Archive for the ‘gayrights’ Category

Is That A Set Of Eights In Your Pocket?; Life Lessons From Actual Life

Tuesday, January 17th, 2017

So. Having admitted that I cannot stop writing my thoughts and publishing them to the pages herein, and, likewise, admitting that those same actions are pertinent to my long term positive mental health, I find myself woefully underperforming, said and same efforts causing both consternations—consternations herein used to mean two of its synonyms, “alarms and worries”—and, additionally, backups in the pipeline of subjects which, with consternations, I wish to confer with you. In real world terms of analogy, it’s like having the constipation only a two-pound wedge of cheddar cheese can create when packed into the last several feet of your colon, that blocking the exit of two dozen sweet bean tamales slathered in my Gram’s habanero salsa.

Something’s gotta give.

Having said that, just how many synonyms does consternations have? It’s like saying you have the dreaded ADD and having the uninformed ask you, they’ll say something like, “You don’t act like my neighbor’s kid. That little shit can’t sit still for ten seconds.” Then you spend a couple hours in attempted educations to the subject only to be ignored for the efforts.

Like Wednesday. Before my mental backups and consternations explode in a conflagrated mash of gibberish, mayhaps some background might be required, so allow me to produce some. As I have decided to spend more time playing poker as a source of income, I’ve taken to studying the endeavor by enrolling in courses taught by the one poker teacher I trust. So as not to influence other poker players I’ll not say who this teacher is. I will say that since starting the classwork sixty days ago, I’ve almost doubled my hourly win rate. As your win rate is the most logical measure of financial success as a player that is a good thing, and, likewise, testament to the coach.

As practicing is a major part of any performance-based education, I decided to go over to the Choctaw Casino and enter a couple WSOP Circuit events after a lesson on slow playing big hands to trap an opponent. That casino is an hour-and-a-half from here rather than the half-hour trip to my new home casino, Winstar. I left Wednesday at 9:30 am after I had gone to the gym, shit/showered/shaved, insured the dogs were happily boarded, and packed. As the dogs are never happily boarded, I’ve just told the first lie of my day assuming we ignore the one where I said “Good morning” to the Squirt when she stomped on my full bladder to awaken me at six am.

“Wake up, shithead,” she told me as she did her morning ritual organ stomp from bladder-to-spleen-to-liver. “It’s three minutes after six and I’m starving!”

This daily exercise typically ends with her sitting on my chest and breathing morning dog breath in my face. Her fresh breath is maggot-gagging and in the morning it can peel paint, likely the why answer for this daily program.

“They eat dog meat in Manilla, you know. I can buy you a ticket to the Philippines that fast.”

My threat must have sounded more like a love poem because it got me a smelly face slurp. Maybe I need to get a face tattoo so I can get some respect.

I left at 9:30 Wednesday because the event started at noon. As I was driving my Chevy SS, I managed to trim three-minutes-twenty-seven-seconds off the estimated trip time, and arrived exhilarated from accelerating across southern Oklahomaburg. The adrenaline rush that comes from highway passing a Prius—dropping down two gears with a mash of the right foot—in less than three seconds, is almost more than I can stand. To hear that LS-3 burn a full gallon of fuel in a rush from 65 to 90 MPH, to feel the car’s body jump with brute strength…

I arrived at Choctaw, early, checked-in for my room, then went to the tournament area to sign up for the Mega Stack event. Like big motors, mega stack events have special drawing power, so this tournament had 1,096 entries. And like providing the petrol for a big motor, keeping your body and mind fueled for the grind of one of these events is a challenge. We started at noon, and I was knocked out at 1:00 am in, effectively, 115th place, a finish that was in the money but a profiting of something like $7.68 per hour of play. While I was happy to have cashed, I was disappointed to have not lasted longer.

I had stuffed some energy bars in my backpack to help me keep up with the hours played and ended sharing with my tablemates, information pertinent to the game but not to my point. I also packed my several medications which I whipped out at 4:00 pm, my ritualized medication schedule.

“Damn, old man, that’s quite a pharmacy you’ve got there!”

This from one of the young guys you can see playing on TV as he is a successful player who travels the circuits. During this day, I played with six guys you see on TV and one of the game’s greats, TJ Cloutier. TJ is still a strong player well into his seventies and is a truly fine man. As his home casino is also the Winstar, I see him a couple times a week.

“What’s all that stuff for?” the young gun player asked as I swallowed the entire fistful of pills with one swallow.

“Well,” I started, taking the next day’s assortment from my blue plastic four o’clock pill dispensary, “these two are for the side effects of having had routine visits with The Great Radiator for my prostate cancer, this one here is to replace the minerals that the first two deplete in order to work, and this one here—the red one—is because I’m crazy. The red one is speed for my ADD.”

Kid looked at me like I’d told him I’m a gender transplant. We played a few hands with him watching me from the corners of his eyes and I could tell he was formulating a question.

“Spit it out, son. You aren’t experienced enough to hurt my feelings, so just ask your question.”

“You don’t act like my neighbor’s kid. That little shit can’t sit still for more than ten seconds. You’re driving me crazy, but you seem to sit still OK. You don’t have ADD, I think that’s your excuse to be a gigantic pain in my ass.”

I peeked at my next hand of cards, took my usual four-and-a-half seconds to ponder their playabilities, and folded.

“You, young man, suffer from the misconception that ADD and ADHD are the same, precise thing, and they are not. Allow me to elucidate for your edifications.”

And I did. For the next fifty-five minutes I described the various types of ADD, how they differ, how they affect the sufferer, and gave many examples. His education was cut short when I knocked him out of the tournament where I smooth-called a flopped set of eights through the turn, he hit top two pairs on the river and I called his all-in bet. He flipped his hand over with youthful exuberance and declared, “Sorry, old man.”

As he prepared to scoot the pot his way, I laid my two cards face down, tipped them over while still back-to-face to show the Eight of Hearts. Then I took the index finger of my right hand and tapped them apart to reveal the Eight of Spades to match the eight on the board.

The guy’s happy face did that slow melt to terror we’ve all seen when a person realizes they’ve misread an important situation. He looked at the tabled cards then at me, back to the cards and then again at me.

“What the fuck?” he asked. “How could you slow play a set with the flush draw on the board?”

“Uh,” I mumbled as I raked and stacked his entire cache of chips, “I was distracted?”

He stood tableside after getting knocked out staring google-eyed at his bounty sitting in front of me. When we finished the next hand of play, he said to me, he went, “You sonofabitch. You set me up!”

Some of these young guys are brilliant players, people with the skills to figure out even the most complex situations. Which said, brings me back to my point.

I want to write more and I need to write more. But with my schooling and practicing and spending the required time to properly parent two precocious puppies, my decision is often to write, or to sleep. If you’d ever witnessed my countenance while sleep deprived, you too would vote for sleep.

But there should be a gap between this poker course and the next, and I intend to fill it with more scribblings. So why don’t we all cheer a hearty “Fuck Walmart!” and plan what to do in the stead of Friday’s inauguration.



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Pickled Peckers; An Atheist’s Prayer

Saturday, May 7th, 2016

So. I’d promised a Johnson Family update some weeks past, yet, as of this date I’ve been unable to string enough cogent thoughts together re: said family to create writings that might provide any useful information, thereof. Maybe that should have been, or better said, “…provide useful information, thereabout.” And now, having spent the last eight minutes cogitating over the proper placement of commas in that last sentence, I find myself wondering if I have enough mental alacrities to cogently speak to any subject.

OK, do you speak cogently “to”, “of” or “about” a subject? And while we’re stopped in grammatical reflections, allow me to pre-apologize for my ADD.

With alacrities used herein to mean quicknesses, take, for example, last names. I’ve been forgetting people’s names and mostly their surnames. The worst memory faults are coming with last names of people with simpler first names. Like Bob, or Jim, or Barbara. Or Anna. Yesterday I was speaking with this nice lesbian couple over to the line to purchase Powerball tickets at the Chevron station. I was maybe third from the back of the line and they were in front of me. As the line was slow moving, and I’d overheard the nice ladies talking about their pending wedding, I interjected myself into their conversation.

I caught that they are from Austin, visiting Santa Fe as a sort of pre-honeymoon scouting trip, and that they were having difficulties identifying an Austin venue for the actual wedding. Me, always the helpful sort even when unasked, inserted myself into their conversation.

“Pardon my interruption, ladies, but my sister and her woman were married out to the dock at our place there to Austin. Anna did all the party planning and I bet she’d be willing to help.”

The one woman looked at me like I’d just shit on her head, but the second quickly moved between us and said to me, she says, “It would be really helpful to speak with someone who knows the town. We just moved to Austin and are yet unfamiliar. We have joined the local community, but haven’t made friends yet.”

“Well,” I started, “Anna’s a big wig with the Austin Lesbian Club, or whatever it is they call the lesbian confab that meets on a Thursday over to Guerro’s Taco Bar, and she can help you with that as well.”

That caught the interest of the other lady, and she says to me, she asks, “Anna who? What’s Anna’s last name?”

“Ah, uh, ah…” I was flummoxed.

Took me maybe thirty seconds to say, “Oh yea, it’s Johnson. Anna Johnson.”

Now, the new readers hereof might not think this such a big memory thingie, but it actually is. See, Anna was born Anna Johnson. Then she married me—the third of ten suffragettes—and divorced me to marry my sister, Sister. Having completed the surname trifecta, Anna Johnson-Johnson-Johnson is all Johnsoned up, factual information that should make the remembrance of her name a simple mental task.

I can’t figure what it is that’s causing these lapses of synapsis. Is it simply the process of aging and my olderating? Did The Great Radiator alter my brain functions as well as those of my alimentary tracts? Worse of all, might I be getting the starts of a genetic dementia passed from Mother to me?

OK, let’s stop for a second. I know with certainties that the alimentary tract involves the processing of solid wastes in our bodies. Is our urinary system also alimentary, or is it considered to be a totally separate tracting? Me, for my part, I consider that since both liquids and solids, and solids containing liquids, enter all through our mouths, then the two systems are conjoined at least from the start. A well-oiled digestive tract will remove the liquids to be used elsewhere then eliminated through the bladder, so I get that there are two separate spigots as terminus. But, does having differing last stops mean separatenesses in total?

It’s like a subway system to me. Two guys get on the train together at Broadway—one guy the swimming coach and the other is executive chef for the Dean of Women and both from over to Columbia University—and travel over to the Greenwich Village area, whereat the swim coach transfers to a train to Yonkers and the other guy keeps on to New Jersey. In comparison to the alimentary track analogicals, first guy’s a liquid rider and the second a solid. Both start at the same entrance, one—while still inside the hidden chambers and transportations of the system—exits the initial tracks to head to a not that unpleasant bedroom community, and the other, Mr. Solids, travels all the way to the end of the original tracks and into the shitter.

What I do know is that my personal solid and liquid waste systems have been fucked into dysfunctionalities since contracting the dreaded prostate cancer and having endured the attendant multiple visitations to The Great Radiator. Hell, one side effect is that sometimes when an urge to purge hits, and the hitting is with significance, I know I’d best sit for relief, as my body’s subway system sends conflicting signals to the tracts. You know, the sign says, “Yonkers,” but travels instead to Paramus.

Likewise, I can say with purity of heart that the occasional urgencies plagued upon the middle of my body will affect my mental stabilities and alacrity of thought with great effects.

Do not stand, or otherwise tarry, between me and a bathroom when an urge strikes. I’ll run your ass right on over and not stop to apologize. I’ll seek you later to make amends, but I’ll not stop, or even attempt a, “So sorry,” over my shoulder.

Anyway, having found myself with difficulties rememberating the last name of an ex-wife—said ex having my same lastie, and thrice times at that—it has dawned on me that maybe I’ve never been good with names. I can remember the color of the stains on the edge-worn white panties Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson wore the first time I personally removed them from her flanks (green from the grass in which she squiggled), and the first two words Sammie said when I eagerly placed my face where panties had formerly resided (“That tickles,”), and her first words after that first sexing (“Interesting,”).

But I can’t remember my own last name when it sits behind my third ex-wife’s first.

Ugh. Total fucking ugh! What’s next? What part of me will show its deteriorations next? Eyesight weakening, memory fading, prostate withered like plum to prune,  knees aching with Morning’s rise.

“Dear God, please don’t let it be my pecker. Please, pretty please. I swear I’ll make better use of it if you’ll just let me use it. Amen.”

So, while it’s still working, let’s all fuck Walmart with my pecker!


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Is That A Clitorical Question Or Do You Just Want To Touch Me? Time Capsules Of The Infirm

Friday, April 15th, 2016

So. I’m sitting here this glorious morning waiting for the sun to get in just the right position for the dogs and I to sunbake. Our pine trees have grown so much that we have but two windows of opportunity each day. Me, I don’t like sitting in the sun, but the Squirt has been Jonesing for some sunbathing. It’s been overcast here to Santa Fe for a few days and my tiny dog who worships the Sun’s rays has been bitching.
“Let’s move to Arizona, shithead. These cold winters and dreary days are getting to me. Besides, the Sun’s heat helps ease the pain in my back. You don’t want me down in the back again, now do you?”
Squirt can be a persuasive little pest. She got paralyzed with pain a few weeks back, and I’ve not been the same since. She doesn’t know it but I’d do anything for her, including moving to Arizona. Really. Fucking Arizona.
“Stop your bitching, little lady. You couldn’t get me to move to Arizona with shackles and armed guards.”
Squirt looked me in the eye and said to me, she clearly elucidated, “You already heard that emergency vet tell us that cold will make my old bones hurt worse. We’ll see your posture when it gets to the point where you choose between moving us to a warmer place, or feeding me my bottle of pills. I won’t live with you wiping my ass.”
I long ago prepared a bottle of “Final Day” pills for each of us three. As a semi-packrat, I’ve never thrown any leftover medications away since I avoided the draft way back to the sixties. While I’ll not commit a Federal offense on the pages herein, I will say that I have distributed thirty-six giant “Yellow Jacket” amphetamine capsules into the death caches. One of our bottles—I can’t remember which—has a few Phenobarbitals from back to when I had sleeping problems in 1968. Taking enough speed to keep a trucker awake for a non-stop, cross-country haul can effect a person’s sleep patterns. All sorts of shit totaling either 549 or 627 total pills. The wide variance in those amounts of pills is due, likely, to the quantity of Carta Blanca consumed as we counted pills going into each of the three bottles.
Maybe I should pull the Phenobeenies. If memory serves, they were sort of like Quaaludes except for more powerful. Then, again, my memory hasn’t been serving me too well of recent.
“Why do you have a quart jar and we have those tiny pill bottles? I want to be absolutely certain I die when I take mine. I want a bigger bottle!”
“Looka here, Squirty girl, you weigh eleven pounds with a full belly. Me, well I’m approximately nineteen times your weight and have a system pre-disposed with tolerances to a few of these drugs. Don’t worry, I’mma make sure you get a lethal dose. When your time comes, the last thing I can deal with is a near miss.”
Talking about our Final Days pills has me realizing that all these medications are time capsules of my life. The smelly old Penicillin pills mark my loss of virginity, the speed my decision to flight rather than fight a war that was just plain wrong even though some of the best men I know chose to go. There’s Phenergan from when Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson had a bout with nausea that wouldn’t stop, pain meds from our family’s tooth issues, antibiotics of every sort for every infection three kids, ten wives, four dogs and I ever had.
Which reminds me. The state of our American Republican Party is hilarious. Establishment Republitards are so freaked about the Trumpster that they are supporting Teddy Cruz. Self-same Teddy who could be murdered in plain sight on the Senate floor and no witness would come forward to aid in the killer’s ID. Sister Lindsey Graham must have had a near terminal case of the vapors when he found himself a Cruz surrogate the first time.
And saying that reminds me of a recent Squatlo posting. Seems his Tennessee General Assholembly has passed a born-gender bathroom law akin to too many other states. You know the laws—born a boy, use the Boy’s Room. Those laws. Me, having spent way too much time thinking about the application of such laws, I had had a discussion with the Squirt the night before Squattie posted his story about the Vol State’s legislature. Having already pre-thought the issue I posted a comment, repeated herewith. Hereafter, maybe. OK, maybe herein.
I had seen a report on TV regarding this subject of requiring a person to use the bathroom of the gender on their birth certificate, and the justifications used to support these laws spurs me to restate my thoughts from Squat’s place. The following—while not a word-for-word recount—is a mostly reprint of what I said from over there. Proper referencing is a founding principle of intergrital writing, and I’ll go with “hereafter” as referenced herein, above.
OK, so I know this man. Who was formerly a woman, who is three inches shorter than my six-four, and who works out over to my gym maybe twenty hours a week. I got a free gym membership with my Medicare Part B coinsurance, and I like to work out a few times a week. Keeping my bones healthy is a way to fight any recurrence of the cancer I seem to have licked, and lifting weights builds healthy bones.
Did get into a heated discussion over to the gym with this asshole who was bitching about TV coverage of Black History Month, and all the stories and programs about mistreatment of Native Americans. Shitwad was going on and on and on and on about why isn’t there a white history month. Kept it up to my break point.
“I’ve got some ideas for your White History Month,” I told him. “First, let’s do a week of programs on the slave trade. Make it a cradle-to-grave dealie. Start with the slavers over to Africa stealing people, the ship voyages with humans packed like cattle and dying standing up, the auction sales, then life on the plantation.”
“Follow that with the last hundred-sixty years of white racial bigotry—the KKK, George Wallace and the modern Republican Party. Third week can be how whites came to America and stole the Natives’ lands and took advantage of their naiveté. Tell the stories of slaughtering their people for sport—forcing them to take white man’s religions. And let’s not forget about when the whites gave the Native people blankets known to be infected with disease, intentionally infecting them. Spend the last week on the state of the White in today’s America. Look at how white people are in their final days as the controlling majority and what the future holds. Talk about a future of bigotry against whites.”
Asshole. Anyway, this now a guy at the gym is a big, muscle-bound sumbitch with a full beard, basso profundo voice, and who likely had a donkey dick manufactured from whatever it is they make penises from when they do those surgeries. Guy’s pretty proud of his testosterone-enhanced physique, so I’m guessing when the doctor asked, “Now, tell me sir, which of these penis models would you prefer?” this now a man said, “Don’t you have anything bigger? I plan to be a six-one muscle machine and I need a penis to match.”
Me, if I was getting vaginalized I don’t know what I’d want as far as all the specifics go. Do I want a small, tight jobbie that most all the guys would like, do I want one of those sleek, low-slung jobbies or do I prefer a big camel toe model for when I wear my Lycra workout pants? Much as I like camel toes, I’d likely choose the roast beef model.
But I can say, and without any hesitations, that I’d want a clitoris the size of a basketball player’s thumb. Fat, rubbery job—one that needed a table-spoon of lube to preparate for manipulations. Me, I’d be playing with that sucker all day long, play with it everyfuckingwhere. Hell, when I changed my name, “Female Orgasm” would be my middle name.
I’d be sitting at the poker table and the dealer would ask me, he’d say, “It’s your action, Mz. Johnson. Uh, Mz. Johnson, the action is on you. Moonette, Earth to Moonette, are you with us?” and I’d be all, “Ah, ah, ah, ah…”
Do the members of Tennessee’s Genital Assemblage seriously think the fine Baptist ladies of The Smoky Mountain State want that born a woman but now a man pissing and primping in the Girls Room over to Tennessee University? Or my female conversion hanging out in the Boys locker room showing the little ones how to please a lady?
“OK, gentlemen. The first lesson you need to learn is the quite simple fact that most of a woman’s pleasure resides in this thing here. Billy, you look like you want go first…”
Jesus we humans can be dumb. So let’s all Fuck Walmart!

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The Originating Question; Misleading Keywords Lead To Misantrophy

Tuesday, October 6th, 2015

So.  I’m sitting here to my desk at four am, wondering what, inthefuck, is wrong with humans?  Are we so afraid of death that we feel obligated to wreck our civilizations, our species, our planet?  Are we so brainwashed that we cannot distinguish between right, and terribly—oh, so very terribly—wrong? Why do so many of us—even the best of us—need to believe there is more than there actually is?

OK, those were silly questions because of course we are willing to kill the golden goose that is humanity. We’re marching our way to extinction at an alarming rate of progress.  Mayhaps I’d better communicate by stating “The Originating Question”, tell you the queries that kept me awake last night, elucidate my thoughts thereon, and elicit ideas from you guys.  I, for my part, find myself unable to provide a succinct answer to The Originating Question as I can find numerous answers, several of which are in direct conflict with other answers.  Before I ask you The Originating Question, allow me to provide some background.

I’ve been thinking on religions for several weeks now, wondering why they even exist. Then last week I was in conversation with a very pleasant Christian woman, a woman I call my friend.  Deeply Christian of the evangelical variety, this woman spends considerable time in Bible study and seems to live her life to the answers she finds therein.  She’s kind and considerate and never presses her religion at others.  She is thoughtful and charitable, honest and solid. I like her in spite of her devotion to a fairy tale I see as a danger to humanity.

We were discussing something or another, and my cancer and attendant treatment entered the discourse.  Turns out her friend has prostate cancer, newly diagnosed, and we had a discussion about my experiences.  That discussion led to her telling the friend what I said, and he (him?) getting a positive outcome based upon a lead provided by me.  When I ran into her a few days later, she said to me, she says, “I want to thank you for providing me with that prostate info.  I passed it on, he had a good outcome.”

I told her I was pleased to be of some help and glad to do it.  Then she says to me, she looks Heavenward with her left hand held skyward to the heavens, her right hand—fingers closed in a loose fist held palm down over her heart—and she says to me, “I prayed on it and felt the hand of God as He sent you to me so He could intervene and save Mr. X from the cancer the Devil placed in his prostate.”

While I was almost vibrating with desire to tell her that I have one: felt the actual hand of God, and; two: begged God to make my cancer go away, and; three: been told by God—right to my face while looking Her eye-to-eye as She lay beside me in bed—that it wasn’t Her job to worry about one man’s predetermined propensity to get ill, and die, my God told me She had no interest in altering the natural progressions of things; then I fourth: held my water, smiled and said to my friend, I told her, “Glad I could help.”

ADHD-fueled, grammatically awkward run-on sentence aside, where did “Hold your water” originate, as a phrase, and why do I seem to be writing so many complex, run-on sentences? I know that soldiers and the general populace living in high-walled castles under siege back to the days of burning oil dumps and using The Pear of Anguish for interrogations,  would pour hot oil and likewise pee, and crap, down on the heads of the siegers.  While Microsoft Word has just informed me that “siegers” is not an actual word and for my part I don’t really give a shit, maybe “Hold your water” originated thereat. Therewhen, maybe. You know, “Hang on to that hot oil and enema, soldier, hold them until you see the whites of their eyes.”

Maybe, and maybe not the origins.  If not, this side car is off the rails and totally unrelated to The Original Question, which is stated as follows:

Why did we invent Gods?  That, dear friends, is the question.

Why are we not happy enough simply existing that we feel compelled to imaginate ourselves these powerful deities? Why can we not be satisfied to live our lives in the natural order of things—grow from seed, prosper, procreate, wizen, fall ill and die? Why do we have the need to make ourselves more than the organisms we are? Why can’t we celebrate the simple fact that we’ve evolved—through some lucky spin of the Protoplasm Jackpot Wheel—to be the biggest brains of all species? We dominate every other species on the planet, why is that not enough?

Why do some religious followers speak of the hand of God as some super-freakish intervention into issues which no real god would concern themselves?  Me, I’ve felt the hand of God and it can be a soft as Montana Wildhack’s as She held my face in Her palms to tell me that my sister’s death wasn’t my fault in any way, and it can be as rough as when God showed to hold both of my hands with the guitar-picking callouses and pot-stained fingers of Willie Nelson. The hands of God are actual hands that are not used to answer prayers. God’s hands are for holding, comforting in time of need. At least my God is happy to hold my hand for comfort when I need it.

This one time I questioned my God about prayers, as I see praying as a silly, wasteful substitute for personal effort.  “Prayers are wishes, Mooner,” God told me with the leathery lips of the grapefruit-sized Amazonian sweat toad It used as visage to me.  “People find comfort in counting on their imaginations to work magic, son, so let it go. Let them have their hopes and you move on.”

When I tried to lick God’s back in an effort to revisit a college weekend when Streaker Jones and I met this weird guy from Colombia who had this aquarium stocked with a pair of hallucinogenic sweat toads, I found myself licking the nasty tongue of the Cheshire Cat my God had transmuted into.

Ever accidently licked a cat’s tongue? “Disconcerting” would be the word, and not the least hallucinogenic.

Which reminds me. Have I ever mentioned that I’m crazy? I have all these quite good buddies with whom I love to communicate, and, likewise, love. People with high moral standards, real and true standards. Moral standards not born from selective application of the teachings of some silly cult, but standards developed from the essence of character. Morals with a foundation of fairness to all.

I love their writings and I love to comment thereupon. But for some crazy reason I haven’t been able to pull the trigger in response to their writings for days. I get ready to punch buttons here to my keyboard, and my brain goes all discombobulated and freezes in a swill of words and thoughts. I feel as though I have nothing interesting to say.

It’s weird and is the main subject of my therapy sessions, and when I get it figured out I’ll let you know.

So fuck Walmart in the meantime.


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Perils Of ADHD; A Tale Of God’s Visit

Sunday, April 7th, 2013


So. It’s a cut crystal sky awakening in the view from my office window, and the dogs are back asleep in the bed. I’m sitting here with soggy eyes and nose from the juniper pollen still filling the enchanted air of my new homeland, and I just realized that God paid me another visit last night.

“Why, Mooner,” you might ask, “does sitting at your desk with three pounds of crusty snot plastered on your face remind you that God made a house call to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe?”

“Because, dear reader, I’m an ADHD-riddled fuckball who has absolutely zero controls on his thoughts.”

OK, stop. Do I lack controls ON my thoughts, or, rather, would it be more grammatically correct to lack controls OF my thoughts? I do know that I would ponder ON my thoughts should I be in a pondering mood—which I am—yet, and alas, I now realize that the aforementioned ADHD has taken control of the steering wheels of my brain and has every intention of driving us into a ditch.

To emphasize this notion, I got a call from Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson Thursday afternoon for a scheduled psycho therapy session. While the original intent of that particular session was to, and here I’ll quote Sammy with some precision when she said to me, she said, “I’ve been meaning to speak with you about your blog posts, Mooner. I think it’s good for your audience that you are not posting so many of your whatever it is that you post on your blog. While it might be good for you to write your loony thoughts often, I think you should consider the fact that your kind of crazy might be contagious.”

Huh? Did my lovely first ex-wife, babies’ momma and psycho therapist just tell me that I’m making other folks nutso? “Are you saying that my writings make other people crazy? Really?”

“OK, maybe I didn’t say that just right when I said that your sort of lunacy MIGHT be contagious.”

I blew my snotty nose and wiped the hardened pellets of tears from my eyes while I thought of an appropriate response. After thirty seconds of careful debate I responded into the phone. “Bitch.”

The good doctor did that “Tsk-tsk” noise that has always pissed me off. I added, “You sound just like Laticia Browningwell—the other bitch to ruin my life in a significant way.”

Mrs. Browningwell is the wife of my family’s Baptist preacher and was my school teacher in three different grades. And that thought re-reminds me that God stopped by for a chat last night.

I was maybe a little drunk, maybe stoned, and was certainly under the influence of my grandmother’s mushroom tincture. The three of us were sitting out to the portal admiring the sliver of dusty light made by the moon as it dripped its way through the darkend sky. The Squirt was in my lap almost purring as I scratched her back just above her tail, and the goat dog was in the far corner of the yard eating his fill of the newly-hatched weedy fodder Spring-sprung from the dusty soil.

“Yoda’s gonna be puking all night long, Squirty girl. I bet he’s eaten five pounds of green weeds,” I mostly mumbled as I scratched the little dog’s back.

“He can’t help it, Mooner, he still has fears of going to bed without any supper,” Squirt informed me. “I guess when you consider that he was caged and beaten and sent to bed hungry as a routine…”

She was referring to the fact that the little white dog spent the first years of his life incarcerated in a puppy mill over to Oklahoma, where they beat and otherwise abused him. Rotten pig fuckers even cut most of his vocal chords to quiet his plaintive pleas. To hear him bark is to want to slit the throats of animal abusers.

OK, maybe slitting their throats is a tad bit harsh. Perhaps a better thought would be to crush their nuts with a ball peen hammer.

Anyway, I had dinner Friday night with two new friends I met through my Realtor. Georgia and Mary Michelle are a lovely pair of ladies who have been in a committed relationship for decades. They are smart and funny and thoughtful people for whom I hold much admiration. To me, any same-sex couple who has stayed together for the last few decades are admirable in so many ways.

As we sat on the portal last night watching the moonlight move through the big Ponderosa pine tree, I heard the rustling and scraping sound of a metal chair moving on flagstone. “Ah, now this is what life is all about.”

I knew the voice. It was Jeffery Holder’s rich basso-profundo from one of those Seven-Up commercials back in the day. I didn’t bother to look His way when God spoke to me, and in response I said to Him, I said, “Hey, Big Guy, how’s it hanging, Sir? Are you in the form of a tall black man or did you come as Ali McGraw again?”

“Too many questions, Mooner my man. And just so you know, Ali McGraw is out of your league.”

I turned to give God a piece of my mind only to discover that He had appeared in the visage of Montana Wildhack from Slaughterhouse Five—my favorite movie of all time. I was somewhat stunned and mildly aroused. “Holy shit, Sir. Are you telling me that I’m in Valerie Perrine’s league?”

God laughed—a huge and hearty sound that vibrated dead needles from the big pine tree. Needles floated like heavy feathers and covered the four of us. “Your little white dog will be OK, son, I’ll see to it. So stop worrying about him. And you need to leave Yoda’s puppy mill torturers to me as well,” and God laughed again.

“Alright,” I answered. “Is that why you’re here tonight?”

“Nope, I’m here to give you some advice. Ask yourself a question, OK? Ask yourself why it is that whenever you first meet homosexuals you feel obligated to demonstrate your support by telling them every single fucking incident in your entire life where you were supportive of a gay person?”

“Huh?” I responded, “I don’t do that… Do I?”

“Yeppers, you certainly do.” Now God sounded like my good buddy Lloyd. Lloyd and his husband are two of my most-admired human beings. “Look, Mooner, gay people realize that you understand their plight and support their causes by intuition. But you act silly and try to impress-just like you used to act around black people. Remember?”

Oh, yea, I remembered. Anytime I was in the company of a black person I would conjure up every instance of my support and interaction with black people for my entire life. I even married two black women, but not just because they were black. I married them because I had sex with them and until recently, that would have been my modus operandi. Until recently, I had had sex with ten women and, therefore and to wit, I have ten ex-wives.

“I think you might have something here, Sir. But could you cover your breasts so I can concentrate?”

Valerie Perrine had the most adorable breasts I had ever seen, and many was the night they filled my passions. OK, many the night, morning and afternoon did my Ivory soap and me visit memories of Montana Wildhack in the scene wherein she first lands in Billy Pilgrim’s domed world.

“You think I should call Georgia and Mary Michelle to apologize? I really like them and don’t want to have driven them off.”

“No, shithead, that would make matters worse. Just treat them like any other friends you have and let sexual orientations be their topic of conversation.”

And with that, God gave me a chaste kiss with Valerie Perrine’s lips (or were they Lloyd’s?) and disappeared in a puff of smoke, leaving me to ponder why it is that I’m such an dumbass sometimes. Why is it that I sometimes feel the need to demonstrate that I’m not an asshole to people who have been oppressed and abused by Society’s assholes?

Is it guilt? Do I feel responsible for all the ignorant and prejudicial old white men of the world just because I’m an old white man?

Is it a desire in me to be accepted? Do I admire people who have stayed stable and true to themselves in the face of extreme prejudice, and feel a need to be accepted by them? Do I want them to like me? Am I an insecure shitbrain? Am I the only one?

Ugh. Is it too early for a Carta Blanca beer? Manana, y’all.

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Lessons In Dementia; A Mother’s Love

Friday, March 29th, 2013

 So. The last several days have been interesting. OK, if you have a perverted sense of humor, then you will find the last several days of my life interesting. Me, it’s been but one more week living the drama that has become my mother. This week started with my usual Sunday afternoon phone call to the loony old gasbag I call “Mother”. I had called her Saturday evening and had one of our typical conversations where she was nasty and I tried to be nice. She was especially nasty and I snarked at her before I hung up. So, maybe that means my week started on Saturday. Or maybe I should say that last week’s shit spilled over into this week.

Anyway, I said, “Fuck you, you batty old bitch,” but I said it sweetly in spite of what she had said to me, and I finished the call with, “I love you anyway, Mother.” I rang her number:

Mother: “Who is this?”

Me: “It’s me, Mother, it’s your loving sonny boy making his usual Sunday afternoon call to his mother. How was church?”

Mother: “Sonny who? Sonny Hicks or that other Sonny?”

Me: “Oh, for shitsakes, Mother, look at the Caller ID—it’s me, Mooner.”

Mother: “Well why didn’t you say so in the first place? How come you never call me? And where are you?”

Me: Deep breath, small sigh, “I’m still in Santa Fe—home of the homosexuals—Mother. Where are you?”

Mother: “I’m where I’ve always been—in the special Hell the good Lord placed me for raising such horrible children. I just wish He’d take me now, put me out of my misery. You never call me anymore. Now tell me where you are before I hang up on you!”

Me: Sound of telephone receiver thwacking on skull, low, anguished groan, “I’m still in Santa Fe, Mother. Just as I have been for the last two-hundred thirty-seven times you’ve asked.”

Mother: “If you don’t tell me which Sonny you are I’m hanging up and calling Sheriff Wozniak. How dare you scare an old woman.”

Me: Sounds of me wondering why sweet Jesus won’t take me instead, sound of an idea light bulb going off, “I’m sorry, Mother Johnson, it’s me, Sonny Hicks. How are you doing down there to San Antonio? Do you like your apartment?”

Mother: “Oh, Mr. Hicks, I live in such a fine place. My son loves me so much he’ll only have me living in the best apartment in all of Texas.”

Me: Imagine the sound of question marks and total confusion, “Huh? What the fu… Er, that is to say, you’re son must love you very much. Have you spoken to him lately?”

Mother: “Oh, my yes, he calls me almost every single day. Sometimes we pray together—Mooner is a fine Christian man. His sister is a fine Christian as well.”

Me: Sound of a man sharpening a wooden stake, “That’s nice Mother Johnson. I hear Mooner moved to Santa Fe. Aren’t you afraid of all those homosexuals turning Mooner into one of their kind?”

Mother: “Mooner’s a good boy, Mr. Hicks. Where did you say you are?”

Me: “I’m still in Santa Fe, Mother. How was church?”

Mother: “We studied all about Sodom and Gomorrah, Mooner. Every day I get out of bed and look to see if there’s a story on the news about how you’ve been turned into a stone pillar. You never were smart enough to stay out of trouble, Mooner. You’ll soon be a homo-sex-u-al, and then you’ll see.”

Me: “I think you might be right, Mother. Just today I was driving down the street and I thought to myself, I thought, ‘I sure would like to suck on a big, fat and juicy dick right about now.’ You think that might be a sign?”

Mother: “I’ll pray for you, son. Now put that nice Mr. Hicks back on the line.”

Me: “OK. Love you and talk to you soon. Click.”

I do wish I was a gay man, or at least a bisexual man. If I could stomach the idea of sticking another man’s pecker in my mouth, I’d fucking be gay. No attachments or long term promises of fidelity and all that shit. Then again, it appears that same-sex marriage is going to become a reality, and that will totally spoil the benefits of same-sex sex for me.

Me, I’m wondering if this entire same-sex marriage dealio is going to end up as one of those “Be careful what you wish for” thingies.

Anyway, the second woman in my life who shares familial blood and messed with me by phone was Sister—the aforementioned good Christian woman. Sister is married to my third ex-wife and was excommunicated from the Baptist church about the same time as me—the year, I think, was 1968. Sister has been a lesbian from her first breath and a proud one at that.

Sister seems to feel the same way about sucking on a pecker as do I. And don’t start on my ass about how the fucking Baptists don’t excommunicate their wayward flocksters. Anytime a scolding ends with the words, “…and don’t you ever darken our door again,” you, dear friend, have been excommunicated.

My phone rang:

Me: “Hello, and thanks for calling La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. How might I direct your rude disturbance into my ever so enchanted life?”

Sister: “It’s me, asshole. Call your mother and do it right now! You haven’t called her in more than two weeks? I can’t believe you, Mooner.”

Me: “Huh? What time is it?”

Sister: “It’s a quarter after three here in Texas. Did you lose your watch?”

Me: Sounds of irritation, “I stopped wearing a watch because everyfuckingthing I own has a clock on it, and, well, that makes it two-fifteen here and I hung up from speaking with Mother approximately twenty-one minutes ago.”

Sister: “Mother says you haven’t called her in weeks. Oh, and before I forget, she told me to tell you that Sonny Hicks called her this afternoon. Wasn’t Sonny Hicks the guy who took a crap in the pocket of Mrs. Browningwell’s raincoat?”

Me: “No, I think that was the other Sonny. How’s Anna? I keep hoping she’ll get tired of you and want to switch Johnsons again. It’s been months since I’ve had me any sexing, and…”

Sister: “Not even funny, fuckbreath. You blew that one and it’s my good fortune you did. I’ll tell her you still love her. Sorry I doubted you.”

Me: “It’s OK, Sis. I love you a bunch. Come see me, OK?”

Why is it that some of my favorite people are gay? Sister and her lovely bride, my buddy Lloyd, and George Tokay. Ellen DeG? I was contemplating that question when my phone rang again.

Me: “Hello, and isn’t it a lovely day at Mooner Johnson’s House of Contemplations. Is it better to have loved and lost or to count your chickens before they hatch?”

Aunt Hilda: “Well, Dearie, you seem to have another perplexing situation on your hands. I’ll go with the chickens. Are you getting enough bulk in your diet.”

Me: “Hey, Hilda, how’s it hanging, baby?”

Aunt Hilda: “High and tight, kiddo, high… And mighty tight! Why haven’t you called your mother, Mooner? She’s calling the entire family and boo-hooing all over the place.”

Me: “Oh, for shitsakes, Aunt Hilda. I just got off the phone with her a half-hour ago.”

Aunt Hilda: “Well, call her again. You know she’s a touch forgetful.”

Me: “OK, alright, I’ll call her again. Bye-bye baby. I love you.”

Aunt Hilda: “Me too. Why don’t you try one of those granola cereals with dates and raisins—move your stools right on along. Say “Hi” to Sonny Hicks for me, and go call your mother!”

I wondered if maybe it would be less stressful for me to move back to Texas. For like maybe ten seconds I wondered. Fuck Texas. I’ve never been happier than since I moved to New Mexico. I was counting my many Enchantedland blessings when my phone rang again.

Me: “Thanks for calling the Fuck Texas Hotline, Mooner speaking. Today’s special is your basic crew neck tee shirt emblazoned with our copyrighted slogan, “Fuck Prick Perry and Walmart Too!!!” Available in white, black or tittie pink, these high thread-count cotton tees are….”

Gram: “I’mma kick yer Texas-bred butt from here ta Waco, shithead. Git offn yer ass an’ call yer crazy fuckin’ mother and do it on the pinto!”

Me: “Didn’t you mean call Mother pronto, Gram?”

Gram: “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner, you ain’t got tha brains of a fuckin’ bean. Now quit yer talk-backin’ an’ call yer mother afore I come down there to New Mexico an’ kick yer skinny ass!”

Me: “God, it’s good to talk to you too, Gram. Are you getting any?”

Gram: “Hell to tha yessiree-Bobby! Me an’ tha P-cubed got a couple Aggie boys tied up over ta her place right as we’re a speakin’. Now call yer Mother.”

P-cubed is Penelope Paxon-Parades, Gram’s best friend and the woman whom Gram calls her “Poontanger huntin’ buddy”. Those two old broads are a horny young boy’s worst nightmares, and I got to thinking that I need to try to be more patient and caring for my mother. Dementia is a terrible affliction and I don’t need to inflict my wounded child bullshit on the woman who bore and wounded me.

Which reminds me. Why is it necessary for every single consumer product to now have a clock in it? What makes Time so fucking important that we now need it available in every instant of our lives?

Anyway, with my fancy new ball point pen with a flashlight, compass and clock in its top, I was writing one of those “Ben Franklin” evaluations—you know, wherein you draw a line down the center of a page of paper and write a plus sign on one side and a minus on the other? You put the goods on the plus side and the bads on the minus side. An old fashioned decision-making device that I have used all my life.

I was a good fifteen minutes into my decision-making process, one wherein I had sixty-seven good things about living in Santa Fe, and but one bad one—my new-found allergies—when my phone rang once again. Ring:

Me: “Hello, Mother, and thanks for calling Mooner Johnson’s House of Ben Franklin Decisions and Predictions. Pick your poison and talk to one of our experts. How might we assist you today?”

Mother: “Learned your lesson?”

Me: “Huh?”

Mother: “I did not mumble. Don’t ever mess with me again, Butcher Einstein Johnson. I am your MOTHER!!! Click.”

Me, into the dead phone line: “Sonofabitch. Mother, you’ve been playing me.”

Son… of… a …. Bitch! I guess my mother is going to screw with me until one of us dies. On a brighter note, Cynthianne sent me the linkster for the petition I couldn’t find the other day. Please take the time to sign it.


Manana, y’all.

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Selective Absolutism; Simple Solutions To Complex Problems

Sunday, March 17th, 2013


So. I was driving I-25 between Albuquerque and Santa Fe on my way home last night and a thought hit me. Ed Schultz was on the radio and he was discussing the asshole Republican from Ohio, Senator Portman, who recently found out that his son is homosexual. This man, upon learning from his own child that the son was “born homosexual” and didn’t choose “the life” and that this young man has “always been” homosexual, has gone from sponsoring the Defense of Marriage Act to supporting the freedom to marry whoever you choose.

Whomever you choose?

This man’s son having had this particular conversation with his parents is hardly remarkable in today’s World. I’ll bet this very instant there are thousands of young people girding their loins to have the same talk with their parents—sweating and fretting and frittering brain cells away in the angst all children experience when we worry that we will disappoint our families in some major way.

Nothing remarkable about these closet cleanings happening across the globe with an increased regularity. Me, I find this heartening in every imaginable way. Our world becomes more enlightened every day. If only so many of us wouldn’t close our eyes to the light that makes us uncomfortable or those rays of truth that challenge our dogma.

But what is remarkable about this particular closet evacuation is that this Republican congressman from Ohio has been a staunch opponent of same sex marriage his entire career. Every chance to attack the issue, this shithead managed to find face time to condemn gays from having this most basic human rights. He fucking sponsored the Defense of Marriage Act!

Until it hit home. His home. Now, he’s “rethinking the issue”.

Ed Schultz brought up the issue that these right-wing Christian fuckballs are against each and every human right and social issue until it hits them there square to their house. Then, they decide they need to “rethink” the issue. They choose to be absolutely against something because of their “core beliefs” until it helps them to rethink the issue.

This made me think about “Someone Shrunk My Teddy” Cruz—the unimaginably dense US Senator from Texas. This boy’s momma dried his undies in a way-too fucking hot dryer when he was a kid and pinched his brains up tight against his asshole. Cruz talked-down to Senator Feinstein on the Constitution and Bill of Rights like she was a first grader. Using the stupid logic and lies so often employed by people with no facts at their disposal, “All-shrunked-up” Teddy chose to defend, with absolution, certain sections of our Nation’s Charter while pretending other sections and the grammatical modifiers don’t exist. He, in effect, rewrote the Constitution and Bill of Rights to say what he wished they said.

And that made me think of the arch conservative Christians—the ones who choose to believe that the Bible is the literal words of God, except for when they don’t.

So. Like I said, I was driving between the ABQ and Santa Fe. I was at that spot whereat you crest this one hill and suddenly see the valley where Santa Fe starts its meandering that ends in the Sangre de Christo Mountains. Each time I see this sight I almost cry with its beauty. Last night as it came into my view, I had an “Ah-Ha!” moment.


I yelled it and slammed my hand on the thick, padded steering wheel of my work truck. “Son, of a fucking, bitch! Now I get it.”

What I got was the answer to a question that has pestered me for decades. The question? “How can you easily identify an asshole?”

The answer? “When they practice Selective Absolutism.”

Anytime a person has absolute convictions to a small part of a policy or issue or doctrine yet denies validity of other parts—that, dear friends—is the asshole marker. Like the Christian shithead who will condemn homosexuality because he believes that the Bible is the literal word of God. If the words in the Bible are God’s literal words, then why aren’t these same charismatic Christians killing all their current Prophets?

In Deuteronomy 18:20-22, God said, “…A false Prophet is one whose words don’t come true, and they must be put to death…” Then in Ezekiel 14:9, God tells us that, “…A Prophet who is deceived is deceived by God and, again, must be put to death…”

Therefore, and ipso-fucking facto, anytime Pat Robertson made a boo-boo in his predictions… He was to have been sacrificed in the name of God for his sins. The actual act of making a prediction that doesn’t come true is God taking action against the impure—some shithead who uses God’s name under false pretenses.

And Selective Absolutism doesn’t apply just to right-wing conservatives. The same logic can be used with liberals as well. Like Jessee “The Crazy Made Me Do It” Jackson, Jr. Jessee—dude—when you stake a claim to defend the downtrodden and then steal their money… You are an asshole. You’re a liberal asshole, but an asshole none-the-less.

Holy shit but does this ever make life easier for me. I spend so much time in my attempts to specifically distinguish precisely what it is that makes a person an asshole, that it wears on me. Now it’s easy. Now I have more time to pursue Allie McGraw. Now I’m taking the puppies on a walk over to the railroad tracks walking path for a chance encounter with Mz. Love Story.

Manana, y’all.

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Did Liberace Turn Elvis?, And Other Sticky Wickets

Friday, February 15th, 2013


So. It’s a beautiful Friday here to the Land of Enchantment and all I can think to do for entertainment is walk and play daddy to the dogs. All of my friends are busy, I haven’t met anybody new to drive crazy, and the dogs are already on my nerves. The dog problem started at precisely 2:26 am, when the goat dog had a bad dream and started barking and growling as he tried to trench his way through my pillow, the bed and anything else between here and fucking Beijing.

“Phooph, pharph, phooph… Phooph, pharpf, phooph… Errrrrrrh!” would be my best efforts to spell the cut-vocal cord mania erupting from Yoda’s yapper as he shredded my pillowcase with maniacal, frantic front paw digging.

I made a reach for him but was cut short by the Squirt. “Don’t wake him up asshole. Don’t you know it’s dangerous to awaken a sleep walker?”

“He’s not sleep walking, little lady, he’s shredding the last remnant of my marriage to Dr. Sam I. Am. That pillowcase is all I have left of our stuff. Aunt Hilda gave us a set of embroidered bed linen for our wedding, and I stole Sammie’s pillowcase as she was moving out. I love that ratty old thing, sweetie, so get him off it.”

I do love that tattered old 600-count Egyptian cotton rag. Sometimes I still think I can conjure my first wife back into my bed by breathing through the tattered fabric.

“Wake his ass up and ask him what’s got him trying to dig to China.”

I didn’t hear the answer because my house phone rang and I got up to answer it. It was then 2:29 am, a factoid known to be fact as I looked at the big wall clock in my office as I said, “Hello, Mother, are you OK?”

“Where are you, Mooner?”

“Not in my bed dreaming of sexing it up with Allie McGraw, Mother. I’m sitting at my desk wondering why you called at 2:30 am.”

“Don’t you dare smart mouth me, Butcher Einstein Johnson. I can still bend you over the table and whip your ass with a belt.”

That was my family’s measure for corporate punishment for my sister and me. Fuck up, and you’d be bent over the end of the kitchen table where all the family members could take a crack at you. There was this one time when Streaker Jones—or was it Tony Butts—dared me to give Mrs. Browningwell a Wet Willie. It was right after lunch and I’d bought a Valomilk Cup that I ate walking back to class. It seems that my right index finger had some thick Vallomilk marshmallow residue left from my dessert and the Wet Willie delivered to Mrs. Browningwell’s right ear should have been renamed a “Wet and Sticky Willy”.

Maybe that sort of ear jelly should be called a “Sticky Wicket”.

I had trouble sitting for several days after. Never will forget my Daddy—laughing in my ear before taking his shots. “That might be the funniest thing you’ll ever do son. You remember this day.”

And then he slapped the thin, black leather belt across the tops of my thighs.

“Mother,” I told her, “you just come on up to Santa Fe anytime you want and take a crack at my ass. I dare you.” I figured telling her to come to Santa Fe to spank me would clue her to the simple fact that I’m in Santa Fe.

“Stop back-talking me, Mooner, and tell me where you are.”

OK, maybe not. “I’m in Santa Fe, Mother. I haven’t left Santa Fe since I got back after Christmas and I certainly haven’t left since four hours ago when we last spoke and you asked me ten times where I am.”

“Why are you in Santa Fe? Don’t you know that Santa Fe is run by the homo-sex-u-als? You’re not smart enough to evade one of those crafty homo-sex-u-als, Mooner. You never were all that bright, if you ask me.”

Bitch. Right-wing Christian asshole Republican demented old bitch.

“I think you might be right, Mother. I was just having this dream where I was trying to find Liberace so I could suck his dick. I was getting dream frustrated from not finding him, so I was about ready to suck any old dick that happened by. I guess I need to thank you for waking me up and saving my dream self from burning in Hell.”

Mother believes that all gay folks will burn in Hell. Me, I think gays are all due for a Heaven’s stay, as we straights manage to make their lives here a living Hell.

“Liberace wasn’t a homo-sex-u-al, Mooner. That’s just one more cog in the homo-sex-u-al propaganda machine. Liberace was a man’s man, and a great entertainer.”

I’ve always wondered about when Liberace helped turn Elvis from a singer into an entertainer back in the day. I’ve always wondered if old “I’ll Be Seeing You In All The Old Familiar Places” didn’t likewise turn Mr. swivel hips in other ways as well.

“Mooner, you stop talking like that and tell me where you are RIGHT NOW!!!” My mother seemed annoyed that I would impugn the sexual integrities of her beloved Liberace.

“Jesus, Mother, I’m still in fucking Santa Fe.”

“Well, you watch out for all of those homosexuals…” and the next think I heard was her fumble the buttons of her phone and then the disconnect.

The Squirt jumped into my lap and put her front feet on my chest and her face right up into mine. “OK, first of all, you need to stop antagonizing your mother. She’s old and fragile and she can’t remember shit. Let her go off on you and then just say good bye. Second, you need to spend some quality time with Yoda and me. Silly goat dog is having trust issues again and he’s been dreaming he gets locked up back at the puppy mill. All that digging is him trying escape.”

Then she slurped my face with a rough tongue covered with day-old fish slime. “I love you too, Squirty-Poo,” I told her. “Grab your leashes and let’s take a walk under the stars.”

It’s now noon and we’re on our way down to Albuquerque to take a ride on the Sandia Peak tram and then dinner at the top. Another day in paradise with me at the helm. Manana, y’all.

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Contemplations On The Dark Side; Godsmack For Dummies

Monday, January 21st, 2013


So. As if there didn’t already exist enough evidence that we have too many of the wrong guns in America, a child of fifteen years murdered his entire family over the weekend in another gruesome assault rifle massacre. As this kid’s father was a dedicated Christian chaplain, my first thoughts upon hearing a few details were, “This is a child abuse scenario.”

Upon sleeping on it and with additional information, my thoughts this early am are that, “This is a child abuse scenario, and maybe this incident will help stimulate actions to better control gun violence in America.”

Then again, I can just hear the Fox fucking News commentators:

“Well, Bill, if only those little girls had had their own AK-47’s locked and loaded in their bedrooms, the dead headcount would have been reduced.”

Asswipe right-wing conservative gun-promoting goat fucking shitheads.

Which reminds me of the dream I had last night. The Squirt has had loose bowels since her visit to the vet Saturday morning. This visit was to check for a bladder infection and they gave her an enema to clear the obstructions for a clean pic of her innards, but her system didn’t take well to the glycerin they pumped up her ass. The little puppy’s constant need to go outside last night somehow disturbated my normal sleep patterns, causing me to have one of those in-and-out dreams—you know, the ones wherein you pick up where you left off each time you get back to sleep.

This dream was a real corker. It was a sex dream, nekid dream, and God dream all balled-up into one convoluted pot of peasant stew. In this dream, God showed Himself in several formats: As one of my former fathers-in-laws, an alligator, the hood ornament on a Mini Cooper, and at last as Allie McGraw.

OK, stop. Is it “fathers-in-laws” or “father-in-laws” or “fathers-in-laws” when you have ten of them? OK, and what if one of them is a retired cop and one an attorney? This particular father of an ex-wife was a fine man and the Chairman of the Austin Public School Board when I graduated High School. My diploma was signed by this quite good man. I might have learned something from him if I’d paid attention. Then again, paying attention is not one of my attributes.

I’m a good watcher but I can’t pay attention for shit.

Anyway, this dream started with me as an employee of this giant company filled with coworkers from my actual life. My boss was God in the form of the ex-father-in-law, I was still married to first wife Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, and in my section of the interesting dream business office were numerous assholes I’ve known over the years, the most pivotal, dream wise, was Pastor, the Dishonorable Dr. Browningwell.

Dr. Shithead Browningwell is Mother’s Baptist preacher back to Austin, or at least he was her asswipe pastor before she enrolled and entered the retirement home there to San Antonio. I think Mother only watches him on TV and speaks to him on the phone these days, yet that limited contact seems to keep my mother’s venom sacks filled with angry poisons.

God Boss wanted me to move to Vicksburg, Mississippi, to work with a branch of the company that made movies and did event coordinating. “Look, Mooner,” God told me, “I need somebody I can trust to go over there and run things. The guy I have there now is a liar.”

“Look, God” I answered, “I love singing the Mississippi song and living there would provide me many opportunities to do just that, but I don’t know shit about movies or event planning, plus you know that I can’t follow instructions.”

God morphed into an alligator—one of those alligators from the old movie Fantasia. Man do I love that movie. There was this time way back in the early 1970’s when they showed Fantasia at the Alabama Theater in the Montrose section of Houston, Texas. It was their Saturday Night Matinée dealio and a bunch of us dropped some acid and went to watch it. Fucking alligators scared the shit out of Patrick and he almost peed his pants.

“Dumbass is way far better than liar as Branch Manager, Mooner. At least I can turn my back on you.”

God was right up in my face as He said this and His breath was something awful. “Your alligator breath smells like rotten potatoes and iguana shit, Sir. Can’t you back off just a touch?”

“No problemo, son, now get dressed and go pack your bags,” God said, and He disappeared.

OK, wait. I have forgotten to tell you the other times when the Squirt awakened me during this dream. The next time was just after I realized that I was dreaming life as an actual employee of a company. See, except for when I was a kid throwing papers or doing dishes over to the Wishbone Fried Chicken Restaurant, I’ve always been my own boss.

First time I fell in love with a black woman was when I washed dishes there to the Wishbone. I was twelve and working the 3:00-to-11:00 pm shift that summer, and the head cook was a woman named Ruby. Ruby was an onyx black woman who always wore a black-and-white checkered apron over her dress, and she tied the apron in back with a perfect bow. The apron’s bow ends always dangled over the curve of her round butt, and often one, or both, of the strings would nestle into the dress’ light crease at her butt crack.

As I was twelve and Ruby was a woman, and I’d never been up close and personal to a black woman’s quite tight and rounded ass—what with the neatly-tied apron strings marking targets for my eyes—Ruby’s ass was a major source of excitement for me. Before my second day of work, I rummaged through the cupboard at home to find our last bar of Ivory soap to take to work with me. Since I had already learned the dangers of unexpectedly stiff peckers this one time at school, I wanted to do what I could to work-off my teen angst while on breaks from the steamy dish machine and Ruby’s steaminess.

“What c’hall doin’ in there, Mooner boy? They’re runnin’ outta spoons in the dinin’ room,” Ruby said to me that day as she banged on the kitchen’s bathroom door .

I hurried my business with the Ivory soap, rinsed myself and went back to washing spoons. Ruby made the world’s best banana pudding and we were always running out of spoons. I guess my face was flushed and I likewise had some stiff pecker residue bulging the front of my shorts, and I also guess that Ruby both saw and analyzed the situation accurately.

“Well looka there, Mildred, looks like Mr. Mooner Johnson has got him a thing for the dark meat.” Mildred and Ruby looked at me askance and started laughing.

“Mmm-mm-mmm,” Mildred said. “I’ve never crossed the fence myself, but if that one wasn’t so skinny… We need ta get him filled-out—put some meat on his bones. Fix that boy a plate a chicken, Ruby.”

OK, wait just a second. This was early 1960’s Texas, where racism was still the prevalent weather, so these women’s words need to be read in that temperament. The fact that they would banter with a white boy was a sign that they were strong women and comfortable bantering with me. For my part, I thought they were making fun of my pecker size until I got home and told the story at dinner.

After listening to me recount the event, Gram said to me, she said, “Ah, Hells-bells, Mooner, they wasn’t talkin’ ’bout yer little pecker, son. They want ya to get some muscle on yer skinny ass. They don’t wanna hurt ya.”

Then the entire table laughed at humor I failed to see. It wasn’t until years later that I understood what Gram meant and, luckily, I’d filled-out.

So, I was getting dressed in my dream and wearing a clown outfit that was way too small for me. Dr. Sam was acting as my valet and trying to get the funny pants buttoned. She was pushing at my pecker through the flimsy clown material in attempts to move it away from the buttons. This is another time when the Squirt awoke me to go take a crapper. “Wake up, shithead, time to head out.”

After washing her adorable furry, brown backsides, I went fast asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. The dream started once more and I found myself standing at the rear of one of those 4-door Mini Cooper cars where Sammie was attempting to stow my giant clown suitcase. The case was brown leather with fat leather straps to hold its bulging sides shut, and the leather was blackened with hundreds of shuttings and stowings before.

There were tattered stickers and stamps from many ports of call plastered all over it, one of which stood out to me. I peered at it around the fat, bulbous and red clown nose glued to my face. “Catch-22 and then Catch Some More,” it read. It was written in Russian Cyrillic script, but I somehow knew its meanings.

“But looka here, Sammie,” I told my ex-wife and psycho therapist valet, “God knows that Slaughterhouse Five is my favorite movie. Catch-22 is several slots down the totem pole.”

“Not about your favorite movie, Mooner, it’s about my favorite movie.” It was God, again, and His voice was coming from the front of the car. I quickly realized He spoke from the hood of the little car in the form of a Jaguar hood ornament—a visage misplaced on the Mini.

“Jaguar’s the wrong image here, sir. You might try for something more fitting,” I said. “Oh, wait. Maybe I should have said you should look for something fitting more.”

I guess that even in my dreams I make marked attempts to be grammatically accurate.

“OK, big boy, how do you like this look instead?” And with that, God transformed into Allie McGraw draped upside down—feet on the roof, long legs draping the windscreen, and torso lying sideways on the hood. Allie-God’s head was resting on Her hand and Her nails were painted red talons at the end of slender fingers. She wore a filmy gauze gown that provided us a view of her spectacular stuff.

“Holy shit, God,” Dr, Sam I. Am-Johnson exclaimed in my dream. “I think I might be a dream lesbian.”

That remark would mark the moment I was reawakened by the lump of brown fur and loose bowels I call Squirt. She was on my chest and in my face, pressing her nose into mine. “Wake up asshole, I think I’m gonna explode!”

“And I might spend too much time in contemplation of sex and my pecker.”

As I took too long to get dressed and take her outside, the poor little puppy had to stop in the hallway to cut loose. “My fault, little lady, don’t worry,” I told her, “let me clean the carpet and then I’ll get to you.”

“Forget your silly rug, asshole. My bottom is on fire. Hose me off and do it now!”

I met some new people Saturday night and one of them asked me what it’s like to have the ADHD. Maybe this helps.

Manana, y’all.

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Am I Blue?; Childish Behaviors And Other Avoidances

Wednesday, January 16th, 2013


So. It’s a beautiful, frigid morning here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe and I’ve promised myself I won’t let political issues ruin my mental states today. In order to protect said states of mentalness from the aforementioned political issues, I must not write about them herein to start my publicly-interfaced day. I can’t keep my private brain from mulling current events into a pot of swill—what with the ADHD and all—but I can refuse to comment on current events publicly and focus, rather, on issues not of interest to anyone.

Take, for a perfect example, my early morning before I sat to write to you. I was dead asleep, a sleep resultant from too many Carta Blanca beers and too much sauer kraut on my bratwurst sausages at dinnertime. Me, I love me some kraut dogs with icy-cold Carta Blancas, and for some reason I sleep extremely well with a belly-full. OK, I sleep extremely well for about four-and-a-half hours, the approximate time it takes for pork sausages and yeasty beer and sauer kraut to transform from solids into gas.

Blue gas. Squirt calls my kraut dog and Carta Blanca farts “the blue gas”. Actually, she calls it, and here I’ll quote the adorable bundle of brown fur and bad breath from approximately 2:36 am, “You’re farting the blue gas, asshole. I’m fixing to puke on your chest.”

The small puppy’s words were muffled as they mixed with the terrible cloud of noxious air that oozed through the goose down comforter. I was afraid to lift the covers from around my neck. I like to sleep nekid in a very cool bedroom and cocoon myself with covers from the neck down. The thick comforter was billowed like a balloon.

“Open up, shithead, or I’m puking for sure. And get the emergency medical kit—the goat dog has stopped breathing.”

When I opened a slit from around my neck, there was a “shoosh” sound and an odor that made me see stars. The Squirt jumped up and off the bed in one motion and I whipped the three layers of warm fabrics to the side. Yoda was on his side at my feet with his eyes open and tongue hanging out. When I looked closely, I saw his little chest was moving with slow breaths.

“He’s not dead, sweetie pie, he looks stoned.”

She jumped back on the bed and inspected the goat dog. Squirt prodded his belly with her nose and Yoda rolled onto his back and giggled, which made her giggle and me, in turn.

“I still feel bloated so let’s light some kraut farts!” I laughed at the two dogs, a late night comment that reminds me to tell you something.

Do not light sauer kraut farts through your underwear. OK, and do not feed sauer kraut to dogs you allow to sleep with you.

Anyway, I got a call from Gram yesterday to status me on things there to Austin, Texas. Seems that Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry have settled into a happy married life together. “Yer fuckin’ bird looks like Lucy Balls an’ that pig a yers is always a smilin’. It’s like tha fuckin’ witness protection around here.”

Huh? Witness protection?

Oh, I got it. “You mean Rick Perry the ostrich and Rush Limbaugh are like the I Love Lucy sit com? You mean situation comedy, not witness protection, don’t you Gram? Like Rush comes into the room and says, ‘Luuu-chee, I’m hoo-ome!’”

The phone went silent for a bit. “You talkin’ back ta me, Mooner?”

“No ma’am, not even a little bit. I was just trying to understand.”

“Well who really gives a shit, anyhoos?” Gram added. “It’s like a TV show here—ya know, that one with Rickety Ricaboo and ol’ what’s-her-the-fuck. You know, Mooner, tha redhead.”

“Lucille Ball, Gram, you had it right,” I told her.

“An’ do me a favor will ya? Call yer mother an’ tell her where ya live.”

Great. I did. Here’s the first few minutes of that script:

Mother: “Hello, who is this?”

Me: “It’s me, Mother. How are you?”

Mother: “I’m fine. Where are you?”

Me: “Still in Santa Fe, Mother. I’m in Santa Fe, still. Did you go to the doctor?”

Mother: “Why are you in Santa Fe with all of those homo-sex-u-als, son? You know they have secret ways to turn you into their kind.”

Me: “I moved to Santa Fe last summer, Mother, we’ve discussed this a hundred times.”

Mother: “Well, don’t use public restrooms, Mooner. There’s Evil to be found in public bathrooms. Now tell me where you are.”

Seems I’ve reached the third phase of forgiveness with my mother—the “don’t give a shit” phase. It’s been a week since she has said or done anything to raise my blood pressure. Me, I see that as progress. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson feels differently. “Denial, Mooner, you’re in denial and still not addressing your issues with your mother. Maybe I should double my psychotherapy fees so you’ll take things seriously.”

I think it’s like my Gram always says. I feel better, so who really gives a shit?

Manana, y’all.



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One More Time; Mel Gibson Re-Jumps The Shark

Monday, January 14th, 2013


So. For starters, I’d like to say that it seems that America’s Congressional politicians are finally going to enact smart gun laws after the recent murders in an elementary school. That’s what I’d like to say. Instead, I’ll say that one more time it appears that the mass slaying of innocents has brought nothing more than communal grief, the requisite chatter about “is this finally the tipping point”, and a gigantic spike in sales of the very same guns used in those killings.

One more time guns are used to kill, and one more time public outrage demands intelligent changes, and one more time nothing will happen except for the fact that more guns are sold. One more time big business’ monetary influences and extremists overruns civility and humanity in America.

One more time our law enforcement professionals and educators and parents publicly plea for restrictions to make our schools and movie houses and shopping centers and restaurants and churches and business offices safer, and one more time we’ll get nothing but talk—and more guns sales.

One more time Walmart made a contrived sympathetic gesture and stop gun sales for a few days, and one more time Walmart will see record gun sales in the weeks after. One more time the NRA will blame all but the guns for the violence, and one more time America will bury and forget dozens of wasted lives.

One more time we’ll honor murdered children and teachers and other innocent bystanders to the politics of the business of guns, and one more time—as a country—we will write-off those lost lives as the cost of doing gun business in America. One more time dead children will become the cannon fodder used by gun pushers to sell more fucking guns.

One more time sanity will be ignored in the name of extreme misinterpretations of The Second Amendment, and one more time we will fail to provide policies or funds for the mental health needs of our population.

One more time.

What would it take to get smart gun laws? If the151killed in mass murders in one year of 2012 aren’t enough, then how many mass murders will it take? The average high school in our country has about 1,100 students. If an entire school population were murdered in a mass shooting, would that be enough? No?

OK, what about that technical school over to Brooklyn, New York, where they have over 8,000 students. If some assholes were to shoot up 8,000 kids, would that be enough? Is there any number of murders that would tip the scales from acceptable to un-fucking-acceptable?

Senator McCain—you got a number, sir?

Ugh. This shit makes me tired and angry, and tired of being angry.

On a better note, I caught some of the Golden Globes last night. I want to say that I admire Jody Foster. I also want to say that Mel Gibson looked like he’d been ingesting my Gram’s magic mushroom juices without a license and on an empty stomach. I also want to say to Oprah and Lance Armstrong, “Fuck both of you. Lance, you’re too little and too late, Mr. One-Nut Wonderman, and, Oprah… Please stop giving these celebrity fuckballs the forum when they are only using you to change public opinion. You, my good woman, don’t need the publicity.”

Anyway, I’m headed to the Sandia Casino to play a little poker. Manana, y’all.


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Forgiveness Update And Poontang Status; Mooner Still A Fucking Mess

Thursday, January 3rd, 2013


So. Much adieu about nothing and so little time. Maybe that should be “much a’do”, and then, again, maybe adieu is most appropriate. Maybe I’m filled with conflictions this new year and maybe I’m simply crazy.

Smart money bets crazy at 1-to-5.

Let me start by saying that my NY Eve date was semi-successful. I wasn’t arrested—I was “detained”. I didn’t assault the asshole sitting on the bar stool next to me—I simply flicked his nose for squeezing his wife’s wrist hard enough to make my fingers go numb. And I got no first-date-everyone-gets-laid-on-New-Years-Eve poontang.

Enough said.

Having said that, let me add that my ADHD is in a unique phase that started when I arrived back to Santa Fe from Austin. I have been ruminating over how much to say about Mother, and my thoughts/feelings thereto. You guys have been incredibly supportive in your attempts to push me into rehabilitations, for which I am mostly appreciative.

However, since none of you took my side and tried to help me find ways to hang on to my anger at Mother without doing damage to myself, please allow me to provide you with further information. Let me make a further attempt to illuminate this runway.

OK. To me, you forgive someone for things they did—stuff they already finished doing. I used to think that you forgive people only when they ask for it—an opinion I have long been of changed mind.

“Forgiveness is for the forgiver, Mooner,” Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson has told me on something akin to a thousand times.

“Fuck forgiveness” has slipped from my lips maybe twice that often.

Which reminds me. It’s been really cold since we got back and everything but the front porch, steps and sidewalk are covered with snow. And my ADHD has been in a weird stage wherein I am strongly focused on only one of the many thoughts in my silly head.

Problem with that is my focus isn’t on the physical actions of my body, but, rather, what I’m doing is done as an afterthought to whatever else it is upon which I’m focused. Think on that and you’ll understand.

As an example, I was taking the recycling out to the green plastic bins in the driveway but my mind was on my recent date. Half an hour later, I was up to the Ace Hardware and standing in the plumbing isle looking at the plungers while holding two paper bags—one filled with squished plastic and metal containers and the second half-filled with paper. I had the newspaper stopped while we were gone, so half a bag there. The plastic stuff is from the trip back.

I didn’t buy the plunger but I did buy this nifty grinder that was on sale. The two bags of recycling are, I think, still on the floorboard in the back seat of the GTO, and I’m looking for something to grind besides my teeth.

When I told this story to Dr. Sam during my phoned-in psycho therapy session, she said to me, she said, “Look, Mooner, I think that you’re seeking plungers is a metaphor for your sex life. Aren’t you getting any?”

“Bitch,” I told her. “Are you paying any attention to what I’ve been saying for the last three months?”

I guess I am a bit backed-up. Like I said, it’s been quite cold and the puppies hate to get their feet cold or wet. “Get your asses out there into the snow and shit there,” I barked at them the first time I let them out after we got back to Santa Fe. “If you shit on the porch again I’m not taking you skiing with me.”

“Fuck you,” the adorable bundle of brown fur told me. “You pick me up and poke my ass in the snow without proper protective clothing one more time and I’ll shit in your beard while you sleep.”

I’ve grown a beard for a few weeks so the Squirt’s threat had teeth.

“And I’ll tell Yoda to start pissing in your boots again. Now stop looking at me. I’m going to crap on the welcome mat and I don’t like you watching me.”

At least their shit is easy to pick up when it’s frozen like Popsicles.

But here’s what I want to tell you. My Mother has a sister, a woman I’ve never before mentioned in these pages. “On” these pages? Her name is Aunt Mary and she is a family black sheep. I won’t go into all of it other than to say that she has been distanced from our family for decades—a distancing insisted upon by my mother.

Without my knowledge, Mother bought Aunt Mary tickets to fly in and visit at her place in San Antonio after Thanksgiving. When Mother told Sister about her actions, Sister thought that Mother was going to make peace with her sister. While that last sentence was full of sisters, my mother’s actions ended up as not sisterly in any way whatsoever.

After numerous phone calls with Mother to solidify arrangements, my sister, Sister, drove to San Antonio and picked Aunt Mary up at the airport, drove her to Mother’s place and took Aunt Mary and her bags upstairs to Mother’s as previously arranged. No answer, and the door was locked. Worried that Mother had fallen or worse, Sister panicked. She got management to let her in but found no parent when she searched the two-bedroom apartment.

The management person said, “Have you looked in the dining room? Your mother eats an early dinner and plays canasta with friends this time of day.”

Sure enough, Mother was at a table with three other old bags, eating and playing cards. When Sister asked her, “Whatthefuck?” Mother answered, “I’m not giving up my card game for (Envision Mother pointing a finger at Aunt Mary) her. Tell her she’s in the front bedroom. Now go away.”

And to make this a short story of a very long four days for Aunt Mary, my mother’s kindest remarks were at that initial meeting. Mother wouldn’t be in the same room with Aunt Mary, wouldn’t speak directly to her and otherwise treated her like shit. I likely wouldn’t have known about this because, one- Sister didn’t want me to write about it and, two- Aunt Mary has no way to contact me.

I only found out because Gram accidentally spilled the beans. If you want a secret spread, tell my Gram.

In boiling the bullshit out of this, my mother paid for tickets to fly her sister from France—did I forget to say that Aunt Mary lives in France and has Rheumatoid arthritis and that the return trip was scheduled for two weeks after arrival? Did I forget to tell you that Mother made arrangements for her sister to have three layovers of more than four hours each? Me, I’ve got some bad knees and a hip that throw fits on long layovers in airports. I can’t imagine the discomfort a sufferer of RA would endure.

Did I forget to tell you that Aunt Mary is a lesbian and that Mother berated her own sister for, “Your heretical choice,” and that, “God hates you just as she does my daughter. You two can burn in Hell holding homo-sex-u-al hands.”

Sister took Aunt Mary to Austin with her for the remainder of the two weeks and rescheduled the flights with but one two-hour layover.

I’m supposed to forgive my mother so that I can have better mental health. But it is a quite difficult task when she does things like this. When she keeps doing these things. In order for this to work for me, I will need to forgive everything Mother has already done and then forgive her for the things she will do. That’s difficult for me when I feel that what she did to Aunt Mary was unforgivable.

Fucking ugh!

Anyway, that’s my forgiveness update and poontang status for January 3, 2013. Now it’s time to pick up the turdsicles from out to the front porch. I don’t want to slip on a pile and and bust my ass.

Manana, y’all.


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Mayans Send Mixed Messages; Mooner Untangles The Myths

Thursday, December 20th, 2012


So. It’s Thursday before Friday’s world-ending events possibly predicted by the Great Mayan Calendar. It seems that the entire earth is in for a major calamity should the doomsdayer’s interpretations of ancient stone tablets be correct. Stone tablets, which I might add, that no living human has any real idea how to interpret, other than to say that, rather than ending their calendars for reprinting each twelve modern months, the Mayans chose to scribe their date keepers for page turnings every few centuries.

It’s easy to see how the Mayan calendar ends when it does since the fucking Catholics slaughtered all the Mayans hundreds of years before they even needed to think about quarrying the stone for the next period’s dates.

Evil right-wing murdering Nazi Catholic goat fucking shitheads.

Me, I see this silliness in the same way I see how different shitheads interpret the books of the Bible. Every wing nut and evil-hearted conman has an interpretation of the Bible, and those interpretations range from “Love your fellow man” to “President Obama is the Devil”. The longer I live the less I believe any Biblical interpretations are worthy of serious discussion. The longer I live the more I’m convinced that the Bible has jumped the shark.

That’s right. You heard it here first—the Bible has jumped the fucking shark.

If my grandfather were still alive, he’d say, “The world has already ended, Mooner, so who really gives a shit the Mayan calendar?”

I remember the day that JFK was murdered when it was my grandfather who came to William B. Travis Junior High School to pick Streaker Jones and me up after they dismissed classes. All of us were stunned in some manner or another—students and teachers alike. Streaker Jones and I were in Mrs. Browningwell’s Spanish Class when the Principal announced both the assassination and school dismissal over the loud speaker.

The institutional beige loud speakers at Travis Junior High were Altec brand, and maybe 14-inchers, that hung in the top corners of each room. The speaker boxes were bolted to the walls and the bolts had a spot weld to keep them in place. Seems some enterprising young schoolboy had found an after-market for institutional beige Altec 14-inch loudspeakers.

I always thought it was Mike Martel. We caught him breaking into all sorts of shit and stealing anything from the Valomilk candy in the cafeteria to the Kotex from the Girls’ Rooms.

God I loved Valomilk candy. The snap of the crisp chocolate shell, the way the marshmallow cream oozed out onto your fingers… That one time when Candice what’s-her-name sucked my finger clean. What was her last name?

Several of the girls in class gasped and started crying when they heard the President had been killed. Me, I didn’t quite hear it accurately. I’m sure that my ADHD had my brain spinning with thoughts of Susie Ashburn’s budding breasts or some other thought more interesting than Mrs. Browningwell’s dull lessons on conjugating Spanish verbs.

“Mooner… Hey, Mooner, snap outta it. Sumbody shot the President. We need ta go home.” It was Streaker Jones and he was already standing at my side and tugging on my sleeve.

“Sit… Down, everyone!” Mrs. Browningwell barked. “The Principal said to evacuate civilly and in our assigned order. Assistant Principal Smithson will come to release our room. You are to sit and shut up until he gets here.”

We all waited, squirmed and cried. After a few minutes, Assistant Principal Smithson did indeed stop at our door. He motioned Bat Brains Browningwell to join him where they conferred in whispers. All I heard that was legible enough to understand was her whispering, “It was bound to happen.”

Mrs. Leticia Browningwell was twenty-one and just out of college and just married to then Assistant Pastor of Mother’s Baptist Church, The Reverend Dr. Browningwell. Bat Brains Browningwell was a constant character in my life from the start of that school year so long ago, until today. Her hubby is the self-same asshole who managed to convince my mother to be the mean spirited shitwad that she has become.

OK, look, Mother didn’t need to be convinced to be mean spirited—she fucking IS mean spirited. But the good preacher has provided the focus for Mother’s attacks, most recently gays, President Obama and Public School funding.

When Granddad picked us up from school that day he was in a solemn, quiet mood. Which for Granddad was remarkable. See, I caught the dreaded ADHD from Daddy who caught it from Granddad, who likely invented the fucking AD and HD. When he didn’t respond to my, “Hey, Granddad, how ya doing?” I knew something serious was going on.

“They shot our President, son. It’s the end of the world.”

We rode the rest of the trip in silence. See, my grandfather was a man who felt that civilized people would neither assassinate their own president nor would they even feel he deserved to be killed. Civilized people talked their differences and then voted their preferences.

Granddad would yell at the TV when some shithead said something he thought was stupid. “You ignorant John Bircher ass licking Nazi loving sonofabitching motherfucker,” was his favorite yelled phrase. I guess I didn’t fall far from that tree myownself. Substitute “goat fucker” for John Bircher and “shithead” for ass licker and you’ve got my TV rants.

Anyway, what I want to say is that I’ll be on the road with the Squirt, Yoda the goat dog and likely not the fucking cat. Honor seems to have disappeared again and left nothing but smatterings of mouse blood and fur in her wake. I’m hoping her long hair and hunting skills keep her moving while we’re gone.

Armstrong! It was Candice Armstrong who sucked the sticky marshmallow Vallomilk center off my index finger. I’ll never forget the embarrassment I had from the delayed-action woodie she invoked. Are woodies invoked by sexy women? Evoked, maybe?

Remember boy’s short-short basketball uniforms? Hard to hide a big old boner when you didn’t even realize one had arisen from inside those shorts. We were all standing around after basketball practice eating Valomilks when Candice and the other cheer leaders walked by from their practice.

“What’s on your fingers, Moooo-nerrrr?” Candice cooed.

Then, without any additional foreplay, she grasped my wrist in her velvety-smooth hand and stuck my index finger into her mouth. “Mmmmm, marsh-mmmellow cream. My favie.”

I remember, for some reason, that she said the word “favie”. I think that my thoughts about how she said “favie”, when combined with the tingle running through me for minutes after she stopped sucking on my finger are what invoked that woodie.

Have you ever been standing among a group of friends and strangers and had your rock hard pecker come peeking out from the hem of your shorts? That shit is embarrassing no matter how many times it happens.

Maybe I can look Candice up while I’m in Austin, and maybe Squattie or Beej will stay abreast of the Mayan shit and let me know if the world ends while we’re on the road tomorrow. I’d hate to miss the end of times.

I’ll try to write you while in Austin, but no promises. Manana, (maybe) y’all.


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Boy Scouts Re-Screw The Pooch; Here Kitty-Kitty

Monday, December 3rd, 2012


So. I have long been a man who prides myself on my abilities to cope with what Life serves me. I bitch and whine and complain about whatever shit it is—maybe rant a bit and break a few things—and then I accept whatever it is, and move on. I imagine that if the people close to me were to describe my one good character trait it would be that, “Mooner can handle his shit.”

While I’m highly emotional and deeply involved with Life, I don’t allow myself to be controlled by Life’s misfortunes. In my entire life, I’ve only been out of control twice. The first was when I was thirteen and had been raped by my Boy Scout Leader. That incident controlled my mind and body for several years. I didn’t know I had ADHD back then, I only knew that I was “a disruptive little shit”, and I went through what I now know was a total mental blockage of the terrible events. I was a miserable human being before I found ways to deal with it, and move on.

The second time was of a far shorter duration back to college, when Streaker Jones imported his first Sweat Toad breeding pairs. Never one to research things too deeply, I gave each of the six toadies a big slurp. Yeppers, I licked each one like a Dream Sickle—bottom-to-top, front and back sides both.

Those amphibians are ugly fucking things that taste like a donkey’s ass. And one big sloppy slurp from a sexually active toad’s skin is an overdose, as a typical dose of toad sweat is a small flake of their dried ooze. I was a sick sumbitch for a week and hallucinated enough for a lifetime. Mind altering drugs are my life, but that week I was totally out of control.

Each of those two occurrences were more than forty years ago. In all of this time I have always been as in control as I can be. Until Saturday night. I was watching Kansas State dismantle my Texas Longhorns football team—and with twenty-something seconds left in the game—I lost it.

My ADHD has been in overdrive for a few days because I can’t sleep well. My shoulders and knees and elbows and back ache so much from house painting that I can’t get comfortable in any position. While the ADD part of my malady is always active, it’s when I’m physically inactive that it begins running through its gears to eventually reach warp speed.

Naturally-occurring chemical compounds are my best methods for controlling my spinning thoughts. My Gram’s magic mushroom potions work best. But I ran out and the new shipment didn’t arrive on Friday because I didn’t hear the UPS guy at the front door. We were painting in the back of the house so I didn’t hear the doorbell.

Anyway, my ADHD had my head spinning and my football team looked worse than Tennessee. I was watching the stupid game, as I languished on the sofa in an attempt to be comfortable while watching my football team blow another contest, when I heard my computer’s Email pinger announce that I had a new Email. Disgusted with the Longhorns, I got up and staggered to the office to find that Google News Finder, or whateverthefuck they call that informational search and announcement dealie, had a news article for me.

I clicked onto the link to discover that new evidence was released showing the Boy Scouts of America had intentionally not screened for sexual predators in the face of public and private pressures to do so, and that their cover up of the problems continued for decades. As I read the story, the room closed in on me concussively—like I was in a pressure chamber to shrink my head. My thoughts swirled for an instant and then fully focused on the Boy Scouts.

“Mother fucker,” I whispered at reading the last words.

“Mother fucker!” louder the second time, the anger starting to re expand my skull.

MOTHER FUCKER!!!” I screamed, and I lifted my computer desk and slammed it against the wall.

I was screaming “Motherfucker!” and slamming around the office like a madman. No, that’s not right. I was throwing a temper tantrum like a petulant child—ripping and breaking the office—and I was crying.

The Squirt came running into the room—eyes giant with her fright. “?Que pasa, Bwana Mooner? Es tu OK, big guy?”

The adorable brown puppy slinked to my side and faced my fury head-on. “Bad news, boss man?” she asked.

I ripped the handful of papers gripped in my fists and just dropped them, my anger spent. I plopped onto the floor to cry. I cried.

When I awoke in the middle of the night, I was lying on the hardwood floor with the Squirt sitting next to me and Yoda the goat dog had somehow managed to slip inside the hem of my XXX-sized UT Longhorn sweatshirt. It was Yoda’s dog breath venting through the sweat shirt’s collar that woke me up.

“You OK?” Squirt asked—her brown eyes full of love and concern.

I focused my eyes and surveyed the small patch of office floor in my limited sight line. “Looks like I was pretty pissed, huh?”

“Never seen you like that,” the diminutive miniature dog told me. “Never want to see it again.”

“Not a pretty sight, I guess. I think I need some psycho therapy.”

The dogs and I spent most of yesterday cleaning the office and looking for the fucking cat. Honor has been AWOL for almost a week this time, and post tantrum I was feeling morose about her absence.

“Fuck it, guys, I’ll spring for a whole salmon for dinner and we’ll set the carcass out back. That’ll bring her home if anything will.”

We went grocery shopping—me newly hobbled by an aching hip courtesy of a night spent sleeping on a hardwood floor—came home and filleted the five-pound fish we got. We took the complete head and salmon skeleton to the back yard where we ceremoniously laid it on Honor’s food rock. The fucking cat likes us to serve her dinners atop this big, flat river rock.

“Here, kitty-kitty, it’s your favorite salmon din-nie!” I called.

“Here, Kitty…” was all I got out when we heard a, “Meow!!!” from the little shed at the back of the property.

“Whatthefuck?” Squirt said, “is she locked in the shed?”

“Uh, ah… Oops.”

That was me. I had been out to the shed last Saturday to get some old papers and that fucking cat was bugging me for a fish. She was mewling and mawing and rubbing herself against my bare legs. The weather has been great and I was wearing shorts in the crisp, dry 60-degree air. Her hair was rubbing off and sticking to my legs with the static electricity. That pissed me off and I shooed her off as I twisted myself to get inside the file cabinet way to the back of the shed.

“I, uh, well, ah, I must have locked her into the shed,” I admitted.

Cat’s out, cat shit filled with mouse fur and bones cleaned up from the shed, and last I saw her Honor was hissing and spitting at a neighbor’s cat over her salmon bones.

“Interesting weekend, shithead,” the Squirt told me as we sat to watch Dexter last night.

“Yes it was, sweetie pie. Interesting, indeed.”

Manana, y’all.

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ADHD Don’t Effect Me-fect-me-fect-me; A Tale Of American Prejudice

Saturday, December 1st, 2012


So. It’s Friday morning and Adrian and I have spent the week painting. I hate painting and that’s why I haven’t been writing here to Bloggyland. I’m the official cutter-in guy—which means that I use the small brush to paint around woodwork and windows and shower tile and shit—and my entire body aches like that one time when I wanted to date Juanita Montoya back to high school. Juanita’s four older brothers thought that was a bad idea.

OK, I wanted to sex it up with Juanita and her large, brown bosom and her brothers discouraged me by punching me in the arms and legs. Hard. They punched me and as they did, they explained to me in fractured Englese that, “Oweer seester weel be a Seester, you pinche asshole. Stay de fuck away!”

At first I thought that Juanita’s brothers were Catholic racists and that they wanted their sister saved for a Mexican boy. Back to the 1960’s, families of every race and nationality dissuaded young boys of other races and nationalities from dating their daughters. Back to the 1960’s, a mixed-race couple was an oddity—an oddity that was stared at.

Stared at and worse.

When I asked Grandpa about the incident he said to me, he said, “Look, Mooner. Just because you don’t care where a person came from don’t mean they don’t care. White folks like us have been putting down folks like the Montoyas for years. And just so you know, Hector and Margarite Montoya have plans to put Juanita into the nunnery when she graduates high school. Stay away from Juanita Montoya, son. You’re lucky they didn’t disappear you.”

I had wondered about that “our sister will be a Sister” part of my beating, and maybe my grandfather’s advice explained why none of us had seen Jimmy Simpson since he walked Wilma Washington down to the Walgreens for a lime phosphate.

And this all reminds me of the silly shit John McCain is pulling about UN Ambassador Rice. I’m starting to think that Johnny Boy’s racist instincts are overcoming his public persona. Me, if I’d been tortured and beaten and held captive in a bamboo cage for more than a half-dozen years, I’d likely hold a hard place in my heart for persons of the Southeast Asiatic persuasion. If a group of physically identifiable people—people whose facial features all had commonalities—I think that maybe I’d harbor some animosities towards folks that looked like my torturers.

However. The more thought I give to the facts of this McCain/Rice business, the more I think that there can be but two simple motivations for Senator McCain’s actions. The first is that he is stupid enough to carry out an extended, unsubstantiated high-profile attack on a public servant in spite of the facts being 100% against his arguments. Maybe John McCain is stupid.

The second possible motivation is that John McCain is the same racist as Senator Ma-ma-ma-Mitch McCornpone.

OK, let’s stop before you think I’m off the reservation and falsely accusing elected officials of prejudice. Each of us will agree that many of the right-wing religious Americans are racist fuckwads, right? Are there any among us who think that racism has no home in our nation’s politics?

Then why would anyone think that there are no racist politicians elected to high places?

For a long time I have thought that the anger directed by Republicans at President Obama was just sour grapes and big money. Not anymore. When I see John McCain’s angry face—blood vessels ready to burst from his neck and face—I see a man who has lost control of his emotions. The situational facts surrounding this Susan Rice crap are not emotional. They’re strictly political.

If McCain-and-Able isn’t racist, then why is he so fucking angry? Me, I’m thinking that unless the President made a late night call to little Johnny to say, “Hey, shithead, I’mma stick this Susan Rice thingie right up yo ass, muthafuckah!” then there is no explanation for the Senator’s unbridled anger. Not that I wouldn’t love it if that phone call has been made.

Which reminds me. Maybe McCain has contracted dementia. I’m starting to think that any aberrant behavior in an older person can be explained away to dementia. Mother called me early this morning and please allow me to preface her comments by saying that first, I bought this home in Santa Fe, New Mexico, in late June after a year of conversation and moved here in early September.

Let me second say that I have had this same conversation with my non-Alzheimer demented mother each, and every-fucking time we have spoken since early June.

Me: “Hello.”

Mother: “Where are you, Mooner?”

Me: “Still in Santa Fe, Mother. Just like the last eighty-three times we’ve spoken.”

Me: “Oh, sorry, each of the last eighty-four times. We talked twice yesterday.”

Mother: “Well, don’t let the homo-sex-u-als get you, son. They have ways to turn weak minds to their evil ways.”

Me: “No problem, Mother. If I was going to be gay I’d already be gay. Can’t stand the thoughts of sticking another man’s dick in my mouth.”

Mother: “Well, you need to watch your backsides, Mooner. Where are you?”

And so on. That whole homosexual thingie is overblown if you ask me. What’s the big fucking deal, anyway? How can it possibly matter to you if I want to sex things up with another man? How can my sister being married to another woman possibly effect your silly fucking life?

Ugh. And before I forget to say it:


Manana, y’all.

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Perfect Party Planning; Lessons In ADHD

Sunday, November 18th, 2012


So. It’s another beautiful day in New Mexico and I’ve just discovered that I have more work to do on La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. The floor tiles in the guest bathroom have started breaking in half, a situation of considerable consternation. The reason for my confusion is that the tile was laid by “professionals” over the summer and the reason for the failure is, quite simply said, operator error.

I was busy out back with the yard grading problems—moving truckloads of soil with Adrian and Pedro—when the tile was laid in the small bathroom. Since I hired professional tile guys to do the work, I didn’t pay any attention to their efforts. They laid the tile with glue and didn’t “bed” it in mud.

Asshole fucking amateur tile-laying Republican shitheads. I bet they voted for Romney.

In order to have the bathroom ready for the Thanksgiving crowd, Adrian and I will be working the weekend to rip out the old stuff and install newly-purchased tile. Tiles?

Which reminds me. All of a sudden I’m not a very popular man. For months I have been receiving dozens of supportive, flattering Emails every day and suddenly last week, the bottom dropped out. I’m not sure what I did to make Stephanie Cutter unhappy with me, but her sometimes twice-daily love letters just stopped ringing my Email’s doorbell. I really thought we had something going.

And that reminds me of something else. With all the asshole businessmen pulling bone headed stunts in the wake of the President’s reelection, I want to take a minute to speak my positions re: thereto. Thereof? Therein?

Heretofore, I want to speak my positions therein.

First of all, I have long had a personal embargo on Walmart, Chick Fil-A and this restaurant in Austin whose meals gave me food poisoning twice. I started my Walmart embargo due to their asshole personnel policies and strengthened it with the giant chain store’s long list of Chinese product offerings. Now they have allowed their greed to creep Xmas sales all the way into Thanksgiving day, a move that forces other dumbass retailers to do the same. I won’t shop Walmart. Ever, or for any reason.

OK, stop. Do you have an embargo “on” something or “at” that offensive thing?

As for the chicken sandwich shop, I stopped going there because I was in their hometown in Georgia this one time and met some gay people who were fired when they disclosed their homosexuality to management.

So, “Fuck you Smallmart and Chickenshit-Filled Assholes both!”

As for Pappa John’s Pizza, I have consumed exactly one bite of that ketchup-covered cardboard and one bite was enough for a lifetime. But I’ll now add a “Fuck You!” to that asshole and Applebees and Denny’s and all the rest of you. Stop using Obama’s win to excuse your being an asshole.

Be an asshole and own it. I can at least have a modicum of respect for an asshole with integrity.

Which provides another reminder. I wanted to buy some drapes for the dining room to provide privacy. The windows in the front room are giant and some folks don’t like getting ogled by passersby while eating. I will be changing the windows out next spring for better efficiency units, so I wanted simple, inexpensive drapes.

OK, stop again. Maybe I wanted curtains and not drapes.

Anyway, I do everything possible to buy American made goods and services and I especially don’t like to buy Chinese. I refuse to consume anything Chinese unless it’s my only choice and I really need it. I’ll gladly pay higher prices for stuff to support homegrown business and that reminds me to say that I don’t do Staples or Home Depot either.

And now I’ve lied to you because I consume Chinese food—love it and eat it by choice—and the lady up to the spa where I got a recent rubdown was Chinese, and me glad she was. Maybe I’m showing a prejudice, but I think Asian women—or at least Asian-looking women—give the best rubdowns on the planet.

I used to think it was Scandinavian women who were the best rub-downers back to when I was married to Ingrid. Ingrid owns Ingrid’s Hot Wax Emporium back to Austin and Ingrid has her some magic fingers. Since our divorce, and the subsequent separating of the clinical rubdown from the hard-core sexual aspects of my relationship with Ingrid, I’ve decided that Asian women are the best rubbers.

I spent the entire last week trying to find already sewn drapes NOT fucking made in China. The best I could do was over to the Bed Bath and Way-too-fucking-far Gone, where I found an assortment of drapes that were, as the tags said, “Hecho in China.”

Hecho in fucking China?

I’ve got an appointment with a seamstress Monday morning.

Which reminds me. I’m headed to a party in my honor tonight and I truly don’t know what to think. My lawyer buddy is introducing me to some local folks and I have some confusions therein. Sex is a not-so-recent memory and I’m hoping he and his lovely wife have arranged for some unattached women to be there for me to meet. I’m concerned that I’ll do something to fuck up their friendships. Not that I’d ruin a relationship on purpose, but I’m trolling for sex of an accidental or purposeful nature, either way.

Is it proper to take more than one woman home from a party given in your honor? If things move quickly in one of the new relationships, do we sex it up in the bathroom or should we take it outside. Would it be proper to sex one new acquaintance in the bathroom during the party and take another home after?

It’s been cold at night so maybe I should put some blankets in the car, and have you noticed that my ADHD has gotten better since I left Texas? The Squirt told me just this morning that she thinks I’m getting better since we moved to Santa Fe.

OK, that’s another lie. What my adorable little puppy actually said was, “Not getting laid helps your ADHD—gives you something to focus your crazy mind.”

Then she giggled at me and said, “Shiny objects!”

I said, “Bitch,” and then giggled with her. “Will you check the hairs in my nose for me? Classy women don’t go for men with boar bristles poking out their schnozzolas.”

Blankets and a Barry White CD. I wonder if they’ll invite a nice lady artist. Maybe I should go with a Puccini opera CD. Maybe I should get one of my Navajo blankets in case I meet a nice woman from a local tribe. Maybe I should learn a few pick-up lines in Navajo. Maybe I’m over-thinking this dealio.

Ugh. So much to do. Manana, y’all.


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Cooking With Albert Einstein; Life Lessons Lost

Saturday, October 27th, 2012


So. I’m thinking that I’ll have reconstructions here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe to a stage wherein the cooking of a Thanksgiving dinner for a crowd will be possible. As I drifted off to sleep last night, I was thinking about a probable turkey menu with potential attendees, and also about the urine-soaked Texas Absentee Ballot we mailed off to Austin yesterday.

Thoughts of the ballot stewing in our juices in its plastic sleeve until opened sometime Monday brought thoughts of how to brine and bake a turkey at 7,199 feet of elevation. Those thoughts brought dreams of me doing a cooking show with Albert Einstein. Some guy wrote a book about kitchen science wherein he used my middle namesake as the scientist explaining the mysteries of cooking to his personal cook, and me, I’ve always wanted to read the book but never have.

In this TV show, I was Albert’s cook and Albert was my advisor on mind altering substances. I’m known to have spent decades perfecting recipes utilizing naturally-occurring chemical compounds—Mr. Einstein took great length demonstrating that each of the treats I prepared were not simple moleculed ingredients but were quite complex in structure—and the menu on this dream show included several of my personal favorites.

We started with an arugula salad with pickled celery and onions, truffle-shaved fire roasted Peyote buttons and a raspberry vinaigrette. Big Al Jones (the famous scientist asked me to call him Big Al Jones) told the audience that fire roasting Peyote helped release the bitter drug from its cellulose casing.

“The drug in Peyote—a spineless cacti closely related to the colorless succulent named Mittless Romneyi—is a native to the Chihuahua region of Mexico and America’s desert Southwest. The psychoactive drug in Peyote is a bitter alkaloid that can bring a bout of nausea as a precursor to the high. While it is usually cut in strips and chewed or brewed in tea, Mr. Johnson’s method of searing and then shaving the small buttons can reduce the timing of hallucinogenic effects from something approaching 45 minuted to just under a half hour and, likewise, reduce the incidence of nausea.”

“Thanks Big Al Jones,” I said in response, “Now, how about you explain all about the Bufo alvarius and the dangers of over-ingesting toad sweat.”

Which reminds me. Gram, the P-cubed, Honor the fucking cat and Ralph the limo driver are still missing. They disappeared Tuesday afternoon when the long stretched Hummer pulled away from the curb at La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe and headed, as Gram told me when she said, “We’re a headed inta tha mountains, Mooner. Penelope wants her a mountain man an we’re gonna git her one.”

When I reminded my randy old grandmother that New Mexico has eighty-nine named mountain ranges than range all over the fucking place, she said to me, she said, “Oh, who gives a shit which-a-one, Mooner. The P-cubed wants her a coonskin hottie an’ that’s fuckin’ that!”

What, inthefuck, is a coonskin hottie even look like in the year 2012? Except for reruns of the old Davy Crockett TV show, I haven’t seen a coonskin anything in forty years.

Regardless, I told Gram to be home Friday night if she wanted to be a part of the first full meal I cook in the new kitchen. “Don’t simmer no vittles fer us, sonny boy, mountain men kin be tricky to catch. We might need ta set us up some trot lines.”

Trot lines to catch a mountain man? “What’s the bait?” I asked absently to the flat back end of the departing Hummer limo. “What will you use for bait?”

And what size hooks?

Anyway, dinner last night was a nifty tuna steak, baked potatoes with mushroom-infused butter, and steamed broccoli. Gram brought me some fresh mushrooms from her cellar and they proved to be quite illuminating. And that reminds me that when I last spoke to Mother she told me several interesting things. “You need to watch out for those homo-sex-u-als there in Santa Fe, son. I hear that the thin mountain air weakens your resistance to their brainwashing techniques. Oxygen deprivation they call it.”

I tried to have an intelligent conversation with her about how if I was ever going to be a homosexual it would have been after my only homosexual-type sex act. “You know, Mother, when that asshole Baptist Boy Scout Leader raped me. That was my big chance to become gay.”

“I never believed you were molested, Mooner. Mr. Spenser was a good Baptist family man. You made that story up to cover for your bad grades in school and for spending so much time by yourself. You should wash your mouth out with soap for telling such a lie.”

I was stunned. “Fuck you, Mother,” I said to a dead phone. I guess she had hung up when I was stunned by her not unexpected callousness to me. I try hard to not tell my mother to fuck off, but sometimes it needs to be said. At least now I don’t have to be in the same room when she punishes me for ruining her life. And that, dear friends, is heartening.

Anyway, again, my favorite casino has a last Saturday poker tournament and today is October’s last Saturday. So it’s manana, y’all.

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Support Public Education; Romney Still A Lying Prick

Sunday, October 21st, 2012


So. It’s another day in paradise—Texas beat Baylor in college feetsballs, the Santa Fe air is crisp and clean and I went and entire minute without thinking about sex. The sex I’m not having.

OK, stop. Can you think about something that is nonexistent, or can you only think of the actual thing and not having it? Sex you are not having is sex that never was, so, therefore, how can you miss it? I should be missing the sex I have had instead. I should be missing sex with SAC Ellen or Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, or one of my other ten ex-wives. Over my lifetime, I’ve had me some pretty terrific sex. Hell, it’s all been pretty terrific except for that one time my third wife and I fell asleep in post coital bliss down to New Orleans. On St. Charles Street. On the toilet seat. In the womens’ room at Chef Lagasse’s Delmonico restaurant.

I had the signature steak and Anna the Amazon—now my sister, Sister’s, wife—had the oyster special of the day. Anna came from deep inside the closet and fell in love with Sister when Anna and I were on our honeymoon, a story you can read if you buy my silly fucking book. Click over there =====}}}} to any Full Rising Mooner linkster if interested.

This was back before Emeril became a big time TV cook and he spent more time in his eateries than in TV studios, and Anna and I were engaged. Long story short, Anna and I were Bammed!!! and canned down to police headquarters, where I spent a lovely twenty-four hours with other miscreants and Anna, “Met several interesting female police officials,” as she later recounted.

Maybe I should have seen that early warning sign and saved myself a divorce, but without that honeymoon my sister would not have found her true love. Sister is one of my favorite people and I would gladly make that sacrifice again.

Instead I miss something I’ve never had. That sounds crazy any way I try to spin it. I was over to see Katy this morn at the Lesbian Soup site, and I found myself contemplating a sex change operation. See, Katy is going through a post relationship sex drought just like me and I like how she thinks and, likewise, I feel we would make a good match. My logic thread was that if I were a lesbian, Katy and I could live happily onward assuming Katy would move from Houston to Santa Fe.

Maybe I should speak to Katy before making a down payment on my operation. And maybe my ADHD has ruined life as we know it. My head is a swirling cesspool of stagnant and mostly malignant thoughts.

Look, what I’ve been trying to get to is to tell you that I no longer have a romantic relationship with SAC Ellen. My move to Santa Fe was seen by her as an abandonment while I saw it—romantically speaking—as an expansion. Where I saw new places to leave sweat and other bodily excretions together, SAC Ellen saw an out-of-the-way village that would take days away from her life.

Ugh. Ugh, and shit, and FUCK! I don’t have time to search and research for a lover.

When I was last speaking to Mother, my demented old bat of a mother said to me, she said, “Serves you right, Mooner. I told you those homo-sex-u-als were going to brainwash you.”

She then went on to inform me that President Obama is a closeted gay man who kills his male lovers to keep them from telling his secret. She said her preacher said that the Secret Service loans the Prez their guns. That would be a Southern Baptist preacher, an asshole I’ve not met and plan to keep it that way.

President Obama must have spent some time in Santa Fe and come under the spell of our local homo-sex-u-als. I’ve yet to meet the evil ones but Mother assures me they are everywhere.

Dementia is a terrible condition that afflicts millions of older people. When my mother first started showing early dementia signs, I hoped they signaled she would have the sort of memory loss wherein she forgot what a right-wing Christian shithead she is. But, and alas, my mother has become forgetful of the good in her life leaving her to focus on what seems to me to be her hatreds.

Mother was a teacher. A proud, hard-working teacher who cared for her student’s education and welfare. She taught hundreds of kids before retiring and many of them still keep in contact with her. She was a member and Representative of the Teachers’ Union, and she fought hard for better conditions for educators and students with vigor. She stood up against politicians and school board members when they tried to politicize our kids educations, and she championed efforts to help less privileged families find ways to keep their kids in school.

On the phone yesterday, Mother told me that teachers are what is wrong with public education and that she supports Texas Governor Rick Perry’s efforts to gut public schools in favor of privatizing education. “If that homo-sex-u-al foreign Muslim President is for it, then I’m against,” were her words when I questioned how she could turn her back on her own life’s work.

Then there’s Gram. I’m picking her up from the adorable little Santa Fe Airport in an hour and maybe that’s why I’m in such a good mood. Gram and her best buddy, the P-cubed, are coming for an extended stay. They wanted to drive up in Gram’s bright red Ferrari so they, and here I’ll quote the horny old woman when she said to me, “So we can pick us up some New Mexican hombres.”

I told her that I’d hire a car and driver to escort them on their courting outings and that she is forbidden from crossing state lines in her little hot rod. I haven’t had time to meet and greet every law enforcement officer between Santa Fe and the Texas border.

Anyway, time to head to the airport and time to say, “Manana, y’all.”

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The Doctor Is In; Can You Define Crazy?

Tuesday, October 16th, 2012


So. It’s now the morning before the second Presidential Debate and less than a month before the actual elections. Mitt Romney has evened the polls and I’m not concerned in the least. Never before in America’s history has there been such a clear choice between an honest man trying to improve the lives of our common citizens and a man who… A man who, well…

OK, let me ask you a question here—a deadly serious one.

Who, inthefuck, is Mitt Romney? What does he really stand for? I mean besides his willingness to say any fucking thing he thinks he can say to get elected. In the last six years of Herr Schmidt Romney’s Presidential campaigns, Der Field Marshall has taken opposite sides of every important issue facing America.

Think of this Important Issues Score Card:

  1. Abortion: For and Against
  2. Balanced Budget: For and Against
  3. Semi-Universal Health Care: For and Against
  4. Spurious Wars: For and Against
  5. The 47%: Against and “Huh?”
  6. Separation of Church and State: Who Fucking Knows


OK, let’s stop for just a moment. Since international policies are a subject with significant news cycle times, let’s examine Herr F.M. Rommel’s recent world views. On Iraq: We needed an extended war; On Afghanistan: We need a war extended beyond Obama’s scheduled conclusions (I think); On Iran: “Fuel-up the jets and load-up the Bunker Buster’s, boys, them Arabs has defied our wishes for way too long,”; On Palestine/Israel: Obama is a pussy, but it can never be solved.

When you listen to that asshole’s speech at Virginia Military Institute—America’s premier war college—you’ll discover that Mssr. Romney has an aggressive military solution for every international issue. It goes something like this: “If you don’t do what I want you to do, I’ll send other American parents’ children—in the form of the “Mightiest Military on the Face of the Earth”—over there to your place and we’ll kill your kids until you relent.

But again, who really gives a shit about what that giant flaming asshole says. He doesn’t mean a word of it. He just wants to be King… Er, President. It’s what he wants.

He’s not going to get it. These next few weeks will see his lies come home to roost and the media will finally put a face on them. We saw the start of that in Thursday night’s VP Debate.

Which reminds me. I rented a suite of offices for Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson here to Santa Fe. I received one of those “Get your ass in here for a therapy session or I’m locking you away in the loony bin” phone calls. Since I have no reasonable desire to cross back over the state line and into Texas for psycho therapy, I was forced to find a way to get my therapies locally.

“How about I decorate a room as your office and put you up here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe? You can theraporize me in the office all day and we can sex it up at night,” I told her. “I’ve got one of those dual control air mattress jobbies and we can add air to make one side real bouncy.”

Not to tell her secrets, but my first ex-wife used to love bouncy sex.

“Listen, buster, just because you can’t get laid doesn’t mean that I’m serving double duties for you. I’ll have my architect email my office requirements. I’ve always wanted an office in Santa Fe.”

I finalized the lease and the new office is something quite special. It’s in one of Santa Fe’s few brick buildings, and one of her windows overlooks the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum and the other windows have an up-close view of our adorable County Courthouse.

The reason I said, “… one of the few brick buildings in Santa Fe…,” up there in that last paragraph is that at some time in the past, Santa Fe cast in concrete an impressive City Ordnance. Among other stuff, this Ordnance requires that all buildings be built to merge with the land, look like it came from an old Pueblo, and be shorter than the State Capitol Building downtown. Obviously I didn’t quote the ordnance with precision, but if you’ve ever been to Santa Fe, you’d say, “Yep, uh-huh, that pretty much sums it up.”

Beautiful town. Nothing over three stories to block the light and views.

To celebrate the lease signing, I flew the good Doctor up from Austin and took her to dinner with a local couple who are our friends. He’s an attorney—one of only two attorneys I’ve ever met who would get pissed-on if catching fire in my presence—and she’s a straight-A student and ardent political activist. She’s likewise been in the same post-debate funk as my buddy Squatlo. But unlike Squattie, she was greatly heartened by the VP debate.

We ate at this nifty little restaurant on Johnson Street named Trattoria Nostrani—one of the best places I’ve ever eaten snooty food—and we sat in the back next to two quite charming men. As is my habit when someone asks how I feel about the current status of American politics, when asked at dinner, I said, “These neocons scare the ever-loving shit right out of me.”

“You got that one right, brother,” said the dark haired man at the next table.

“Yes, indeed,” was the words of his blond companion, the man sitting next to me across the short space between tables. “Sorry to eavesdrop, but it’s terrible what they are trying to do.”

The six of us then had a spirited discussion about the flippy-flopper and what terrible things this new brand of conservatives are planning for our country if they get control of it.

Which brings up what I wanted to tell you. The two men at the next table were well-dressed and mannered, handsome (as Dr. Sam I. Am later told me in the car headed to her Hotel), and they were quite good conversationalists. Neither had a tattoo on their forehead that said, “I’m a gay man,” but for some reason I believed them to be gay men.

When I got home and lay in bed with nothing to keep me warm, save the two loving puppies, it dawned on me that I have matured in a small way. As a younger, far denser man, I might have asked those two men if they were gay men. I wouldn’t have wanted to embarrass or offend them, but I might have asked.

Why would I ask a potentially offensive question of two interesting and pleasant people? Why would I have risked a fistfight or worse, hurting someone’s feelings stupidly?

Because I would have wanted to know—I would have been curious, because it would effect how I thought of them and how I interpreted their words. It would have mattered because as a much younger man, I still had some lingering prejudice towards not-heterosexual people. Not anything mean or angry, but just the simple fact that I felt that a gay person’s gayness mattered in the bigger scheme of life.

I grew up with a lesbian sister—lesbian from her first breath—and have spent my life supporting and defending gay people. But there is a difference in how I see gay people now. That difference is that now I see no difference.

It dawned on me that I didn’t care if those men were gay in any reference at all. I might have factored their gayness into their discourse re: any gay issues, but otherwise they were two interesting men talking about what a giant flaming asshole Mitt Romney has turned out to be.

When I had thought it through, I awoke the Squirt to tell her of my new-found maturity. The adorable lump of brown fur listened intently as I told her the story and of how I have become a better man.

“Is that it? You woke me up from dreaming of chasing bunnies to tell me what a wonderful man you are?”

Have I ever told you that Squirt dreams of chasing bunny rabbits, factual information that substantiates the old wives’ tale?

“Uh, well, yea, I guess that’s why I woke you.”

“Fuck you, shithead, I was just about to snag the rabbit. And you are not going to win the Nobel Peace Prize. Shut up and let me go back to sleep.”

She’s right, of course. A person with actual maturities wouldn’t brag about having them. In fact, I fear that bragging about what a wonderful man I am is a clear indication that I’m slipping backwards–I’m getting crazier.

Ugh. I guess it’s a good thing the Doctor is in. Manana, y’all.

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Herbert Clark Hoover Returns?; Reruns Of The Great Depression

Monday, October 1st, 2012


So. I’ve been thinking deep in the back of my flea-bitten brain, desperately trying to remember the economic policies of Presidents Herbert C. Hoover and Franklin D. Roosevelt when each was in charge of getting our America back on track from the Great Depression.

The reason for this brain research is that I have had these nagging memories and senses that there are some quite strong comparisons between those two Presidents and the two Presidential candidates in today’s America. While I will readily admit that I have an extreme personal bias regarding my choice in November, I have done some research that links that bias to the President whose policies brought a successful resolution of the Depression.

Further research likewise links the failed economic policies of the Depression President to the guy I really fucking don’t want to be my President.

The Great DEpression—like the current Great REcession—was sparked by Wall Street. In 1929, Wall Street was a mostly unregulated monetary casino where $Millions could be made, or lost, in a single day. Promoters could organize and market companies both with legitimate business interests and those that were simply scams.

People were allowed to purchase stock with little or no cash and when the Stock Market heated up after 1925, Americans were literally “betting the house” to purchase their stock picks—mortgaging their homes to by share certificates. Speculation was rampant and millions of Americans invested too heavily in stocks.

Since investment in a stock is, eventually, a value-based investment, a day of reckoning will come and a stock’s true value will be determined. In October of 1929, years of Roaring ’20’s speculative and quite high stock prices came crashing down with the reality that those prices were not backed by value.

Crash, bang and BOOM!

Today’s Recession was caused, basically, by a deregulated Wall Street speculating by promoting mortgage-backed securities that, again and quite literally, had average Americans “betting the house” on an investment. The main difference is that instead of gambling on stock purchases they couldn’t afford and that had no value to back the stock’s price, average Americans were gambling on home purchases with financing they didn’t qualify for on houses that were priced far above market realities.

OK, stop right here, Mooner. Nobody really gives a shit about all this economics. Folks who read here either already understand these comparisons or they don’t. If they don’t, they are either too young to vote or they don’t give a shit. So I’ll attempt to get to my point.

My memories of FDR are quite clear and abundant. He is one of my heroes. Like President Obama, FDR wanted to stabilize the support systems for the vast working class majority of our citizens and worked hard to create programs that generated jobs and social safety nets. Again, not to bore, but FDR created: The WPA, FERA, CWA, Tennessee Valley Authority, and the US Housing Authority—all of which created infrastructure directly and created jobs directly and indirectly.

By the way. Since corporations are now people, should we use the word “who” rather than “which”?

FDR created Social Security to better all Americans’ elder years and the Securities and Exchange Commission to try to prevent future Wall Street collapses. He created the Wagner Act to help promote and strengthen workers’ rights through trade and labor unions, and he worked hard to keep America out of World War II. FDR didn’t see war as the solution to America’s economic woes, and before our entry into that terrible conflict our economy was in a strong recovery.

President Obama’s plans are quite closely akin to those of FDR, and again I’ll not bore with details because it’s the other guys’ comparisons I’d like to demonstrate. To do so, please allow me to pluck a paragraph from when I Google searched “President Herbert Clark Hoover’s economic policies”. Here’s the quote from Ask,com:

“Hoover, a trained engineer, believed strongly in the Efficiency Movement, which held that the government and the economy were riddled with inefficiency and waste, and could be improved by experts who could identify the problems and solve them. He also believed in the importance of volunteerism and the role of individuals in playing a role in American society and the economy. Hoover, who had made a small fortune in mining, was the first of two Presidents to redistribute their salary (President was the other; he donated all his paychecks to charity).”

As you can see, Hoover and Mitt Romney made money in mining—Hoover mined natural resources and Romney mines other peoples’ assets—and each feels that America’s government’s are very wasteful. If you click over to the linkster for the Efficiency Movement, you’ll get a taste of what swollen-brained rich people thought of governments and the working classes one hundred years ago. You’ll see that Hoover thought government wasteful and the working classes to be “inefficient”. Further digging will show that the Efficiency Movement felt that most workers are lazy and require stringent overseering, er, I mean oversighting to gain ultimate efficiencies in the workplace.

Sound familier?

And if you read deeper on Hoover, you’ll see that he was a proponant of civil rights and pushed to get all minorities and poor Americans educated and trained and voting, just like Mitt…


Maybe I need to get myself a research assistant.

How about this second Great Depression comparison to today’s dealio? Herr Adolph Hitler took control of a Germany that was far worse off than America in that day. Der Fuhrer had a simple plan to get Germany back on its feet: Blame the Jews for all of Germany’s problems to foment hatred in a common enemy (think Muslims); Install Christian-based education systems (“Hello, Texas Board of Education”); Promote finatical nationalism; Create jobs by spending huge amounts af GNP on the military industrial complex; Inflict German system on other countries through military invasions, and, therefore and ipso facto, end Germany’s depression.

Does maybe that shit sound familier? Do the words “Herr Field Marshall Schmidt Rommel” ring any birthday bells?

My brain is going to explode. I think that I have so thoroughly distracted and confused myself that my gray matter has reached critical mass.

Maybe that’s how all of those Brittish people spontaneously combust while sitting in their easy chairs watching reruns of Upstairs, Downstairs. Their minds start to ponder the likenesses between King Henry the Eighth and their current Prime Minister candidates—and, POOF!

Which reminds me. I spoke to Mother last night and talk about your poof. The dementia is taking her memory, like “POOF!” it’s gone. If she was my aunt and not my mom, she’d be my batty old aunt, Mother Johnson. While she still remembers me, she just can’t seem to keep me placed in Santa Fe right now.

She hasn’t seemed to lose any of the right-wing Christian bigotry that is the chasm between us. When I reminded her for the fifth time in as many calls that I’m in Santa Fe, she said to me, she said, “Well just you don’t let any of those homo-sex-u-als talk you into anything, son. You know that they are good salesmen when it comes to selling their lifestyle.”

I’ll be glad when this election is over. Really glad. I’m hopeful that the Republicans won’t get full control of America’s dashboard but I’m actually fearful if they do. OK, maybe I meant America’s control panel.

And maybe my ADHD has fritzed the ever loving shit right out of me. So please allow me to say this: Drink Carta Blanca beer, and come back manana, y’all.

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