Archive for the ‘Herr Schmidt Rommel’ Category

Of Horses And Bayonettes; A Liar’s Story

Wednesday, October 24th, 2012


So. I’m up early this morning because I can’t sleep. Maybe I should say I’m up not because I can’t sleep, but rather that I’m unable to sleep. “I could sleep if I were able,” might be what I mean to say. And I’d be able to sleep were it not for the terrible noises emanating from the guest rooms here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe.

My Gram and Penelope Paxton-Parades—Gram’s best ever buddy—are here for a visit. Gram and the P-cubed flew in rather than drive Gram’s Ferrari and I had to promise to rent them a limo for the times they wanted to go trolling for young men.

“Git us one a them Humdinger jobbers, Mooner, ya know, one a them four-wheelers what can go up to the top a tha mountains. P-cubed says she ain’t never had her a mountain man an’ I wouldn’t mind one fer my sef,” was the detailed request for transportation.

“An’ make sure they put us one a them Creeper Crawlies inna trunk.”

I guess I’ve been missing the skinny goat hide and giant libidoed old woman that serves as the matron of my family because I’d already prepared for her visit. “I made a trip down to Albuquerque to stock up on some supplies for you two. Out in the store room you’ll find a case of your favorite bubbly, Carta Blanca and Mountain Dew; cases of Trojan Super Lubes and Magnum Armour XXLs; two rubber sheets; some ammonia capsules and a trashcan with a box of hazmat liners. As for your Humdinger, I’ve reserved a driver and a stretched Hummer limo for the week.”

P-cubed made a silly comment about “stretched Hummers” and we all laughed. They left the house yesterday about lunchtime after Ralph, their Humdinger driver, spent thirty minutes explaining the company rules and loading their supplies. When I un-crated the auto Creeper car sled, he asked me, “Why’s this thing got seat belts?” Gram answered, “Load ‘er up and come on back fer a testy rider.”

Ralph demonstrated far more native intelligence and fear yesterday afternoon that he seems to actually have. His is one of the voices traveling through the crawl spaces and heating vents in my old house.

Which reminds me. I was walking the dogs on the hiking trail that runs along the commuter train rails the other day and we passed Ali McGraw walking her black Scottish Terrier. OK, I assume it was her dog, but as nice as I hear she is, she might have been dog sitting. Or maybe she started one of those fancy dog walking businesses.

Anyway, the Squirt was in a pissy mood with me, so she started her snarky growl shit from thirty feet out as we encountered Mz. Love Means Never Having To Say You’re Sorry, and that set-off Yoda the goat dog. My former punching bag for a puppy mill hasn’t got much of a bark, but what he has is delivered with mucho gusto at maybe 25 decibels. As we got closer he was yanking at his leash like a crazed lion and barking like a lunatic.

“Woolpfh-woolpfh-woolpfh!… Woolpfh-woolpfh-woolpfh!… Grrr-woolpfh-woolpfh-woolpfh!!!” were Yoda’s repeated, slashed vocal cord warnings.

As Ali walked by I noticed that she is just as beautiful as when I saw her in Love Story,and the smile she graced me in passing stirred me something fierce. After taking another thirty steps I turned and looked back, and saw that she had turned back as well.

The Squirt stopped abruptly, her leash almost yanking my arm out the socket. “How are we ever going to get you laid if you just walk by like a dead fish? Yoda and I can bait and set the hook, dumbass, but you’ve got to reel them in yourself.”

The Squirt stood, eying me with lazer beams. “Miss McGraw is an animal rights activist, asshole, and she walks her dog every fucking day. Yoda and I had this planned-out to the second.”

“You guys did that for me? Why thank you so…”

Squirt stopped my thanks when she turned her back and walked away, and flipped over her shoulder, she quipped, “I read all about her on the INTERNET and figured she’d be a good match. Looks like we need to lower our sights so why don’t you walk us over to the retirement home on Alta Vista. I’ll act sick and the goat dog can act stupid.”

Which brings up another point. America—my beloved America—is within a few percentage points of electing a liar as its President. Not just a little white lie liar, a bold-faced, in-your-face liar.

The kind of liar who sells used cars or stocks or vinyl siding. The kind of liar who will say anything to get you to give him your money. Mitt Romney is a gutless lying asshole and he’s close to getting elected to run the greatest country on earth.

Then, again, maybe America is no longer the greatest country on earth. Maybe we’ve sold so much of our civilization that we’re mimicking the Roman Empire’s last days. I had a dream a few months ago where the Pope told me that Christian extremists were attempting to forge an Armageddon and artificially bring the End of Days.

Electing Mitt Romney would be a Hell of a start.

Fuck Mitt Romney and his handlers. Manana, y’all.


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Q: What Did You Do In The War, Daddy?; A: I Supported President Obama!!!

Thursday, October 18th, 2012


So. A friend of mine asked me to republish the following posting I did earlier this year. She seems to feel that some of us are missing important clues to Herr Schmidt Rommel’s multiple personalities and his Party’s designs for America. I wrote this in Austin after a trip to Santa Fe.

Fuck Mitt Romney, and please enjoy this as it is reprinted with the permission of the author.


So. It’s Friday and this Friday has started on happy notes. My good buddy BJ from over to Dumb Perignon has posted a pleasing summer ditty, it’s not too hot this am to spend time outside, and God came to see me again last night.

Having said all of that, I’m set to wondering why decent Austin weather and blog posts from Beej are happening less frequently than my visits from God. Visits BY God? My deity has been coming around so often I’m starting to think I might be imagining things.

When we were conversing last night, I asked the big Him—He was a Him when I asked this question—if maybe it was my ADHD that attracted Him to me. It has seemed that I’m more distracted with rampaging thoughts these last few months when God has been stopping by, so I asked Him, I asked, “It seems that both the levels of my deficited attentions and the frequencies of your visitations are connected in some way, Big Guy. Have I scratched a scab of truth here or am I delusional?”

“Yes,” was all the response I got and all I needed to gain the requested insight.

To some folks, having their God tell them that they are delusional would be unsettling, but to me it’s merely conformational. Hell, I know I’m crazy, for shitsakes, a fact that I admit, and often. But like a blind boar in an oak forest, I do occasionally trip over an acorn, or two. I do stumble and bumble through the smoldering swill that is my ADHD-addled thoughts and hit a thick vein of Truth.

And here I do mean capital “T” Truth. Truth as in God confirms that both the essence of the thought is spot on, and that it’s importance makes it worth repeating. Now you might be thinking at this particular point—a mere 280 words into this missive—that I’ve lost control of my faculties. But hang tight because first, I’ve never had control of said faculties and, second, what I’m about to tell you was sanctioned by God.

Unh-huh, that’s right, God Her Veryownself authorized that I disseminate this information to the Inet-mosphere. Here I say “Her” as He had morphed from a Western Biblical image of God into the spitting image of Jane Fonda as Barbarella.

God came to see me yesterday evening as I lay on the fishing dock, dangling my legs from the knees down in the water, and a fat doobie stuck in my face. I was maybe eight Carta Blancas into my day and I was alone on the wooden-planked structure. I needed some time to myself to sort a few things out so I had gone down to the lake for some solitude.

Like I said, I was laying on my back and swinging my dangled feet back-and-forth as I tried to grab a single thread of thought from the jumbled mess inside my head. Something has been nibbling at my soul for a week or so and I couldn’t put my hands on it. Some something was bugging me and I just couldn’t figure it out. I had lay long enough to get fully relaxed and I was just stoned enough to have a fully opened mind.

“Are you ready to talk about it or are you too fucked-up to deal with me?”

“Whaaa?” I barked, as I almost leaped into the lake from the flat of my back. “Who the fuuu… Oh, it’s you, God. How’s it hanging, Sir?”

God laughed deeply, heartily. “It’s hanging deep and wide, dude. Deep… And wide,” God told me with more laughter.

“You scared the bejesus out of me again, Big Guy. You’re not quite as funny as You think.”

More deep rumbles of almost demonic laughter and then, “Yes, I am that funny, Mooner. As a matter of fact, I invented funny.”

Hard to argue with God’s logic.

“I stopped by to help you out a little bit here. You’ve had your thoughts all pantie-twisted so tight that its tugging your mind’s pubic hairs into those painful little knots. I’m going to take them panties off your brain and shave you down to clear your head,” God informed me.

And that’s when He morphed into Barbarella. I had to try hard to look in God’s eyes and not at Her stuff. “This is somewhat unsettling, Ma’am. As you are well aware, I masturbated to Barbarella for months after watching that movie.”

God looked at me like I had said something funny. “You saw that movie eleven-and-a-half times, sonny boy, and you still masturbate to Jane Fonda.”

OK, guys, right is right and God was right.

“So what’s this big advice dealio you’ve got for me. I’m sort of busy now trying to be alone. Can you yippy-Skippy things for me so I can return to my solitude.”

“Don’t be boorish, shithead, I’m pretty busy myself. Look, think back on your last trip to Santa Fe and a specific moment of clarity. If you think it, it will come.”

And with that, God flashed me a dazzling smile, flipped Her hair off her shoulder, and vanished. I was left with nothing but God’s memory and a faint scent of Summer’s Eve.

Clarity in Santa Fe,” I thought, “clarity, in Santa Fe?” And it hit me. I was in a store on The Plaza called Santa Fe Hemp—a nifty place with hemp clothing and clever political statements. I stopped by to see if they are a customer of our hemp clothing factory but I never even checked their clothes. I was so enamored by the progressive message bumper stickers and cards and stuff that I never looked. I had spent at least an hour reading and commenting to the Squirt when I came across a postcard with a statement by Laurence W. Britt.

Mr. Britt has studied fascist governments, including Hitler’s Germany and Benito’s Italy, and he determined that there are specific early warning signs when a government or society are turning towards fascism. I was so impressed with this list that I bought the postcard for all of my friends. Here is what the card says:


Early Warning Signs Of


  • Powerful and Continuing Nationalism

  • Disdain for Human Rights

  • Identification of Enemies as a Unifying Cause

  • Supremacy of the Military

  • Rampant Sexism

  • Controlled Mass Media

  • Obsession with National Security

  • Religion and Government Intertwined

  • Corporate Power Protected

  • Labor Power Suppressed

  • Disdain for Intellectuals and the Arts

  • Obsession with Crime and Punishment

  • Rampant Cronyism and Corruption

  • Fraudulent Elections”


OK, first, please allow me to say a “Thanks” to Larry Britt. Second, I would like to say,

Wake the fuck up, America!!!”

I wonder if I can rent Barbarella on Netflix. Manana, y’all.


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Hey, Mitt–Mitty Baby. How’s THAT Obama Ass Taste?

Wednesday, October 17th, 2012


So. It’s a glorious day here to Santa Fe, New Mexico—cool, crisp and clean. OK, clean except for the continued construction debris that litters La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. The construction dust is covered with construction dust and I’ve started ordering my tacos “al carbon e sand.”

Which reminds me, what a gritty performance by our President last night. As predicted, Herr Schmidt Rommel gave a repeat performance of the first debate and our main man was very much on his game. Romney lied and obfuscated and gave nary a detail while the Prez was mostly spot on. I’ll not spend any more time to bask in the glory of a big win other than to say:

“Hey Mitt. How’s THAT Obama ass taste?”

I have a big day today and too much to do to sit here at my computer. And I’m hungry, so fuck it. 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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All Hail King Mooner; If I Only Had A Crown

Tuesday, September 25th, 2012


So. I read over to BJ’s place at Dumb Perrignon that Ann Coulter has criticized the Democrats for dropping their support of blacks in favor of courting the Latinos. In Mz. C’s eyes, America’s black population and their issues have nothing to do with Civil Cights and our immigrants from the South are all about it.


Then at Squattie’s place over to Squatlo Rant I read about how Herr Field Marshall Schmidt Rommel had openly wondered why commercial airplane windows don’t open and suggested that the oversight might should be corrected.


I’m starting to feel a small sense of relief over the pending elections. I’m starting to feel that the tide has turned on our Nation’s recent nosedive into the swill and muck of extreme right-wing Christian idiocies and back towards the middle where I think our political climate belongs. And while I mixed my metaphors there, I did manage to state—with precision—my current sentiments.

And how confusing must that seem? I’m a liberal-thinking person with the social policies reported in some circles to mimic those of Jesus; I think our military should truly be orchestrated as a Department of Defense only; I think it takes a village to grow a billionaire and that some of the resulting wealth should be taxed and returned unfucking equally to pay for the infrastructures of said village; I think that physical and mental health services are a required product of any advanced civilization; I think that Jane Fonda is still sexy.

But I think our national political systems need to be fair and balanced—middle road bodies of compromised conclusions. While I know that my ways to do things are far better and fairer than those of differing views, I don’t think that my ways should be the only ways, and I don’t think that revolution is desirable when things are only damaged.

Like America. I think we’re damaged but not broken. I think that most of the folks with far-right thinking are misinformed but not evil. I think that for every Rove or Coulter or Bachmann there are thousands of confused citizens who simply are not connecting the dots in the big picture of our country. Likewise, not every liberal thinks we need to stage a revolution of our own.

If I were King and this not a democracy of sorts, I would impose my will on the rest of you, and you would like it. OK, you would like it for the most part. I would enforce equality in every aspect of society and I would share our Gross National Product with a fairness not before seen. I would arrange an accounting system that would judge the cost to produce wealth—the incremental expenses to pay for roads and schools and hospitals and Police and all the rest—and tax all income under that system.

It wouldn’t matter if you were a school teacher or an oil tycoon, a movie star or a $50,000 per year fireman. The infrastructures required to produce your income would have an allocation to your income source, and you would be taxed accordingly. The more you earn, the more infrastructure was used to support the growth of your wealth.

For starters, the first $40,000 of earned income would not be taxed at all. No federal tax, no how. That $40 grand is what it takes to enjoy a basic American lifestyle in most parts of the country and the only taxes allowed on that income would be state sales taxes. And, by the way, all income is earned income. Corporations earn income just as people and religions would be treated just like the businesses that they are.

The only non-profit organizations allowed to not pay taxes will be required to apply 85% of all monies collected to the actual need they serve. If they can’t administrate on 15%, they can kiss my ass. And you’d better not be wasting donated funds, shithead. I’ll send your carcass to jail. Break my new banking and investment laws and I’ll jail you as well. Matter of fact, if you bend or break financial rules for personal gain you, dear friend, will be treated as a murderer. While I’m on the subject, if you are a child molester you’d best consider repatriation.

I’d limit state sales taxes to 8%. With me returning much of the federal taxes collected back to the states, those governments will be able to pay for their services on 8%.

After the first forty thousand, your income will be charged a “Use Fee”. Use Fees reflect what it costs for you to make your money. A fireman will pay less than an oil company. Oh, and in my system corporations will be people as far as taxes go. An oil company will pay for the roads used up by trucks that provide the company services, and all the other affiliated costs required to support their enterprise. The company will pay taxes based on gross revenues, not net.

Fuck your net revenue bullshit. General Electric—watch your back, mother fucker—King Mooner is gunning for your ass!

And holy shit have I gotten ADHD waylaid. I wouldn’t want to be King if elected and I’d likely get sidetracked with my mental illness and fuck things all to Hell and back. I’d be meeting with my Secretary of Defense, BJ, and he’d have set up a demonstration of our new vaporizer weapon and I’d suggest we share a few tokes of weed before we lunch on some pulled pork sammies and Carta Blanca beer, and we’d forget the vaporizer dealie and it would over-charge and blow up somewhere over to Iowa where we kept it hidden in a silo.

I wonder how much of Iowa would need to get vaporized before we’d miss it?

Anyway, I think the mark of a true semi-democratic society is that it compromises its way through its evolution, and I also think that I have spent enough time on this subject. Nobody really gives a shit what I think. When we were sitting out on the portal last night after dinner, I was talking about how I think that the current bunch of far-right Christian assholes are, at least, somewhat fascist.

One-by-one my son, his lady, and then the dogs excused themselves to go inside to pee. When the Squirt excused herself, I told her that I had planted the cute little patch of fescue bluegrass so she could pee outside. In answer, she said to me, she said, “We’re not going to pee, dumbass, we’re playing Scrabble. You have managed to bore the ever-loving shit out of us all.”

Whatever, I made some cogent points. Manana, y’all.


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Old Lease/New Lease; Mitt Romney Is Really Stupid

Wednesday, September 12th, 2012


So. After Mother announced to the family that she’s moving out this weekend, the family mobilized to pack her bags for her. I wrote to you guys about the move yesterday morning and then took the dogs with me to go pick up my new Rx glasses. Once we got away from the house and free of the terrible emotions of my mother’s pronouncements, I must admit that I started feeling pretty good. And well too.

I called back out there to ask Gram what I might need to get from the grocery store. “Fer starters ya can grab yer mother a case a Kleenex. That crazy bitch is already weeping like a busted whistle an’ she ain’t even gone yet,” Gram told me. “An’ we need one a them bung holy jobbers to finish packin’ yer Mother’s shit.”

Huh? My grandmother needs a bung holy jobber to pack my mother’s shit?

Oh, I get it. I told her, “OK, so Mother has already started packing to move and you need a bungy cord to strap her bags closed and Kleenex to stuff her snuffles.”

“I didn’t stutter, boy, an’ who said anything ’bout Mother packin’ her own shit?”

That cleared up everything. The family got pissed at Mother’s pissiness and decided to move her out in advance of her current lease expiration date. I guess my mother has stiff opinions to offer but a weak sensitivity to stiff opinions offered.

Which reminds me. While I think that President Obama has done a decent job with our military and international applications thereof, my antiwar natures still wish that he would pull back from Gaf-loonystan faster and that he would use our military technologies and might more judiciously. But I’m today reminded that my status as an antiwar human isn’t the only reason for us to think more than twice before playing World Police Chief.

In the way of evidence, I give you Libya. We step into the frayed fabric of that Middle Eastern cesspool to prevent their leader from slaughtering hundreds of thousands of his own citizens and our thanks are recent events there. In my personal opinion, the millions of religious freaks that populate that part of the world are much less dangerous to America when governed by the iron fist of a strong dictator than they are when freed to not govern themselves.

If you examine each and every example of the US using its military and financial muscle to intervene in another country’s politics, you will see the long term failure of the strategy. Start with Viet Nam and come on down, America, you’re next up on The Price is Just Too Fucking High.

If we had the money we wasted on our attempts to stabilize unstablizable chunks of mineral-rich political geography instead on sustainable energy resources, we would be energy self sufficient by now.

In fact, my Gram had what I think is a brilliant idea just the other day. “We need ta have all a them convicts and soldiers and tha fucking politicians all blow hard to tha south. Put one a them wind chime dealies down to tha border and make ‘lectricity an’ clean tha global blanket too.”

When I reminded Gram that having political blowhards blow hard would likely have little effect on global warming, she corrected me.

“Them silly fuckers can’t talk and blow too, Mooner.”

While I’m still skeptical as to the reduction of greenhouse gas with Gram’s plan, I can see that the noise pollution might be nearly cured. Add to that the total insane stupidity of Herr Field Marshall Rommel’s attempt to lie about the President for a political point over the attacks on American embassies and I’m even more ready to move to the Land of Enchantment.

Anyway, I stopped to get the Kleenex and stretchy straps and headed home. When I arrived, I found Mother sitting on the back porch amidst a broad assortment of luggage and black plastic bags.

“Why all the plastic bags, Mother? We have plenty of luggage to get you moved,” I told her.

“Your grandmother wouldn’t let me use any luggage but my own—said that since I bought a one-way ticket I’d use the plastic bags.” Mother sighed quite deeply and added, “I’ve never been more humiliated!”

Really? Arriving at her new address with plastic bag luggage is her most humiliating moment? Me, I was most humiliated when the half a Kotex pad I used to pack my infected ass fell out over to Dr. Sam I. Am’s place when I was mowing the grass that one time.

Or was it when I had a wet dream on that American Airlines flight back in 1982? That’s why I always wear long pants on the plane these days. And how sheltered has a woman been to have plastic bag luggage her most embarrassing moment?

Anyway, due to familial intercedence, Mother has moved a few days in advance of her plans. I asked her as she sat beside her possessions if I could load her stuff into the truck and take her to San Antonio.

“Oh, don’t you worry about me, Mooner. Pastor Browningwell has sent the church bus to pick me up. Now kiss me “Goodbye” and leave me alone.”

I did, and except to ask her to phone when got settled in, I have. That was 1 pm yesterday and we haven’t heard from her since. But I’m not worried. I’m relieved.

Sometimes life actually serves you the lemonade.

Manana, y’all.



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Howdy, Neighbor; Mitt Romney Is A Dumbass

Friday, August 24th, 2012

So.  Neighbors.  By definition, a neighbor is “one who is next to or very near”, and this morning I find myself contemplating the very essence of neighborhoodliness.  The stimuli hatching these swirling thoughts is, once again, the incredible science of Relativity.

You guys know Relativity, right?  That bastion of critical thinking that Rick Perry and the rest of the Right-wing extremists want to purge from our “Public” schools.  Ignorant fucks.

The foundation and background for my scientific thinkings is that I have lived my entire life calling a ranch outside Austin, Texas my home.  When I was born, our closest neighbors were over a mile away and the only way we knew they were there was if they called you on the phone, dropped by to say “Howdy”, or one of our cows wandered off to their place–the stimulus for a phone call.

Then again, they could detonate an atomic bomb over there–an act requiring critical thinking all the way around–and we’d have likely needed to read about it in the paper to know.  (An aside to readers.  This most recent critical thinking remark is chock full of entendre and complexities)  To provide clarity, I’ve lived my entire life with few neighbors spaced at great distances, relatively speaking.

The close-spaced neighbor yang to our ranch’s yin would be my new neighbors here to Santa Fe.  Our nifty little casita is in a subdivision–paved streets with sidewalks and stop signs and home lots of fewer square feet than my back patio in Austin.  In Austin I could fire a bazooka in any direction and not encounter a structure not owned by me.  Here there is a target-rich environment with houses and businesses spaced ten feet apart.

And each of those structures houses “neighbors”.

OK, stop.  This simple writing is about to be ADHD hijacked and turned into an epic wad of goat shit.  Fuck, and stop again.  Goat shit doesn’t wad, it’s pelletized.   Let me rephrase and tell you the we’re about to step into a pile of elephant shit if I can’t manage to find some focus.

Deep breath.  So, my new neighbors across the street invited me to his sister’s fiftieth birthday party.  Their house was built the year before mine in 1947 and it was her family home.  Originally a small 2 bedroom with one bath home, her parents raised ten children in the house that faces mine.  I have been on a tour and I can tell you that their home defines the word charm and the few additions to the original structure are form fitted.

And it has an aura about it–like you can feel the memories touch you from the walls.  When I first entered the kitchen–the largest room in the house–I got goosebumps.  My first inclination was to look over my shoulder for an Apache with a butcher knife ready to scalp the asshole with Texas license plates.  But I quickly realized the goosies were enchantments from a past.

I was told to go in through the garage anytime after I saw our street fill with cars.  I did just that and when I walked out from the garage onto the covered patio, I found it filled with two tablefulls of Senoras and Senoritas.  The each and every one looked at me in the same moment, and the Mrs. of the house ran across the patio to embrace me with a 5-foot one-inch hug to my six-feet plus frame.

“Who’s that?” was a chorus from twenty seated women.

“Oh, it’s our new vecino, Senor Johnson.  Su nombre es Mooner, como dejar caer sus pantalones.”

We all laughed–me the loudest–and my hostess blushed at my understanding of their native tongue.

One of the women, I guessed her to be late twenties and without wedding bands, said to me, she smiled a wicked smile when she said, “Is tonight a full moon or a dark one, Mr. Johnson?”

I didn’t get a chance to answer as I was whisked off to where the men sat at their tables.  I was seated, introduced, a Modelo beer was pressed into my fist and I was handed the plate of salsa and chips.  “Here, have some.  It’s not too hot.”

This came from the oldest of the men at the table and I could tell it was a challenge before the bowl of salsa even made it to the table under my nose.  I could see the hot Hatch chilis cut in large chunks with tomato, Jalapeno and onion.  And I could smell the fiery heat of the Habanero peppers that were the red and black dice in the bowl.  Since I grow Habanero, Jalapeno and bird chilis because I REALLY like hot stuff, this was a test I knew I could pass.

I also noticed that the bowl looked full and fresh as if it was yet to be dipped from.  I loaded a chip with a heaping pile of salsa, lifted it to my nose and said, “It smells kind of hot guys, is it really hot?”

“Oh, no, brother, it’s not too hot.”  We say brother instead of dude in Santa Fe and the not too hot comment was backed by a round of “No’s” and “Unh-uhs” and head shakes.

I popped it in my mouth and started chewing one of those salsas that has a three-pronged attack that is of the delayed action variety.  The first taste was of onion, tomato, Jalapeno and cilantro–a refreshing flavor.  Just as I was ready to swallow, the Hatch green chili hit the back of my tongue and throat.  When I swallowed, the Habanero struck like napalm at my lips and mouth.

Sweat pooped on my upper lip and forehead.  My nose started running and my eyes watered.

“Wow, guys,” I said.  “That is some tasty salsa.”  And I grabbed another chip and loaded up.

“Told you cabezas de nudillos, he was eating raw chilis with me just the other day.”  This from our host.

I loaded a third chip and passed the bowl back towards the man who had offered it to me.  He waved me off and said, “No thanks, I’m saving room for the hamburgers.”  Everyone laughed.

My host told me that his cousin Edna–the lovely young woman who had questioned me about the phase of my moon–was the salsa maker.  “Her salsa is her test for a husband, Senor Johnson.  She says she needs a man can take her heat.  Is your heart as strong as your tongue?”

Everybody laughed again and they poked and joked at me like I was a cousin myself.

Which reminds me.   Mitt Romney unveiled his fossil fuel-based energy program yesterday and said the stupid-most thing of this election cycle.  I’ll quote that dumbass here.

“We’re going to drill America to energy independence.”

Holy fucking shit!  We’re going to become independent by becoming dependent upon a limited commodity that ruins our environment?  Am I the only one that thinks that is the dumbest energy statement of the last ten years?  He’s going to drill it up the ass of all Americans to make his rich backers even richer.

Fuck Mitt Romney.

Anyway, what I wanted to say about neighbors and the Theory of Relativity is this.   In my entire life we have had my Austin neighbors over to our house for a party once every year.  I have always felt it neighborly to invite families who have been in our close proximity over for the Fourth of July BBQ.  But none of them has reciprocated in lo those many years.

Yet here in Santa Fe I’m invited to a neighbor’s sister’s fiftieth birthday party and family reunion within three weeks of my owning the house across the street from them.

Maybe it’s the close proximity that makes for more neighborly neighbors or maybe it’s that whole Land of Enchantment thingie.  But who really gives a shit so long as I can get him drinking Carta Blanca beer instead of Modelo.

Manana, y’all.


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