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Southern Baptists Look For New Name; Mooner Suggests: “Ignorant Bigot Asshole Baptists”

Tuesday, February 21st, 2012

So. I’m having some work done to the house and it might drive me crazy. Restorations include re varnishing and repainting outside doors and wood house trim, repainting the walls and ceiling in my closet after installing soundproofing and metal rings strong enough to hold 1,200 pounds on the walls, building a fucking cat play-scape in my bedroom, sealing cracks in my concrete flat work an other stuff.

For those of you in wonderment as to the 1,200 pounds part, if you add 650 pounds of gay pig to 350 pounds of African ostrich—likewise gay—you get a calculated need for 1,200 pounds of towing capacity required for the bondage equipment I promised my closeted same-sex lover pets. I can’t get Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry to come out of the closet and they refuse to play their sex games out to the barn where all that equipment is already set up.

And will somebody please tell me whyinthefuck I can’t say “revarnish” but I can say “repaint”[?] What’s up with that shit? If I can re the finish on something with paint then I should be able to re the finish with varnish, right? Sometimes I think I could choke the life out of whomever it is that made up some of these silly-assed grammar rules.

The first person to start with me about the repairs was, of course, Mother, and she started in on me at breakfast. I can always count on my stuffy-assed mother to take the first shit in my mess kit.

“Butcher Einstein Johnson, you will not play a role in the ungodly homo-sex-u-al relationship between Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry. Isn’t it enough that I must endure living under the same roof where Sodom meets Gomorrah? Now you’re turning your closet into a homo-sex-u-al sex den? I’ve seen how the gays are with those chains and rubber penises. It just isn’t right!” Anytime my mother is feeling especially martyred, she’s compelled to use my full, given name. Which brings up another issue. Why don’t we spell it “unGodly” with a big G?

Anytime Gram hears Mother use my given name, she’s compelled to come to my aid. Gram sniped at Mother, she said, “Mother, yer a bigger pain inna ass than them hermatoids I had that one time. Now, you quit yer fucking bitchy-achin’ an’ pass me tha bacon?”

My grandmother swiped a chunk of crusty ciabatta bread through the remnants of runny egg yolk left on her plate and jammed it into her mouth. The yellowed bread was half swallowed when Gram added, “I swear I don’t got a clue the first one as ta what that big-assed bird sees in Mooner’s fuckin’ pig. Bird’s a pretty little thing an’ that piggie’s a mess. But they’s in love, Mother Johnson, a little sumthin you need ta git a taste of. Now finish yer breakfast an’ go schedule a visit with Mr. Dave.”

My mother blushed and started to deny she has spread her wings with Mr. Dave, the giant-peckered old geezer I’ve hired to keep the Johnson women happy. But Mother won’t tell lies, so she started, “Well I never heard of such a thing, Gram. How dare you to insinuate that I… That… Uh, that, ah… Well, it’s against God’s laws to engage in homo-sex-u-al activity, and it’s blasphemous that my own son—who I raised correctly in the Southern Baptist way—would name a filthy hog after Mr. Limbaugh and that smelly bird after our dear governor.”

Here, Mother did her left-hand-fans-face-right-hand-to-the-forehead martyr pose. “They say God doesn’t give you any burdens you can’t carry, so I guess I must be the strongest woman in Texas.”

“I’mma kick yer bourbon up yer ass if’fn ya don’t shut yer yapper. Now pass me tha bacon fer shit sakes!” I’m not the only Johnson who loves his bacon.

And here I’m reminded that the fucking Southern Baptist Convention has decided to broaden their fan base. I guess that since an asshole like Rick Santarum from Pennsylvania can spout the same idiotic exclusionary hate swill as a Southern Baptist, they need a little name adjustment. They’ve decided to add “Great Commission Baptists” to their name. Seems like ignorance, racism and bigotry has finally escaped the South and infected its way up to the North.

Me, I’m starting to think that if we were to draw the Mason-Dixon line today, there’d be a fight to move it up to include the fucking rust belt states.

Anyway, we all ate some more bacon and I grabbed a beer to go back to my wing of the house to plan the animal’s renovations. When I got there, Ricky and Rushie were engaged in a terrible row about paint colors for their closet. Their closet?

“All right you two melon heads,” I told them, “break it up or I’m taking the both of you to the butcher shop. SAC Ellen has asked for a pair of ostrich skin boots and my pork meat freezer has an opening just about your size.”

They kept snipping at each other like little kids so I sent them outside. I went looking for my puppies and found that Squirt was in the bathroom talking to the fucking cat, and Yoda was playing with the new toy I made him. I cut a little triangle hole in an old tennis ball and stuffed dandelion leaves inside. It’s driving him nuts trying to get at the tender shoots.

The Squirt informed me, “Honor says she wants it built with unfinished cedar and strapped with hemp ropes, like in the movie Tarzan The Fearless, and she wants a scratching station in each corner. She says if you’ll do that she’ll promise to stop using SAC Ellen’s diaphragm.”

“What!!!” I almost came out of my sneakers when I flinched.

Squirt and Honor were rolling on the floor with their laughter. “Got you, shithead. You should have seen the look on your face. Now listen, she wants a scratching station in each corner, and she wants you to know that…”

I didn’t hear anything else Squirt said. Until that very moment I haven’t thought about having a baby for years. I need a vasectomy, I thought to myself.

“You need to reverse that lobotomy first, Bwanna Mooner, then worry about a vasectomy. You aren’t getting enough sex to warrant making a nut cut number one.” I guess I must be thinking out loud again. Squirt followed up with, “Prioritize your medical needs, dude, you know how tricky it’s getting to get health insurance to cover shit.”

And with that my dogs and the fucking cat were all rolling in laughter.

I packed a cooler with Carta Blanca beer, made myself a couple BLT’s with the leftover bacon, rolled a fat one and headed to the dock to fish by myself. To fish and reflect, by myself. That’s when my cell phone started playing “You Can’t Get A Man With A Gun”[,] SAC Ellen’s ring tone.

“Mooner Johnson’s the name, heavy petting and sex is my game,” I answered.

“Pick me up at the airport in an hour. Drive the truck and bring something to cover the windows, my layover is only ninety minutes.” SAC Ellen’s voice was deep, raspy.

“I guess that means no stun gun foreplay, huh?” I had to ask.

“No time, baby, and bring my diaphragm and some moist towelettes. I can’t be traveling with my boss when I’m stinking of Mooner Johnson.”

I hung up the phone and decided to reflect at a later date. I did, however, hold her rubber contraceptive devise to the harsh light of the afternoon sun to check for perforations.

“Good to go,” I said to myself as I placed the disk back into it’s little case.

At least I think I said it to myself. Manana, y’all.

Posted in ADHD, gayrights, Religion | 4 Comments »

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.

Posted in FullRisingMooner, gayrights | 6 Comments »

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.

Posted in ADHD, FullRisingMooner, gayrights | 6 Comments »

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.

Posted in ADHD, FullRisingMooner, gayrights | 3 Comments »

Final Words On Catholicism; How About That Wisconsin Diocese?

Friday, February 3rd, 2012

So. Today is the last day that I’m saying anything about my quest for answers about Catholic Church dogma. I started this quest using the word “beliefs” instead of dogma, but the results of my research has beaten me like a dog, and I have come to realize that the entirety of Catholic rules are man made, not the Rule of God. Are those the origins of the word dogma—beaten like a dog and man?

That disappoints me for some reason. As you know, I was raised Baptist. In fact I have the distinction of being baptized twice in the same church by the same preacher—an events sequencing that was frowned upon by the church’s elite, including my own mother. I was saved and dunked the first time before puberty, a trip to Pastor Browningwell’s alter under the required repentant trance.

First time I was petrified of going to Hell—I was a sinner with my first breath of worldly air and never stopped sinning—and I was convinced that Jesus, sweet Jesus, was my only salvation. From that date until I was raped by my Boy Scout Leader—one of the same Deacons who approved of my baptism and membership into his church—I was a devout Baptist boy.

Post rape I was a changed man, and I didn’t even attend church until I fell in love at aged fourteen. She required me to rededicate myself before letting me fondle her breasts. I’d have become a fucking Catholic priest if that was a requirement to fondle her breasts.

Now you might think that I’m off the tracks here, but I’m not. See the Baptists have a hard-and-fast rule, a rule that says, “Once saved, always saved.” That’s right, folks, since I walked the aisle and honestly pledged my faith to Jesus, I can do nothing to that will put me in Hell. And since I walked the aisle twice, I figure I’ve got chairs reserved at both the right and left hands of Jesus.

As a Baptist myself, I can say with absolute surety that the Baptists make shit up. They might use the Bible as a false front man, but they just make shit up. They “interpret” Biblical words in ways to further their self interests.

As a somewhat-thinking man, I know that the very Bible itself is a confusing sequence of interpretations itself. If we believe the Bible, its oldest stories predate written language by thousands of years, which means that God’s original words had to be passed down through hundreds of generations of interpreters before anything was even written on rocks. If you then factor the changes of language that happened with all the wars and the transitory lifestyles of those olden days, you can only imagine how much of God’s Word was lost in translation.

As BJ said in a comment on an earlier post, the original religions served as the lawmakers for early civilizations. That vested power and authority into the religious leaders, many of whom were, simply put, the strongest. Not necessarily the smartest, nor the nicest.

Which raises another issue for me. Let’s say I’m the scribe for an early sect of Jews in the era before papyrus and lambskin paper. My fictional tribe actually pre-date formal Jewishness by a few hundred years. Here I sit with my limestone slabs, flint hammer and point. Maybe I’m smart and have invented a mallet using a rock tied to a stick with a catgut binding. I’m at the feet of our tribal leader and head Priestess, Remarka.

Remarka has grown old and wishes to pass her knowledge to her successor and I’m the clan’s scribe. I’m named scribe because I’m not strong enough to fight or hunt, and I’ve an artistic bent which lends itself to neat handwriting. Remarka has just finished dictating early Genesis and I’ve scribed my way to the fourth day.

The Priestess is growing weak, so she tells me to listen to the rest of Genesis while she has the strength. She doesn’t have time to wait for me to painstakingly scribe onto the stones, so she asks me to listen to the entire story and then write it all down. Remarka restarts the story with how God created Eve in Her image and then made man from an unnecessary flap of flesh that covered Eve’s butt crack. Early on God thought that assholes were going to be ugly and would need to be hidden under the fleshy cover, but She changed her mind. As a woman deity, God felt OK changing Her mind. This flesh became Adam’s pecker, and therefore was how man’s obsessions began.

I listen to the whole thing—all the way to when Remarka’s predecessor, Noahina, had saved all the living things in the Great Flood. Remarka sighs deeply and says to me, she says, “Lunarius, I want you to tell the clan that I name as my successor…”

The great High Priestess coughed, and without another word, she died. And the rest is history.

How many times did that sort of shit happen over ten thousand years? And have you ever thought of this? How fucking hard is it to erase a mistake from a stone tablet? “What do you mean you said ‘Jessia’ Master. I thought you said ‘Jesus’ was to be the Messiah’s name. Don’t worry, I’ll change that to Jessia” later.”

I actually feel a little dumb for thinking that I could find God’s hand in religion. Modern Christianity has killed spirituality and replaced it with the self-serving of the old men who rule each Christian cult.

I, for one, hope that there is a heaven. How cool would that be? But no God that I could trust would require me to act like a perfect contemporary Baptist or Catholic. My God isn’t an asshole.

This shit has absolutely worn me out. Manana, y’all.

Posted in gayrights, Religion | 3 Comments »

Read At Your Own Risk; Mooner’s Confusion Is Confused

Thursday, February 2nd, 2012

So. It’s Thursday and a beautiful day here to Austin, Texas. Texas state Governor Rick “The Prick” Perry is still too wounded with embarrassment from his national political debacle to restart his dismantling of our infrastructure. The pompous little bastard is hiding out, no doubt meeting with his big money handlers to determine just how bad his national exposures damaged his state authorities. So, as I said, it’s a beautiful day here.

I have never failed to credit the right-wing Christian religious of Texas, and I suspect Ricky will soon start blowing his fetid, stupid air up their dresses again and re-inflate that balloon. I wonder if those of the religious right have ever stopped to wonder why it is that their best political spokesperson is dumb as a rock. OK, that was an unfair statement. He’s not dumb “as” a rock, he’s dumb “like” a rock. Like the painted rock at his family’s hunting lease.

I also wonder if those same supposed “models of Christ’s image” realize that it is we, the hedonistic, agnostic and heretical liberal left who are actually the ones pushing Jesus’ “love your brother-take care of your weak and infirm” political agenda. Do those guys realize that their right-wing me-first attitudes have made us look more Godlike than them. (they?)

Which reminds me to tell you that I heard from a spokesperson from the Holy Roman Catholic Church late yesterday afternoon. Please allow me to say, here in advance, that I had already cracked a couple icy-cold Carta Blanca beers and also ingested one of my Gram’s magic mushroom potions she calls “A bruised peach ain’t right”[.] The bluish spot high on my arm where SAC Ellen “tapped” me night-before-last had turned into a purple and yellow, swollen lump. Gram gave me the potion to reduce swelling and I guess also to stop my whining about it.

I’m still amazed at how much unwanted attention I bring to myself.

Those of you with inclinations to stay abreast of current science know that studies now show how psychedelic mushroom juice can enhance concentration as well as imagination. I have always attempted to tell people that Gram’s potions straighten-out some of my ADHD’s worst habits, and now I have proof. I tell you this to provide additional clarity to the information re: the call from the Catholic guy. I was on my third beer, which likely dimmed my wits, but I was also in a state of altered ADD and AD-with-an-HD effects with enhanced imagination from the mushrooms.

OK, let’s face it, I was shit-faced when my phone rang.

The call wasn’t from Christian Gonzales, the communications guy, but, rather, from Larry Covington, who is the “Ecumenical Officer” of the Austin Diocese. Turns out Larry is a Catholic who attended a Baptist Seminary and he was the perfect man to answer my questions when doing a compare/contrast of Biblical foundations between Baptists and Catholics on three key issues: birth control, abortion and homo, I say homo-sex-u-al-ity.

At first I wondered how it was known that I was ecumenical as it relates to the Catholic Church. I mean really, how did they know I wasn’t Catholic? The answer, of course, was in my question. As I later learned, only a non-Catholic would ask such a silly question.

I’ll preface my remarks by saying that Larry was forthright, forthcoming and didn’t blanch at any question I asked. He didn’t attempt to avoid or deflect except when he felt directing me to printed Catholic stuff would serve to clarify. Unless Larry is a devious little Catholic fucker and the same Larry I’ve met over to the Planned Parenthood where I anti-anti-abortion protest. Short of that, if I were a Catholic I would want Mr. Covington in my corner.

I also wonder if the local Catholic clan has other Ecumenical Officers who attended Church of Christ, Mormon, Lutheran and other seminaries who stand at the ready for callers like me. My simple request lead me through four entire departments and six people. They’d need like at least a dozen specially trained Larry guys each with training in a different world religion. I wonder how many of those guys convert to the religion they study?

It’s no wonder that need so much money.

To understand my quest you need to know that I was raised Baptist and one, Baptists believe in the “literal” words of the Bible, and two, Baptists believe that Catholics are not “real” Christians. I never really gave a shit as to why Catholics were viewed as heretics at my church and I stopped going at an age that predated my quest for knowledge. I’m pretty well-versed on the Catholic Church’s stand on the centuries of child rape committed by its priests and also its stand on women.

But I had never bothered myself with the Bible verses either the Baptists or Catholics stand upon to justify those stances. I made the call to the Catholic Bishop of Austin because he started whining about new health care requirements that require health care providers, those that that accept payments under government programs, cover birth control. I got all pissed off that the Bishop was pissed off about such a basic human right of women.

I had +/-thirty minutes of conversation with Mr. Covington and while I can say that he cleared several things for me, I am even more dumb founded than before making the call. See, according to Larry, the Ecumenical Officer of the local Catholic Church, The Holy Roman Catholic Church doesn’t rely on the words of the Bible for their positions on those three issues. Instead, they rely upon what they choose to call “Natural Law” and then through “The Theory of the Body” the Church pontificates modern beliefs.

Only after filtering whatever original intentions God might have had in regards to my issues through a succession of dried up old men—that would be the Popes and masses of Cardinals over time—several re-interpretations of the Bible, The Dark Ages, The Inquisition, the Catholic Church plundering of the New World, and the actual acceptance of a New Testament that totally changed Christianity, can the Catholics even decide how they rule.

I want to thank Larry Covington for clearing a few things for me and also for confusing the shit right out of me. I’m way too confused to know how I feel about all of this right now, because basically, Larry told me that over the course of Catholic history the high muck-a-mucks of their church have decided how to act, not the Bible. And in these three modern issues, the only reliance on the words of the Bible come AFTER we apply the Catholic interpretation of the Catholic interpretation of Natural Law.

OK, then we’re required to re filter all of that through “The Theology of the Body” which is the last Pope’s cogitations on life.

Let’s start our journey through the mind of Catholic dogma with Natural Law. I apologize for the highlights, funky lines and dead-end hyper links, but here is some of the info I pulled on a Google search of “Catholic Natural Law”[:]

“From Wikipedia:

Paul of Tesarus wrote in his Epistle to the Romans: “For when Gentiles, who do not have the law, by nature do the things contained in the law, these, although not having the law, are a law unto themselves, their conscience also bearing witness.”

(Author’s note: Holy fucking shit!)

The use of natural law, in its various incarnations, has varied widely through its history. There are a number of different theories of natural law, differing from each other with respect to the role that morality plays in determining the authority of legal norms. This article will deal with its usages separately rather than attempt to unify them into a single theory.

In English this term is frequently employed as equivalent to the laws of nature, meaning the order which governs the activities of the material universe. Among the Roman jurists natural law designated those instincts and emotions common to man and the lower animals, such as the instinct of self-preservation and love of offspring. In its strictly ethical application—the sense in which this article treats it—the natural law is the rule of conduct which is prescribed to us by the Creator in the constitution of the nature with which He has endowed us.

According to St. Thomas, the natural law is “nothing else than the rational creature’s participation in the eternal law” (I-II.94). The eternal law is God’s wisdom, inasmuch as it is the directive norm of all movement and action. When God willed to give existence to creatures, He willed to ordain and direct them to an end. In the case of inanimate things, this Divine direction is provided for in the nature which God has given to each; in them determinism reigns. Like all the rest of creation, man is destined by God to an end, and receives from Him a direction towards this end. This ordination is of a character in harmony with his free intelligent nature. In virtue of his intelligence and free will, man is master of his conduct. Unlike the things of the mere material world he can vary his action, act, or abstain from action, as he pleases. Yet he is not a lawless being in an ordered universe. In the very constitution of his nature, he too has a law laid down for him, reflecting that ordination and direction of all things, which is the eternal law. The rule, then, which God has prescribed for our conduct, is found in our nature itself. Those actions which conform with its tendencies, lead to our destined end, and are thereby constituted right and morally good; those at variance with our nature are wrong and immoral.”

*** OK, I’m back, and please allow me to repeat myself when I say, “Holy fucking shit!”

I need BJ to help me work my way through all of this stuff, I’m just not smart enough. One thing that Larry told me is that women can’t be priests because priests are stand-ins for Jesus and Jesus was a man. I assumed that to mean that Priests are supposed to only act like Jesus, but I’m again confused because the Pope is a priest first and he is bigoted towards many people and balks when given the chance to do what Jesus would have done.

Here’s my rationale. The only time Jesus EVER got angry to the point of physical acts against another was when he kicked the money changers out of the temple. Jesus was physically angry and assaulted these guys for the act of currency exchange on church property.

Yet this current Pope, and those several before him, have been mealy-mouthed about the priests who have raped and otherwise molested thousands of children while wearing the collar and performing the Holy sacraments. Pope’s have not only approved of the slaughter of millions of non-Christians, they have blessed and financed the missions to conquer. Popes have endorsed the killings and taking of slaves in God’s name, but they don’t want us to terminate a two-month pregnancy?

Have I managed to confuse you guys now? My head is spinning and I haven’t even addressed the Theology of the Body. Wait until you see that one. What I wanted was simple answers to modern issues and maybe in all of this confusion I have them. Maybe it’s one, simple answer.

Just like we Baptists, Catholics make shit up to suit us. Manana, y’all.

Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, gayrights, Religion, Rick Perry | 6 Comments »

Mooner Panders To Gay Readers; No Word From The Catholics

Wednesday, February 1st, 2012

So. BJ over to the Dumb Perignon told me that I had additional webber commenter information available to me that would prove his innocence in a formerly-raging commenter debate, and when I looked into his suggested bloggie administrative functions I stumbled upon an interesting tidbit upon which I will now act.

OK, let’s stop here and examine that last sentence. Let me first say that I have read that little ditty thirteen times, and while each reading has brought new meaning to those words, I remain convinced that I said exactly what I meant. And they say ADHD prevents focus and concentration.

The tidbit I tripped over was that many of my recent first time visitors had come here via Good To Be Gay

What the fuck? I can’t continue typing up there in the last paragraph without having it continue the Good To Be Gay hyperlink. I had to leave that paragraph open like that to get out of the linkster, and that shit drives me nuts.

Anyway, I was banging around the Admin section yesterday after BJ told me something, and I discovered that one, I had a significant number of new visitors, and that two, many (most) of those newbies had arrived from GTBG.

I received an email from one of those viewers that said in part, “… and while I find much of your writing interesting, I feel lost with some of people and situations. Might you give your new readers a refresher?…”

For some reason this Emailer wished to go nameless and I hope that isn’t because she is still in the closet. I prefer to think that she’s the mother of a gay person and that she finds me attractive and that embarrasses her. Join the club, Ma’am.

Anyway, I though about her request and decided she’s right. It’s been over a year since I did the Cast of Characters button up there ^^^^^ and things change. So here is my best effort to clarify things:

Mr. Dave is an elderly gentleman in possession of a penis the size of a large Japanese eggplant, said penis is a physiological phenomenon when under the influence of Viagra, and my randy old grandmother rescued him from the nursing home and brought him here to the ranch where he services the matrons of the Johnson family ranch. Mr. Dave is a true gentleman who shares his bounty without prejudice and burns through extra large rubber like a drag car.

I have a menagerie of household pets that includes regular domestic varieties and also pets not typically considered to be of the household. Squirt, the half-Chihuahua/half-Dachshund puppy, currently speaks at least a dozen human languages and is taking the place of Dixie, my long-suffering Golden Retriever and personal translator for the previous sixteen years. Yoda, the supposed same half-Chihuahua/half-Dachshund puppy who is actually a mix of Chihuahua and fucking Whippet, is a bugeyed little shitball who is so ugly that he’s actually cute, and thus aptly-named. He was rescued from a puppy mill over to Oklahoma where they beat and choked him. He has resultant bladder control issues and he sounds like an old man with throat cancer when he barks. Only had him six months and love him like a son.

Honor the fucking cat is a minor character in my life and not because I have anything against cats. It is, quite simply put—because she’s a fucking cat. Honor is with us as the result of a therapy assignment (read “experiment”) forced on me by Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my first-of-ten ex-wives and only psycho therapist. The cat “adopted” the Squirt and me when she escaped from the crazy cat lady’s house and hid in the back seat of my old GTO.

Maybe I should spend more time telling you about what little the fucking cat does. Do gay people have an especially strong leaning towards cats to where I should add some silly cat talk for their/your edification? Would I be showing a prejudice should I allow the construction of my viewer constituency to sway my content? Did Lee Harvey Oswald really act alone?

Rush Limbaugh is 550+ pounds of domesticated porcine drag queen, a pig named after the gigantic asshole of radio fame. If you buy my book, Full Rising Mooner, you’ll find the back-story on him. Rushie and his lover, the ostrich Rick Perry—a 350-pounder in his own right—live in my bedroom closet where they pretend nobody knows they are gay. The two of them are likewise aptly named as Rush Limbaugh is a pig in every way, and Rick Perry is a pretty bird who runs in circles and has a usable brain the size of a pea.

I love all my pets and treat them like family, a condition they return on me.

As far as prejudices go, I have several. Right-wing Christian shitballs, the Baptist church, Her Royal Highness The Pope, and people who are bigoted against other people because of differences in color, religion and sexual preferences headline the recipients of my prejudice. I am a liberal of just past rare cooking and I am an anti-anti-abortion protester. I think Dr. Marcus Bachmann IS out of the same closet where Michele Bachmann hides deep within.

My sister, named Sister, is a lesbian woman who happens to be married to my third ex-wife. Sister and Anna the Amazon are quite an attractive couple and next to Streaker Jones, my first choices as backup in a bar fight. Each is quite feminine and both are well-trained in the martial arts. They and my long-time friend Lloyd are gay persons who mean very much to me. Lloyd is the man I most admire of all men I have known.

Do you guys have men and/or women you most admire? For me the choice of a woman for the category is a difficult choice. I have so many strong and amazing women in my life that I’d name different ladies at different times. Even though I’ve had some incredible men near to me, Lloyd is the one man I wish I was more like. More alike? Lloyd’s actual first name is Curtis, but I guess that really doesn’t make a shit in this context.

OK, I’m going to stop with this line of discussion because I feel like I’m starting to pander to my gay readers. I’m not opposed to pandering buy I always attempt to pander with a specific goal in mind. Let me just say that I am a non-denominational admirer of good people regardless of their persuasions.

I’m also crazy. My aforementioned psycho therapist calls me a, “crazy lunatic redneck fuckbrain,” a diagnosis not found by me in any psychiatric journal. I am an environmentalist who owns a compost business, I ingest every known organic mind-altering substance so far identified, and when I drink beer I demand Carta Blanca.

Fuck Two X’s beer and those silly commercials. Have you ever had a Dos Equis beer? (imagine the sound of me spitting) Hopped and malted rat piss.

Which reminds me. Mr. Christian Gonzales—the head muck-a-muck in the Communications Department over to the Austin Diocese of The Holy Roman Catholic Church—has not yet returned my call. I’m not prepared to call him a chicken and make clucking noises quite yet, but I’m warming up my clucker.

Which just caused a thought to hit me. When I was transferred to the Communication Department I assumed that meant the place where information is disseminated. Maybe Christian (what a fucking name for this guy) is in the Communications Department meaning he’s the guy that de-communicates a Catholic from the church.

Holy shit but isn’t the Catholic hierarchy a complicated and critical bunch of prissy old gasbags? Who is that guy at the Vatican who serves as Papal spokesman? You know, the guy I call Ratso Rizzo the Second. Has a pointy rat face and speaks with these red, pouty lips all pursed-up like he’s got a mouthful of spoiled piss in his mouth.

Anyway, I’m running out of steam and time as well. Welcome, new readers, and I’ll see you manana.

Posted in ADHD, gayrights, Religion | 3 Comments »

Mooner Mucks-Up The Bachelor; Baptists Vs Catholics

Tuesday, January 31st, 2012

So. I’ve been mostly missing from the scene since Friday because I’ve been busy with planned activities. As a sufferer of acute ADHD and ADD Types I through XV, I have also been busy with unplanned activities. Just last night I was flipping between the Texas mens’ basketball game and The Bachelor on the TV and I got into an unplanned argument with my sweetie.

SAC Ellen is in town for a few days and spent last night here. I don’t usually watch “Der Batch O’ Dummies” as Streaker Jones calls the ABC show, but the SACster is hooked on it. Under normal circumstances I would have watched my game, because I’m hooked on University of Texas sports, without interruptions in another room. OK, wait. Under normal conditions, SAC Ellen would have been in the living room with the flock of old Johnson birds watching The Bachelor on the big screen with Mr. Dave.

Mr. Dave is home from his visit over to the P-cube’s house and arrived back to the ranch with an extra bag. P-cubed is now staying in the guest room in Mother’s wing of the house where she can fit herself into Mr. Dave’s routine schedule. Things have gotten so confusing with that poor old man’s sexing schedule that the ladies asked Gnat to organize it for him. My able assistant set up a spreadsheet, and here “spreadsheet” is apt grammatical syntax.

Anyway, last night I hit the “Previous” channel button—I swear by reflex—and flipped to the game just as the bachelor, Ben is his name, removed his undies to skinny dip with the crazy woman. They always put one crazy woman on these shows to garner viewer interest.

“Dammit, Mooner, you ruined it.” My sweetie snapped at me and punched my arm high, near the shoulder. As I’m writing this my arm still hurts from the punch.

“Ow, dammit, ow, ow, ow!” I didn’t actual cry out in pain, but it hurt.

“Oh, stop being a cry baby, I barely tapped you.”

Have you ever noticed how persons with hands that are dangerous weapons always say “I barely tapped you” after they punch a bruise on you? My buddy Squatlo can back me up on this one. Right Bob? His sweet wife looks like a school teacher and has the balanced countenance of an Earth mother. But Bob says she can split a bowling ball with a stab from one finger.

I didn’t need to attempt the bowling ball dealie to know that’s quite a feat, and I suspect SAC Ellen might possess similar abilities. Her “little tap” left bluish imprints of her knuckles.

Holy shit but I have left the fucking building. I wanted to tell you about my little research project. The local Catholic High Muck-A-Muck, Bishop Joe S. Vasquez, issued a statement last night that he is pissed about “Obamacare” because it requires health care insurers and providers to cover contraceptives costs if they participate in government programs. I know that last sentence was poorly constructed but you catch my drift.

Le Bishy-Poo was pissed that his church’s dogma were required to take second place to the law, and he started that tired old “separation-of-church-and-state” argument where the church takes the opposite side of the coin than what was meant in The Constitution. They try to twist the Big C to say that a law shouldn’t ever contradict religious dogma, when the actual words are different. The new health care package does not REQUIRE Catholic hospitals to sell/offer birth control pills. But it does say that they need to offer the same full coverage as other health care providers on government programs.

Or said another way, the Federal plan needs to be administered in like kind at every fucking institution it is administrated. Another awkward sentence with specific meaning. The new program is designed for the human recipients of the health care and not the fucking institutions providing the health care. I know this is a change from the Bushie White House years where the providing institutions got all of the consideration in health care regulating.

But that debate isn’t what got me off track. It was, rather, that I started wondering what specific Bible verses (versi?) does (do?) The Holy Roman Catholic Church base its positions re: contraception and abortion? I was reared Baptist and those silly shitwads cannot make a clear decision where in the Bible they come up with some of their crazy ideas. But the Catholics are waaaay more organized and have been at the business of silly dogma for hundreds of years longer. Hell, the Catholics invented the fucking Inquisition, so you know they’ve got the whole dogma dealie down pat.

So, I called Bishop Joe (Jose) S. Vasquez to get some answers. I wonder what the S. is for—Stephen, I bet, or would it be Simon after the Apostle? I was passed from department-to-department as nice-sounding women answered the phone in each department. I guess the local Diocese of the Catholic Church don’t have the same rules as up to the Vatican. I guess women are good enough to be secretaries down here at the lower ranks of Catholicdom, but lack the needed proximity to God for holding the higher offices.

Anyway, I landed at the Communications Department and the voice mail for Mr. Christian Gonzales, it’s head. As I listened to his message I had a bigoted thought. I was thinking that I might have found the level at which the gender barrier was erected at the Diocese. I know that I have a quite real bias to bigots, and having that bias is a bigotry all its own.

I left him a message that said, “I’m doing research on the differences in Catholic and Baptist beliefs on several topical subjects and I would like an official position of your church.”

I’m going to ask him which specific Bible verses The Pope relies upon to make his edicts on contraception, abortion and homosexuality. I’ve tried since last year to get The Pope to answer for himself but my queries have gone unanswered.

I’ll let you know what I find out. Mooner Johnson, Investigative Reporter. Manana, y’all.

Posted in ADHD, gayrights, Religion | 6 Comments »

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.

Posted in FullRisingMooner, gayrights | 6 Comments »

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.

Posted in ADHD, Camel Toe, FullRisingMooner, gayrights | 9 Comments »

Heart And Soul; Rick Perry Still A Prick

Monday, January 23rd, 2012

So. We were all sitting at the big table for breakfast yesterday morning and I was attempting to express my feelings about Rick Perry’s having quit presidential politics. As I have several times here, I mentioned that I was happy that Governor Dumbass wasn’t going to be elected to screw up the entire country, yet I lamented that he’s now got all of his waking hours to finish the job he started to totally fuck up my state.

My mother is a Baptist right-wing conservative Christian from waaaay back, and her Christian lobotomy hasn’t grown back. Since she routinely stops at the church to listen to the swill that spills from the mouth of The Right Reverend Pastor Browningwell, Mother’s lobotomy is cultivated quite nicely, thank you just the same. The dead space in her brain that stimulates free thought lays disconnected from the rest of her brain.

I was talking about the absolute insanity of Pick “The Prick”Perry’s endorsement of Newbt Gangrenich as he quit, and when Mother had gotten her fill of my rant, she said, “You shut your foul mouth and right now, Butcher Einstein Johnson. I’ll not have you saying such terrible, filthy things about MY Governor. Rick Perry is a fine, fine Christian man and you should be ashamed of yourself for speaking evil about him. You’ll rot in hell if you don’t stop.”

OK, wait. First of all, have I ever told you that is my given name? And for seconds, it wasn’t right then that my mother launched her standard “Mooner will rot in hell for (fill in the blanks)” speech. It was when I started asking if anybody could rectify (justify) the fact that if God told Ricky to run for President—and since the pompous prick does everything God tells him to do—he ran for President, and has now summarily ignored God’s demands and aborted his campaign.

I love it when Rick Perry performs abortions against God’s will. In fact, I now remember that is what I said when Mother went off on me. I mumbled something in replay like, “My ticket to hell has already been punched,” a comment that always brings out the mother in my martyred parent.

“You would see the rightness of Mr. Perry’s actions if you were a good Christian man, Mooner. But you have the Devil in your soul and evil in your heart.”

Now me, I think I’d rather evil was in my soul and that the Devil resided in my heart. I’m unsure why, precisely, but that is how I have felt ever since my mother first laid this trip on my head. We were back to second grade—Streaker Jones and I—and he dared me to moon Mrs. Leticia Browningwell during Sunday School. This was before my little incident with my Boy Scout Leader, so I was still allowing Mother to drag my ass to the Baptist church every time the unlocked the fucking doors. Streaker Jones went wherever I went most times and he was there.

If I remember correctly, we were studying the story about the father who gave his sons talents. Streaker Jones raised his hand and said to Mrs. Browningwell, he said, “Mooner’s got a talent,” at which time I showed her.

I think that was the first day that I sensed that Gloria Muckleroy liked me better than Walley Smalley.

Anyway, I got my ear tugged—first from my seat in Sunday School all the way to the car—and then from the car all the way around the house and out to the tool shed that used to be attached to the side of the barn. The tool shed was remodeled when I dug the deep basement under the barn for Gram’s mushroom growing operations, and what was the tool shed is now her potion storage facilities.

And they say that an ADHD-addled fuckbrain can’t follow the plot line.

After Mother ear-dragged me to the shed and then whipped my ass with one of the switches I had previously harvested for just such a moment, I got the “Mooner, you are going to rot in hell for being irreverent” speech. That was the first time I was told that the Devil would be dwelling in my soul and evil inside my ventricles.

I’ve also wondered if the evil courses through me with every contraction of my rotten heart. Maybe that’s how the Devil keeps oxygenated and fed as he hides in my soul. I must have a huge soul to house the entire Devil. As much as I like pig meat and Carta Blanca beer, I guess I can explain the intensities of those likes by saying, “The Devil made me do it. He likes pork and Carta Blanca beer.”

Maybe this line of reasoning should go unused when I make my pitch to Carta Blanca for sponsorship.

I love my mother, I truly do. She’s honest and hard working, she gives freely to others in need, and she wishes the best she knows for everyone, including me. It’s just that the best she knows is tainted and tinted with the caustic dye splashed around in the Baptist church. Not the Baptist church with the loving, inclusive God, the other church with the mean God, the God that hates gays and Muslims.

Every time Mother gives me this speech, I cook her favorite meal as my reply of unlike kind. She still, to this day, hasn’t connected all the dots. She thinks that I do it to make her feel better for my being an asshole, but untruer words were never spoken.

I do it to show her that the Devil might live in my soul and that evil might hide out in my heart, but I forgive her of thinking so badly of me.

The results of modern psycho therapy at work. Manana, y’all.

Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, gayrights, Rick Perry | 10 Comments »

Mooner’s State Of The Union Address; Corps Are Not Humans, Dumbass

Sunday, January 22nd, 2012

So. I was over to Squatlo’s place this morning and he was bitching and bellyaching as per his usual rants. He’s got a quite sensitive antenna for ignorance, dumbass and shit-headedness. And banalities as well.

He posted about Tuesday’s State of the Union Speech and how the President should just skip it. He has some smart insights and garnered some smart comments as well. Please go over to his place by clicking on the linkster button over there ===}}} , read that referenced posting and comments, and then return back here for the point of my ramblings this morning.

Go on now with your bad self, move your mousie and take a couple minutes to gather some elucidations from Squatlo, and then come back. I’ll still be here.

While you guys are over there, I want to make an observation for you. Have you paid any attention to what happened in South Carolina with the Rebubbies in the primary? Have you seen how far right-wing Christians will bend their morals to prevent a “non-Christian” from winning a political race in their state?

The Mittster is the very embodiment of the modern right-wing Christian family man. He hates Social Security and Medicare-Medicaid, he hates labor unions and labor-led business practices, he’s had but one wifey-poo and forever at that, he thinks Genghis Khan was a dove, he wants big business to run the entire fucking country. Oh yea, and he’s a bigot.

Except for that entire Mormon dealie, Herr Mittendorpher is the very embodiment of Southern American conservative Christian values.

But Mitty might as well be a Taliban tribal leader from the hinter reaches of Afghanistan who praises Allah with every other breath. Southern Christians will believe that God spoke to Moses multiple times and orchestrated burning bushes that spoke His word, but they will not eat John Smith’s porridge. Those fine citizens will listen in rapture as Pat Robertson spews his silly swill and makes the broad statement that God told him who will win the next Presidential race, yet they find it silly—blasphemous even—that God would ask His followers to wear magic undies.

Which reminds me. Don’t you even start to tell me that bigotry is dead in America. Do… not… start. When people like Pat Robertson and Newbt Grinchford, and Rick Perry can gain prominence as they have, our beloved country is still populated by those devils.

Ever notice that devil bears a strong resemblance to evil?

Is everybody back now from Squattie’s place? Here we go. I think that Herman Cain is a puppet—at best a Miss Piggy and at worst that lecherous dog puppet, old what’s-his-name. Hermie can’t string together cogent thoughts any better than Rick The Prick Perry, he is a serial adulterer as is Newbt, and he’s a big money-big business fuckball like SchMitt. Settle with this information as it is the foundation for my State O’ De Union address.

Triumph, I think was that dog puppet’s name. Or maybe it was Spitfire.

With that premise in mind—the one where Herman Cain cannot ad lib for shit—the Prez needs to send a draft of his speech to the other side that is nothing more than a rehash of what is expected, a same old tired and silly speech—just like Squatlo speaks of. Give them exactly what they expect to hear and let them spend their time prepping Hermie’s response based thereon.

Then Tuesday night, Obama can start his speech with all the usual greetings and across-the-aisle platitudes and silly bullshit of decorum, and then do the first couple of minutes of the canned spam. He’ll say something silly, like “Our number one goal is to put Americans back to work…,” and then he’ll stop, rub his eyes and then shake his head and say, “Turn off the teleprompter. Please, turn it off.”

The audience will moan with the murmurs of of both surprise and concern. People will be whispering in each others’ ears. The Prez will let the audience remain unsettled for a full sixty seconds. Have you ever encountered a full minute’s pause at a big gathering?

Now the audience is squirming and the talking heads for broadcast corporations are squirming as well. Those assholes can’t stand dead air so they’ll start filling it with the banalities that are their stock in trade. “This is remarkable, Peter. Has this ever happened before?”

At the ticked tock of sixty seconds, Obama takes a deep breath, pinches the bridge of his nose and says, “My fellow Americans, our country has been stolen from us, and we, The People, must take it back. The conservative right has placed an iron-fisted grip on the very throat of our country and will force us to yield to their every wish if we don’t fight back.

“We are being sold the idiotic notion that corporations are people with the same inalienable rights as human citizens. Then we’re told that corporate citizens are not to be held to the same standards of contact as are we humans.

“Our rights as citizens are taking backseat to religious dogma. We are losing personal rights of choice to their sometimes bigoted religious beliefs. If we do not believe as they do, we become second class citizens.

“They want to gut and privatize every governmental institution and place the authority in the hands of corporate citizens. They lie about Social Security and they lie about the US Postal Service and tell you that they are insolvent. Social Security has never been bankrupt and it is those same lawmakers who have put the Postal Service at risk with an unprecedented requirement that it fund decades of future retirement benefits today.

“Using marketing strategies that play on the fears of conservative Christians to sway their votes, the fractional interests of the extremely wealthy have seized control of many state houses, media outlets and the United States House of Representatives. Using the filibuster, they have managed to place a choke hold on the US Senate as well.

“America is under siege. America is on the verge of becoming a hostile environment to the very same human citizens it was created to protect. America is dangerously close to becoming a feudal state run by proxies of the corporations of the mega-rich.

“We, The People, need to take it back. We, the human citizens of the United States of America, need to take it back. Here is my plan…”

Anyway, it makes for good beer-drinking conversation so I’m grabbing a Carta Blanca and heading to the den to watch professional football. Manana, y’all.

Tags: Corporations as humans
Posted in gayrights | 10 Comments »

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.

Posted in ADHD, FullRisingMooner, gayrights | 3 Comments »

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.

Posted in ADHD, FullRisingMooner, gayrights | 9 Comments »

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!

Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, FullRisingMooner, gayrights | 9 Comments »

A Mooner Mention: Check Out Good To Be Gay

Tuesday, January 3rd, 2012

So. I have but a minute this morning but I wanted to give you an interesting link. Sister, she would be my actual sister and a lesbian who is now married to my third ex-wife, told me about this newsletter/newspaper that she has been reading. It’s called Good To Be Gay and I have been tuning in for several weeks. I wanted to read a few issues before sending you guys their way to insure the integrity of my recommendation.

I’m ready to recommend that you go over there to the site by clicking onto the linkster at:

http://bit.ly/oERLm8

I have been unsuccessful so far in determining just who (whom?) is the author/publisher of GTBG, but I salute him. I get a sense of rock-solid feet-on-the-ground observations and reportings from this paper, and I have made it a routine read. Some of the stuff makes me uneasy when I read it, and I think that is a good sign. It has often been the things that I hear or read that make me uneasy which have dealt with important issues of social change.

OK, let’s stop a second for a grammar check. That last sentence is problematic with the “that” versus “which” issue. I love the word “which” which should be evident to all of you which read this shitty bloggie with routine. But I know I use it improperly and I know that, somehow, a comma can make all the difference between that and which.

But like Gram says when she’ll say, “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner. That witch is a bitch.”

Indeed.

I can remember just how uncomfortable it made me when the owner of the hardware store refused to allow my friend Javier inside the store. I was just six or seven, but I knew something was wrong when my skin crawled as the owner pointed his finger at Javier, and said, “No wetbacks!”

And I have vivid memories of Baptist preachers standing at their pulpits to tell my sister she would rot in hell simply because she prefers a woman’s love to that of a man. I watched my sister squirm in her seat time and time again, as preachers told their congregations that the God of Love condemns homosexuality. Fucking asshole right-wing exclusionary Baptists.

Anyway, before my ADHD takes us on a trip to Mars, click on to Good To Be Gay and check it out. There’s this neat article about how those silly fuckballs at American Family have decided that gay marriage will lead to a take-over of America using communism and satanic cults.

And think about a purchase of my book. You can check it out by clicking over there ===}}} to the Full Rising Mooner linksters. Manana, y’all.

Posted in ADHD, FullRisingMooner, gayrights | 4 Comments »

Mooner’s 2012 Wish List; Fuck Rick Perry

Saturday, December 31st, 2011

So. Today’s last posting of the year shall be what I’ll call Mooner’s Wish List For 2012. I’m down to fifteen hours of freely giving of myself and I’m feeling pretty good about stuff here at the end of 2011. I started thinking about my wishes for the New Year, so I thought I’d give you my list. Here it is:

I wish that my silly sentimentality will grab a rein on itself. It really is OK with me that I cry at the drop of sincerity, but Tuesday I started leaking tears when Gram put an Air Supply cassette on the stereo and I’m All Out’a Love came on. I’m fine if The Beatles or Don Henley or Classical music, or Simon and Garfunkel bring me to my knees in a weeping mess of tears and snot bubbles. But Air Supply?
I wish that Jesus Christ would return for a few months—not the big End-of-Days return, but rather a short visit—and remind the fucking Christians that He was/is all about love and inclusion. Modern American Christians have become so exclusive about every aspect of thought and life that their practices don’t even resemble Christ’s preachings. Now that I think about it, maybe that’s why the Air Supply song brought tears to my eyes. I was raised in the Baptist church and maybe I’m sad at what it has become, at their love lost.
I wish that everyone could sing and dance and run and throw and make money equally. I wish that the only tangible differences among us were in how we think and act, and that our icons and idols were people who were special to us for what they do rather than what they CAN do.
I wish that I could have been Mr. Dave when he was twenty years old until he was like maybe thirty-five.
I wish I had a wish that wasn’t so wishy. I’m sounding like Oprah Winfrey for shitsakes.

OK, stop the presses. When I started this I thought I had some original thoughts about how to make the New Year a better new year. I don’t. I have nothing new to add to the same tired and trite wishes I’ve had for the last twelve years or so. I want to be happy with the state of politics in America—I really want us to return to be an inclusive society. I want America to mind its own business and mind our stores. Our mice on Wall Street are clearing out the cupboards while the cat is busy playing with other countries’ lives.

I want you to practice any fucking religious beliefs you want to practice just as long as you let me to practice mine. I want you to practice your silly fucking religious beliefs on yourself, and not on me. If you believe life starts when you first think about having sex—lock your kids in the basement until you marry them off to another member of your church. Don’t practice safe sex and don’t terminate any of your fucking pregnancies because that is your choice. But don’t tell others what to do, because a woman’s right to choose her own destiny is what is sacred. A woman’s right to choose is sacred!

If you think that homosexuality is evil and wrong, don’t suck another man’s dick. Don’t play ‘hide the two-headed vibrator’ with another woman. But if my sweet sister wants to marry Anna the Amazon—my ever-so-sexy and likewise sweet ex-wife—then leave them the fuck alone.

Which reminds me. It dawned on me just the other day exactly why Dr. Marcus Bachmann is soooooo very concerned and dedicated to turning gay men into husbands of women. I feel a little dumb for not getting it sooner.

And don’t you hate when a writer hits “Bold, Italicize and Underline” to provide emphasis to his words. I wish I could better communicate than to do that. But I can’t.

If you think that Earth was uninhabited until something less than 10,000 years ago, knock yourself the fuck out.

I wish I knew another word to use for the word fuck. Wouldn’t it be nice if there existed another English word to express all of those same thoughts and emotions and meanings as when you say, “Fuck?” Fuck is my favorite word, and you can go fuck your fucking self and all your fucking neighbors if you don’t fucking like it. Fuck you. But I would get more people to read this shit I write if I had another word.

Anyway, if you are one of those Christians who think the Bible says that the Earth was created sometime between four and ten thousand years ago… OK, let me first say, “Are you fucking kidding me? Are you truly that ignorant or stupid?” And second, please allow me to say, “Fine. If you want to ignore the facts, fine. Home school your own children or take them to your church school.” But leave the rest of us to teach reality in our public schools.

Said another way, I really don’t care what you want or choose to do with your life. I don’t care how you think you make it to heaven, or hell, and I don’t care if you think I’m a hedonistic, sacrilegious heretical and evil bastard. I don’t care about any of that. Think anything you want.

But leave… me… the… fuck… alone! Do not even try to force your shit on the rest of us.

Ugh. Ugh, ugh and ugh once more.

Isn’t it the final eleventh hour somewhere in the World? I need a Carta Blanca beer and an attitude adjustment. SAC Ellen is back in town and there is no way she’s sexing me when I act like this. Maybe I should take all the animals fishing. It’s unusually warm this morning and Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh could use the fresh air. Speaking of two-headed vibrators, my gay pig and ostrich haven’t seen the light of day since they opened their Xmas presents from each other.

So let me say “Happy New Year Everybody”[,] and I hope that all of your wishes come true. OK, look, I hope all of your wishes come true so long as they don’t infringe upon anyone else. If you have wishes that impinge on my rights then I say, “Fuck you, asshole! Eat shit and die.”

Manana, y’all.

Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, gayrights, Politics, Religion | 2 Comments »

Hitler Bashed Gays Too; Think, Republicans, Please Think

Tuesday, December 13th, 2011

So. Republican presidential candidates, I have a message for you. Enough gay bashing already. Your pandering to the lunatic fringes of the far right are getting downright nasty.

And stupid.

You had better be careful from here on out as gay folks, and supporters of gay folks, are starting to tire of your antics. My sister and her wife, my ex number three appropriately named Anna the Amazon, were over to dinner last night and the subject arose.

“Why are they targeting us as the cause of all things rotten in American society?” Sister asked the table. “You’d think that at least Newt the Gingerbread Man would stand up for his own lesbian sister.”

“Now don’t you be speaking ill of Speaker Newt, Sister,” the woman I find myself calling “Mother” said. As I mature and improve my mental health through extensive psycho therapy, I find myself wondering if this woman actually birthed me from scratch.

“What?” Sister was trying to maintain mealtime decorum but her eyes were starting to bulge from their sockets. “Are you going to defend a man who ridicules his own sister’s lesbianism when he himself fooled around on his sick wife and then divorced her as she was dying in the hospital?”

When Mother failed to answer, my sweet and lovely lesbian sister said, “Really, Mother? You will defend that lying sack of dog shit, that evil… fucking… man…”

Anna reached across the table and patted Sister’s hand. “Your mother means well, honey, she just doesn’t have perspective as we do.”

“She doesn’t have a fucking conscience except for what Pastor Browningwell tells her to think. That idiot at the church still thinks you catch homosexuality, like a cold. Jesus Christ, Mother, will you ever learn to think for yourself?” Sister was pissed but hurt too, as only a child can be hurt by a calloused parent.

“Yer mother’s a asshole, Sister, don’t pay her no mind. Now pass them taters and let’s talk about what we want Mooner ta fix fer Christmas dinner.” Gram has a way that usually kills talk on unpleasant subjects, but not last night.

“Look, Mother Johnson,” Anna began, “you don’t really believe all of that hooey that homosexuals make a choice to be gay, do you? Do you actually believe that I chose to fall in love with your daughter while I was married to your son?”

Now let’s take a short pause in the storyline at this point because I have often wondered about this myself. Not that I think Anna chose to fall in love with Sister while married to me, but all of the whys and wherefores of that dealie were quite confusing to me when they happened. Many gay people get married before either coming out of the closet, or recognizing they were in the closet.

Anna was one of the latter, and I wonder which Dr. Marcus Bachmann will turn out to be. Anna knew she liked girls but didn’t know she was gay until she met Sister. Sister was traveling in Europe for a year and was, therefore, not around when Anna and I courted and wed. Not that marriage to Anna wasn’t wonderful, but I firmly believe that I would have but nine ex-wives at this point if Anna had met Sister first.

Before dinner last night, my mother had a bunch of her Baptist church ladies over for “tea”[.] Baptist lady tea is not actually tea at all. Mother and her buddies consumed six pitchers of my world famous Margarita’s made with Hornitos tequila and fresh-squozed lime juice. I love saying “squozed” rather than squeezed. They also ate about a gallon of my garlicky guacamole with salsa we canned back in May.

The drought and super-high temps killed my garden this year and out tomatoes burned out in late May, a first.

Pastor Browningwell’s wife was there, Leticia is her name, and the six women all came in the big van the church uses to haul kids around. Margaret Jenkins was the designated driver and since Leticia was there, I doubled-up on the tequila in the drinks. Mrs. Browningwell was my Spanish teacher for several years of my schooling and we have a history. Yesterday was maybe the twentieth time I have gotten her shit-faced drunk and sent her back to the church. This time with a drunk’s nasty garlic breath.

A humble man seeks his pleasures as they find him.

I went out to the drive to welcome the ladies when they arrived. “Welcome to the Johnson family ranch, ladies,” I said. “Come on in and make yourselves to home.”

“Well, well well,” Leticia said, sarcasm dripping off each well. “Everyone get a good look at Mooner here, friends. God will be striking him down quite soon I think. Let’s hurry inside for some tea before the storm clouds move in.”

I have been somewhat sacrilegious lately in some folks eyes and I’ve caught some hell for it. When politicians use their supposed religious beliefs to beat and batter already oppressed people, I find myself thatwise moody. The word is “thatwise” right? The opposite of otherwise?

But I was in a fiesty mood yesterday afternoon so I said back, “Oh, Letecia Browningwell, you silver fox you. Why don’t you ditch that boring old preacher so you and I can make a run together. I’ve been in love with you ever since I was in seventh grade, and you a handsome young woman.”

The other ladies all giggled at that remark, so I thought to add, “You know you want me. How about I change my sheets and get the tazer gun charged up?”

Anyway, by dinnertime Mother was wearing a buzz and forgot to put on her tact. “You two listen here. You have absolutely no idea the pain I suffer at your hands, the indignations that I quietly endure because you two are queer.”

I told you the Baptists like to call gays queer.

“How do you think it makes me feel when everyone at church knows that my daughter is a homo (gulp) sexual, and now she is married to my (another, larger gulp with the first blobs of tears welling in the corners of her eyes) my… (gulp, gulp, deep shuddering) my heretical, embarrassing son’s third ex-wife?” This was followed by more gulps, whimpers and at last a big sniveling of Mother’s now snot-laden nose. “The third of ten ex-wives.”

My mother took a second to adjust the fitting of her cross, I guess it was hurting her wrists and ankles, then continued with, “Don’t you children ever think about how your choices effect me? I’m your mother.”

Let me interrupt the regularly-scheduled program here to make an announcement. My dear mother is not a bad person in the classic sense of bad people. She doesn’t rape or maim or kill or steal or lie to improve her own lot in life. She is actually kind hearted, honest and hard working. What my mother is though, is the worst kind of bad I think there is.

Mother is a blind follower. A person who does evil out of their acceptances of another’s preachings or dogma. My mother is one of the blind followers who believe things “just because”[.]

Mother is one of those people who have blind faith in something and refuses to be stirred by reason, logic, humanity or facts. Mother is an evangelical Christian and believes any fucking thing that Pastor Browningwell tells her to believe.

That, dear friends, is a belief system that mirrors—and precisely so—the thinking of Nazi supporters in the middle of last century. Millions of Germans persecuted millions of Jews and gays and communists in their blind faith of Adolf Hitler. Today’s Modern American Evangelical Christians are doing exactly the same things in their blind faith.

Don’t believe me? Go do some research and listen to or read some of Hitler and his cronies speeches on the subject of those groups. “Aberrations, mutants, evil, Devil’s workers” are all names and terms used in the 1930′s and 1940′s to describe the named abused groups. Those people were blamed for what was wrong with Germany the same as the Republican Christian right blames them now.

And guys, the rhetoric is getting the ratchet treatment now just as it was back then. Go listen to Rick Perry’s Iowa TV commercial and then tell me I’m wrong. Listen, if you can stomach it, to some of Michele Bachmann’s comments on the subjects. The strength of accusations is growing.

So again, I ask the Republicans to stop this bullshit.

Which reminds me. As you all know, the Squirt has been afflicted by three infections at once. Two broken-tooth abscesses now removed, a single infected anal gland and a hurt tooter. She hasn’t been what you would call sick, but she hasn’t been her usual chipper self. She’s been spending more time sitting than running and I’ve caught her napping often. So I bought my book, Full Rising Mooner, and put it on her Kindle so that she could read it.

She has agreed to do a book review when she finishes. She can’t believe that Clarion gave me four of five stars because, as only Squirt could say it, “Sie, Mooner, sind ein Arschloch.“

I guess that in the Squirt’s eyes assholes can’t get four of five stars from Clarion, and that reminds me of something else.

Hey, all of you foreign fuckers who come here every day to steal my shit—yea you, shitheads, you know who you are. Can you man-up just a little bit, and compensate me a touch for all of the content you steal from me, by purchasing my book. Click over there ====}}}} and link-up and buy one. It’s the right thing to do. The book is full of content you can steal, and I won’t be pissed at you if you buy the book.

OK, I’ve got errands to run and Carta Blanca beers to drink after. Manana, y’all.

Tags: Republican Asswipes
Posted in FullRisingMooner, gayrights, Squirt | 12 Comments »

Forgive Me Father For I Have Screwed The Pooch- A Christmas Story

Monday, December 12th, 2011

So. It’s Monday and I’m already crazy with chores and errands enough to last the week. I get extra nuts this time of the year because it’s a tough time for me. OK, let’s back up. For starters, I said, “I’m already nuts,” back there a couple sentences ago, like I had just become nuts early this morning and it surprised me. Not the case. What I should have said is this, “Since I awaken each day already nutty as a fruitcake, the loads of errands and chores heaped upon my strong shoulders by others has made me extra- nutty as a giant fruitcake.”

Christmas is a tough time for me, and most especially this year. Christmas in and of its very self holds the cruxes of my consternations this time of year. I have deep-rooted difficulties with Christmas and all things Christmassy. It’s a love/hate dealie and you know how I hate those fucking dealies, which thought gives me a perfect analogy that will fully-explain my senses on Christmas. Ready?

Here goes. I have the same love/hate relationship with Christmas as I do with Gram. Same as the leathered old gasbag warms my heart while simultaneously chilling my sensibilities, Christmas can heat my heart cockles and chill me to the bone with dread.

On the positive side, I was raised Christian and the Baptist variety at that. For Baptists, the entire fucking year’s church activities are focused on the rousing, thunderous conclusions presented on the day we celebrate the virginal birthing of the one, the only… Jesus Christ.

Wait. I might should have said, “The One, The Only,” you know all caps.

All year long, Baptists tout the future glad tidings about Jesus’ birthday as if His second coming with be coordinated to the same date as his first coming. Even though the December 25^th date is arbitrary and totally made-up. That date was selected by big business-directed political fuckballs to boost end-of-year sales.

Which reminds me of a thought I have had ever since the days I reached puberty. As I said, I was raised Baptist and was fully under the iron fist of Baptist dogma until I was quite unceremoniously raped by my Baptist Deacon Boy Scout Leader. Mother dragged my ass, and Sister’s too, to the church every fucking time they opened the doors. Sunday morning, Sunday night, Wednesday evenings and summers for Vacation Bible School.

In Sunday School class—that’s what Baptists call the weekly brain-washing they do to their children every Sunday before morning service—I enjoyed all of the fantastic stories about giant’s slayings and lions’ dens and shit. But I hated all of the preaching that went with it. I especially didn’t cotton to the teachers telling me to “don’t do this” and “don’t do that”[.]

When I was maybe ten, and it might have been eleven, I had a lady Sunday School teacher. Can’t remember her name, but I do remember her as scary looking. I was already growing faster than everybody else so I was a big kid. But this woman was huge. Wait, her name was Mrs. Frieze. Wow. Wow, wow, and wow again! How the fuck did I remember that, and wait until you connect the appropriateness of her name.

Mrs. Frieze had an only son who was, if memory further serves me, in his late twenties. Her son had left the Baptist church to join the Catholics as a priest. Since all Baptists believe that the Catholics are heathens and not real Christians, everybody in the whole church knew why that “young Frieze boy” had become a priest.

“Frieze boy’s a homosexual. Poor Mrs. Frieze, only son done turned queer,” was the mantra on the issue.

Mrs. Frieze was treated with the same care and feeding as all the other unfortunate women at our church. Widows and in particular war widows, women who lost a child and divorced women who were divorced because their husbands were scum, and then women with family in jail were all afforded special treatment by the members of a Baptist church.

Mrs. Frieze had a Mr. Frieze, a smallish man to his wife’s bigness, and no deaths of jailings of close relatives. But Mrs. Frieze had suffered a fate far worse than those. Her son had turned into a homosexual AND he’s become heathen-more and joined the Catholics, and become a priest at that! What worse fate could God enforce a woman to endure?

Anyway, Mrs. Frieze was my Sunday School teacher and I now think she was placed with the ten-to-thirteen year old boys because her son had become a queer. That’s what most Baptists of my church called him, “Queer.” Said with a sneer and as if there was a taste of shit in the mouth. I have always been unsettled by the word queer. I’ll need to talk to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson about that.

As our teacher, Mrs. Frieze was determined to be one, a dutiful teacher and therefore she would brow beat the lessons into us. She would rise to her full height and get into our faces as we sat in our uncomfortable metal chairs when she drove home her points about the various things we could do that would send us, and I’ll quote Mrs. Frieze here when she often said, “You’ll go to hell, straight to hell and do not collect $200.”

The “$200” part was funny for maybe the first hundred times I heard it.

This one Sunday she decided to lecture us boys on which sins would cause us to become a queer. What I remember her telling us as reasons were if we didn’t get active in sports, if we played with dolls, if we spoke like a girl and, of course, if we masturbated. Having had a wet dream but not yet connected the dots, I asked what masturbating was. I remember a quite disjointed description and one that would likely be pretty fucking hilarious if I could replace it to words at this time. All I do remember is that I got the gist, so immediately after church was over and I was returned by Mother to the house, I attempted to use the lesson learned.

I rubbed and rubbed my pecker with my dry and chafed hands and ended with a glorious yet somewhat scary conclusion, and squirted onto the rug in front of the bathroom sink. As a young boy, I made but a perfunctory attempt to clean my residues, a mistake I later regretted.

Then all that week I had wet dreams. I connected my sin of beating-off with the wet dreams and I went to the library and read up on wet dreams and masturbation. What I discovered is that both are normal, and the wet dreams impossible for a boy to avoid UNLESS he eases the pressure of his ejaculate-filled system by masturbating. I practiced masturbating for several months using socks and vibrators and finally my beloved Ivory soap.

And then I got to thinking about Jesus.

Me thinking about Jesus and all things Jesus has caused many of life’s most difficult times on me. Wondering about if Jesus masturbated with a dry hand, a soft woolen sock or with spit was likely the pivotal time of my Christianity.

This subject was a tough one for me, a burden that was heavy on my heart. In Sunday School this one morning, and I think it was Easter morning, Mrs. Frieze was talking all about redemption and Jesus coming back from the dead and rolling the heavy stone from in front of His grave all by Himself—a job requiring at least fifteen men not Son’s of God. She was telling us about how our souls would be saved and we could avoid burning in hell if we would just, blah, blah and blah.

But me, I had a one-tracked mind and having a one-tracked mind is highly unusual for me. So when Mrs. Frieze took a breath in the middle of her lecture, I blurted out, “Mrs. Frieze, do you think Jesus masturbated or do you think he just evacuated his ejaculates with wet dreams? I mean, his family was poor and they likely didn’t have a washing machine and I just know he only had one set of sheets for his bed. I know I don’t like sleeping on crusty sheets, so I’m thinking Jesus masturbated.”

I got a stunned look I took for approval, so I went on. “Do you think He used Ivory soap?”

OK, I’m way distracted from my point. I like Christmas because of the actual idea of Peace on Earth, Goodwill Towards All Men. What I really do not like is what Christians have allowed to happen to it. To sum up my thoughts let me point to the American Family Association who is boycotting any business that doesn’t specifically use Christmas as the slogan for sales.

Are you fucking kidding me? These “Christians” don’t like it when a company DOESN’T employ crass commercialism of Christ’s birth to make profits? They only want you to buy from companies that do?

I’m not pissed enough to say fuck Christmas, but I have decided to only shop where I don’t feel the merchant over commercializes the holiday. Limiting options, but options.

Which reminds me. The Squirt’s oral extractions went well and she feels much better. I’ll post some happy pics of her whenever I can figure out how to take good pictures. So far each one I take makes her look like a ball of brown fur in a film noir. She won’t let me post anything without her approval, and chastised much as Reckmonster did for the pic of her I put up.

Oh well, ces’t la vie and fuck it. I’ve got work to do and Carta Blanca beers to drink. Manana, y’all.

PS- Please consider the purchase of my book, Full Rising Mooner. It got a real live actual four-of-five stars review by Clarion. You can get it in paper form or for your Kindle. Kindle’s a better deal. Just click over there +++}}}} to the linksters I have provided for your convenience.

Posted in Carta Blanca Beer, FullRisingMooner, gayrights, Religion | 10 Comments »

Queen Lizzie La Queefa- Another Camel Toe Dream; Mooner’s Review Good

Thursday, December 8th, 2011

So. Ugh says it best for me this morning. Ugh, again, and with gusto. I should be very happy about all things Mooner Johnson, but I find myself in an Ughly mood. Normal folks will likely look at me and shake their heads as they walk as far away from me as possible, and quickly walking at that.

But I’m not normal—except in penis size, number of human organs and male appetites—so I’m in an Ughly mood.

The sources of my Ughly mood are thus, and such. Number one, my first what you would call “Third-party, professional book review” came in yesterday, and it turned out to be way, way better than I expected or deserved, either one. I got four of five stars, and the reviewer made honest criticisms as well as pointing out good stuff. I know I have bias on this dealie, but it seemed fair and balanced to me.

I went to Clarion’s website because I wanted to check the voracity of their reviews. After reading it, my crazy brain started worrying that every Clarion review was four or five stars and that my pride would have been quite false. What I discovered is that no, most of Clarion’s reviews are far less than four stars and, in fact, the vast majority have no stars at all. The starless nature of a review, I discovered with further investigations, comes from the author’s request to not publish the stars with the review.

Since I’m assuming that most authors would want four or five-stars of award to be published, I choose to think that most of those un-starred reviews are at least less than four-stars jobbies. OK, wait. That last sentence should have said “not-starred” along with “…at least fewer than four-stars”[.]

Net results- I’m a very happy and proud camper that my book was well received by Clarion, and this should enough to brighten even the darkest of moods. But, alas, not so.

See, I have been wanting to tell you the heart-wrenching story of Rick Perry’s request for a sex change operation since before I left for Floriduh last week. My pet ostrich has deep emotional needs that are consuming my full measure of empathy. Yet my own emotional needs have been placed, by me, ahead of his. And will be done so again today. Squirt says that’s because I’m an asshole.

Once more, I am placing my needs ahead of those needs of my family and loved ones. Maybe I am an asshole.

It’s a wonder I don’t have trouble maintaining relationships, and let me admit it here, and freely too, I am an asshole.

I know that ignoring Ricky’s needs is a sure sign of my bad parenting. I get that. But my giant bird’s desire to be a woman will still be there long after my memory of last night’s dream is just so many dead brain cells, said dream the main topic herein. I will say that I called my vet—Doctor May over to Crossings Animal Clinic—and he might still be laughing.

Mother told me that she thinks I’m foolish to even consider paying for the numerous operations required to turn a bird man into a woman. Actually, what she said was, “Oh, for God’s sweet sakes, Mooner. How can you even consider a purposeful action that is forbidden in the Bible? It’s bad enough when a mother bears a child who accidentally becomes a homosexual child. But to do it on purpose…”

At that point my mother stopped talking and got this horrified look to her face. “Mooner Einstein Johnson! You WILL NOT write about this on that blasphemous trashy website of yours!!!”

Deep, gasping and heaving of maternal unit’s martyred lungs followed by a series of “Uh’s and ah’s” and then, “Oh, sweet Jesus in heaven. How can I ever look Pastor Browningwell in the face again?”

“Who gives a shit?” thought but unspoken by me.

Anyway, the main subject of today’s postings deal neither with the prejudice of my pride of having authored a four-stars novel containing over four-hundred pages, nor shall we dwell upon the deeply emotional needs of Rick Perry. Nope, today we’re talking about camel toes and specifically, last night’s camel toe dream.

I’m certain what prompted this particular camel toe dream was my having checked the “top searches” dealie on my website’s Amin page yesterday. As usual, the top five ways people, and likely the searchbots that frequent my place, find me is by typing something containing the words “camel toe”[.] Chelsea Handler’s camel toe, Sarah Palin and Queen Elizabeth’s camel toes, Dr. Marcus Bachmann’s camel toe, and so on.

People from all around the globe come to my place every day, and in droves, to catch the camel toe action here to Loonyland. And they have to be disappointed since I’m too stupid to even be able to post a fucking picture of my favorite vaginal tootsies. Those people come back repeatedly and they never comment. But many stay and read page after page of my shit.

I think they steal my trashy prose and then republish it as their own. I’m guessing that what I write here is far more interesting when translated into Estonian. Or fucking Hindi. Have you ever seen written Hindi?

So, as I lay down to go to sleep last night, my head was full of pride for my Clarion review, and my heart was full of empathetic concern for my birdie. OK, and my bloodstream was full of something approaching a dozen Carta Blancas drunk during the day, six long drags of Streaker Jones’ newest ganga hybrid, and a triple dosing of Gram’s celebratory potion she calls “Put tha kids ta bed, baby, we’s gonna party”[.]

My bed has a wintertime covering of sheets—Egyptian of cotton origins and 600 thread counts of middle names—and a goose down comforter that sits six-inches tall when fluffed full of air. The sheets are for me, as I sleep nekid and with just the sheets year-round, and the comforter is for the animals. The sleeping arrangements change somewhat as Summer’s heat shifts to a Winter freeze.

Everybody jumps up onto the bed before me at bedtime and the dogs jump and skitter around like kids on a playground while the fucking cat sits in the middle of my pillow keeping watch. When it’s just sheets on the bed, Squirt and Yoda slip and slide around the big bed, almost skating on the sleek, slick cotton covers. With the comforter in place, it’s more like two bunny rabbits frolicking in fresh snowdrifts. They hop and bounce through the thick down piles as they chase each other around.

While this frivolity unfolds, I’m brushing my teeth and shoving my night guard into my mouth. I’ll finish and head to bed and I always say, “OK, rug rats, line ‘em up.” The two puppies race to the head of the bed and sit at attention on the visitor’s pillow, and Honor slightly moves her ass only what’s required to uncover a patch of my pillow just large enough for me to place my head.

I roll the comforter off my half of bed, lay down, and then say, and always say, “OK, kids, assume your positions.”

On freezing nights this means that Squirt lays (lies?) next to me at the hip not on my crotch, and Yoda curls into a tight ball in my armpit against my side. I then cover the two puppies with comforter, making little doggy cocoons. Honor waits for all of this to unfold and when the rest of us settle for sleep, my fucking cat wraps herself around my neck into whatever position will most bother me.

The previously-detailed all unfolded as usual last night excepting for two things. The first being my state of altered consciousness, previously mentioned, and a strange chill I felt just before drifting off. I think all of the silly bullshit Squatlo has caused with his hurt feelings over his cold house had some sort of negative influence on me But I felt chilled and pulled some of the comforter over me, my intentions to warm a touch and then toss the down blanket before sleep.

Good intentions and all of that aside, I fell asleep under the fucking comforter.

Those of you with ADHD or ADD will understand when I speak of what I call “the confluence of multiple influential thought streams on dream contents”[.] That would be when my ADHD-addled brain patterns take actual awake thoughts and turns them into dream scenarios. Therefore, and Ipso Facto if ever Ipso had a fucking fact, I had a camel toe dream. A camel toe dream that even I am willing to call weird.

Remember the AIDS Quilt from a few years ago, you know, the one where loved ones of AIDS patients sewed patches into a big quilt, which traveled the country? It was beautiful in both sentiments and art. I remember boo-hooing like a school girl when I saw it.

Well, this dream had a quilt, a camel toe quilt consisting of hundreds of actual live dromedary tootsies tacked to my goose down comforter. Rows of them and each clipped and pruned just as I remember them from previous camel toe dreams. As a connoisseur of ladies’ pocket meats, I can distinguish them all.

I was lying on this quilt. OK, I was luxuriating on this quilt. I rolled gingerly so as to not injure, I touched and I never touch in these dreams, and I actually kissed and caressed as I admired plump mounds with only occasional tufts of bushy crowns. I spoke to them as if they were attached to their keepers. “Oh hey, Chelsea, how’s it hanging, girl?” I said to Chelsea Handler’s incredibly luscious toe.

Gram and the dogs watch the Chelsea Lately TV show each night and the girls think Ms. Handler needs a new stylist. “She looks like a man dresses her,” is my Gram’s assessment. This from a crabby old bag of bones that would look like a scarecrow in a Chanel gown.

I tell you that bit of info as again, confluence of multiple influential thought streams on dream contents, I added, “Chelse, Gram and Squirt want you to think about getting someone new to dress you. They think you look silly most times.”

When I said that, Chelsea’s camel toe queefed me. That’s right, I caught a vaginal fart right in my face. It was light and airy and smelled of lavender soap, but Chelsea Handler’s camel toe farted in my face. It went, “pfft.” Small “p” pfft and not a Pfft.

I moved on.

Next I encountered Queen Elizabeth, who was in a deep conversation with Demi Moore. The Monarch was telling Ms. Moore that she was too skinny. Since I agreed with Her Royal Highness’s assessments, I said, “I agree with Her Majesty, Demi. I can’t quite see bones sticking out of your lady package, but you’re starting to look like a boy down there. You need to plump up.”

Demi queefed me, and then the Queen followed suit. “Pfft,” from the Queen and a, “pfft,” from Demi. I detected rose water from Lizzy and I think honeysuckle from Ms. Moore. Then suddenly, like a room full of wind-up false teeth toys chattering in chorus, the entire patchwork quilt of camel toes was queefing at me. Not all smelled of flowered perfumes and now all were Pffts, and PFFT’s even.

I rolled around and broke out into a terrible sweat, and no matter how far I rolled I never could roll off of queefing camel toes.

I awoke with a start with the Squirt sitting on my chest and nudging my chin with her snout. “Mooner, wake the fuck up. You’re having a nightmare.”

I was laying under the comforter, sweating like a pig and breathing in gasps. “Holy shit, little lady, I was just attacked by a meadow full of pastoral camel toes.”

“Nope,” Squirt told me. “Your were having drug and sweat dreams because you forgot to uncover yourself, and you just farted a sweet bean tamale fart that even burned the fucking cat’s eyes.”

Crap. I just hit 2,000 words. Manana, y’all.

Posted in ADHD, Camel Toe, Carta Blanca Beer, FullRisingMooner, gayrights | 13 Comments »

Archive for the ‘gayrights’ Category

Southern Baptists Look For New Name; Mooner Suggests: “Ignorant Bigot Asshole Baptists”

Mooner Johnson- An Asshole By Any Other Name

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

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

Final Words On Catholicism; How About That Wisconsin Diocese?

Read At Your Own Risk; Mooner’s Confusion Is Confused

Mooner Panders To Gay Readers; No Word From The Catholics

Mooner Mucks-Up The Bachelor; Baptists Vs Catholics

Good To Be Gay On Bloggie Roller; Fuck Rick Santorum

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

Heart And Soul; Rick Perry Still A Prick

Mooner’s State Of The Union Address; Corps Are Not Humans, Dumbass

Bookstore Bingo; Readjusting To Prick Perry’s Return

Mooner Takes-On Barnes And Noble; A Pope Story

Overlord Mooner: Quincy Names Mooner Overlord Award Winner

A Mooner Mention: Check Out Good To Be Gay

Mooner’s 2012 Wish List; Fuck Rick Perry

Hitler Bashed Gays Too; Think, Republicans, Please Think

Forgive Me Father For I Have Screwed The Pooch- A Christmas Story

Queen Lizzie La Queefa- Another Camel Toe Dream; Mooner’s Review Good

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