is a living God and the Bible is a living book.”

Translated, she meant that whatever her priest/preacher told her to think is what she believes. So my first question to her was, “But I thought you previously told me that God knows all, sees all, and is the Maker of all things. Right?”

“You got that right, heathen. Everything that ever happens is God’s will. Ev-er-y thing ev-er!” she replied.

Oh, re-a-ly? Everything that happens is God’s will? This was the last time I was slapped. I said back to the lady, I said, “Well, then, if everything that happens is God’s will, then a woman getting an abortion is simply doing God’s will. She doesn’t have a choice. So, since you don’t want a woman to have a choice you are getting what you want when the woman gets the abortion.”

She looked at me dumbfoundedly and said, “But God gives us free will.”

Two… three… and four. “Now wait, little darlin’,” I advised her. “You don’t get it both ways. Either your God decides everything that will happen and then makes it happen, or He lets us make our own choices. But you can’t have it both ways just to get your way. But whichever you choose, your God is OK with a woman making her own choices about her own body.”

Again I got the dumbfounded look, which turned into a squinty-eyed stare, which lead to a, “Slap!”

To me, this underscores the absurdity of any attempt to force any religion or religious belief system on persons not followers of that religion. Faith-based religion is illogical by definition, so once you push your religious dogma past the pulpit it is illogical to the rest of us. You can attempt to convert us to your way or you can try to convince us that your way makes sense.

But what makes you think you can tell us what to do? Why should the rest of us be forced to follow your illogical beliefs? What gave you the right to force your shit on us?

I really don’t care what you believe. Think whatever you wish. If you choose to think that Earth was created in the course of a week 4,000 years ago—knock yourself the fuck out. If you want to believe in an exclusionary deity, go right on ahead, asshole.

Just leave me alone.

On the ADHD front, not having the additional stimuli of the dogs and fucking cat around has been a mixed bag. I don’t have the stress of being a good parent ever present in my skull, but I do have a parent’s concern about whether they will embarrass me when out of site. I usually don’t worry about getting embarrassed. I do way plenty stupid shit all the time so I suffer no embarrassment at my own hands. But I do suffer from that silly parental concern.

OK, I need to get ready for therapy. Please buy my book and I’ll see you, manana.

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Twitterly Dee, Twitterly Dumb; Sex Confounds

Thursday, January 5th, 2012

 

So. I think I finally have the Twitter Follower mystery solved. Finally. This dealie has been buggerating the ever loving shit out of me for months.

What’s been driving me nuts is how people sign up to follow me and then quickly disappear. Some silly shitball finds something they like about my stuff and takes the time, and puts the effort in as required to click the Follow button. Then in less than a week, they click the Unfollow button.

I’ll have dozens of Follower adds per week and the same numbers of Unfollowers. Defollowers, maybe. It can go up and down by hundreds per week.

OK, stop. For those of you who couldn’t give a shit about my Twitter problems, I have inserted this, *******Reenter Here*******, down there a few hundred words in the future. Escape all this Twitter talk. I would if I was (were?) you.

In the eighteen months I’ve had a twitter account, I have had more than 4,000 individual clickers to Follow @MoonerJohnson on Twitter, yet my effective average number of Followers remains pegged at plus-or-minus thirty. It has been driving me bonkers what with all the adds and subtracts.

I have examined this problem from a hundred different angles in an attempt to get a fix on what is happening. Today I thought I would contact some of the people who added, then retracted, from following me and did so quickly. You’re going to be interested in their responses.

OK, let’s back up a frame or two. “Why, Mooner,” you might ask, “do you even use Twitter? You hardly ever tweet.”

“Good question,” my stock answer begins, and finishes with, “I use Twitter to verify that I have properly added a posting to the bloggie.”

I have my webber set up to when I post a story to the bloggie, it automatically goes out as a Twitter tweet. Since I’m such a moron computerly, I can then go to Twitter and see if the posting posted and click the tweet and go to the actual posting as it appears on my webber. It’s like a backup edit program. Any other benefits I derive from Twitter are those of an accidental tourist. Which means that all of the followers I have and ever have had have been accidents.

Like blind boars, my Twitter followers trip over me somehow. My webber and bloggie expert, Dustin, asked me if I wanted him to add the tagger dealies for Twitter and Facebook and all that crap when he was working on stuff last week. I agreed but only if I could figure this shit out. So I told him to add the taggers and I started researching shit.

Here’s what I found. Indeed, most people stumble upon me on Twitter in the same ways as on the regular webber. They Google “camel toes” or “Fuck Rick Perry” or “is the Pope the Queen’s twin” or other stuff that might be on my site. With Twitter, it’s the hash tags or whatever you call that shit, or they follow because someone else on Twitter refers them to me.

Those are the reasons I was given by those Follow-Unfollowers. When asked why they left so quickly, the usual answer was, “I had no idea how________ you/your site is.”

You can fill in the blanks. Most heard answers were how: nasty, sacrilegious, inappropriate, evil, much you curse, liberal, homosexual, stupid your site is.

Most of the rest told me that they only followed me to get me to follow them—like a popularity contest. Seems many folks get their rocks off by having huge numbers of Followers. Even if they have nothing in common with me—we share no interests or ideas—they still want me listed as a Follower. They have no plans to read any fucking thing I post, and I wouldn’t read about how they just got home from work if there was a fucking gun stuck in my ear.

These Followers will Unfollow me when I don’t follow them quickly. I follow a few Tweetsters, but not many, and I read much of what they tweet.

******* Reenter Here*******

Anyway. That mystery is now solved. Which reminds me of something.

I was in my morning psycho therapy session this am, and the subject of sex came up. Surprise. While I have ten ex-wives, I have only had sex with one of them after we divorced. That would be Roshandra Washington-Johnson, my ex number five and an ebony beauty. If you’ve ever seen Roshandra down to the Austin City Council Chambers, you have a crystal clear understanding of why that is.

When Roshandra makes a booty call, brother, you answer the door!

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson is not only my therapist but also the first of my exes. She asked this morning why it is that I have never tried to have sex with her in all of these years since our divorce. Since I’m a man, I thought of this question as a request for action. But alas, it was a quest for information.

“I’m doing a study on unusual sexual patterning in men with multiple marriage histories,” she told me. “You would be a prime prospect to put in my Petri dish.”

Have you ever tasted agar? You know, that gelatinous goo scientists use in their Petri dishes. It’s a seaweed extract and tastes like that time I got really drunk down to Nuevo Laredo and woke up with a spider monkey’s foot in my mouth. The monkey was wearing a little vest in the colors of the Mexican flag and its toenails were painted bright red.

Streaker Jones and I went down there to meet some Mexican mushroom growers and they had this monkey that played a miniature accordion. He was dressed in the aforementioned vest, pantaloons and had an organ grinder monkey’s hat perched on top of his head. I remember waking up, spitting the monkey’s foot out of my mouth and wondering what happened to the rest of his clothes.

I don’t care much for monkeys and I really don’t care for the taste of monkey feet. I do like the taste of SAC Ellen’s toes though. She has these perfect little piggies, and my ADHD just grabbed controls of the train.

The answer to Sammie’s question eludes me. I have no idea why I stopped sexing eight of my nine ex-wives. Anna the Amazon is my third ex-wife and now is married to my sister, and I know why she’s off limits. Sister would kick my ass if I didn’t manage to maintain that border.

The remaining eight present a sex mystery for me. I would have sex with the lot of them if I was unattached and they were available and willing, I think. But I have been around each of them at one time or another wherein we were both unentangled romantically, and nothing happened sexually.

I hate when Dr. Sam I. Am does this shit to me. I think she intentionally poses this sort of question at me to fuck with my head. Psycho analysts tend to do that shit, and it pisses me off.

I’d love to attend one of Sammie’s sessions with her head shrinker. I should call him. I’ve got a few questions he can ask her that would really stir shit up.

Which reminds me. Remember when I told you that Yoda and I have been marking our territory by peeing along the border of our property? That’s the mainstay of my program to get the little Chihuahua and Whippet mixed puppy to stop crapping inside the house. He and the Squirt saw a program on the Animal Channel about canines and their pack mentality.

Marking territory is an important aspect of a dog’s sense of security and self worth. So we’ve been peeing all around the 3,000 acres here to the ranch for the last month. We finished yesterday afternoon as we arrived back at the fishing dock. We started there and moved clockwise, ending with the last hundred yards to the dock’s left.

We finished and sat on the dock drinking a Carta Blanca beer and thinking about our good job done, when a stray dog came out of the brush brakes on the dock’s right side. She was a beagle, named Zoe, and she was way lost from down to San Marcos. Yoda and I debated about whether or not we should sex the bitch, a usual requirement of the pack when a female dog invades the pack’s territory. Yoda felt she was a little old for his tastes and I’m in a committed relationship, so we called her owner and he came to get her last evening with her virtues intact.

This morning, Yoda and I are headed out to touch-up our territorial markings, starting at the fishing dock and moving clockwise. I wonder what it is about peeing outside that so wonderful. Me, I love to take a leak anywhere that doesn’t require me to waste water in my urine’s disposal.

But peeing in the Great Outdoors is the cat’s Pjs. Maybe one of you guys has an idea. So consider a purchase of my silly book, and I’ll see you manana, y’all.

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Posted in ADHD, Camel Toe, FullRisingMooner | 6 Comments »

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