Archive for the ‘Home Grown Tomatoes’ Category

Tits For Tats; Ink-A-Dink-A-Doo

Monday, August 14th, 2017

So. There we sat, once and again, in the midst of summer heat, pondering the meaning of Life. The three of us—Squirt, Yoda and I—had mowed, or perhaps mown the grass, weeded the flower beds, harvested from our little garden a variety of tomatoes, hot peppers and two heavy cantaloupe, devoured BLT’s decked out with thick slices from one of the ripe Cherokee purples previously mentioned, and slurped a bottle of icy cold Carta Blanca each.


And before you animal rights shitbirds get all up in my ass, while the three of us drank three beers, the dogs got but one full saucer each, a fact much distasteful to the Squirt.


“So why is it you get most of three beers and we only get thimblefuls? I can barely catch a buzz from what you give us and how would you ever tell if the goat dog has had too much to drink? That goofy dog always looks half in the bag.” The tiny brown mixed breed puppy named Squirt stared at me as I drained the last of the three beers. She sneered at me and snarled, “You’re an asshole!”


She’s right, of course, but I am trying hard to be a good parent to my canine charges. I made so many mistakes with my human kids that I feel these late-in-life children deserve my best shot. I’ve been told by many good parents that their kids give meaning to their lives, so I’d decided to make my best effort to use that day for personal fulfillment. As the BLT and tasty Mexican cerveza was our breakfast, I told her, I said, “How about this- we’ll have another BLT and beers for lunch, and I’ll mix a big pitcher of Margaritas for dinner. We’ll keep a mellow fuzzy buzz going until bedtime. Does that work for you?”


It did, and as we watched the day’s temperature rise through a full stomach and beer haze, the Squirt brought up the dealio with the Catholic Cardinal now facing criminal charges for inappropriate behavior with kids. “Answer me this, Mooner. When a man has forced sex with a woman you call it rape, but when the same fuckball rapes a child you say he molested the kid, or abused her? Makes no sense. It’s like you humans see attacking a child as less horrible than with an adult. Makes no goddamn sense.”


“You’re right, kiddo. I’ve been saying it for years, what with having been raped as a child myveryownself. If you ask me, I think it’s because men do most of the raping and women can speak their minds aloud. Kids usually don’t even speak to their attacks. Using “molest” and “abuse” makes it sound a lesser offense, something akin to the animal abuse suffered by the goat dog at that puppy mill up to Oklahoma. But I’ve gotta tell you, in my mind any unwarranted attack is a rape of sorts, but specifically forced sex is forced sex, period. That’s rape.”


Which reminds me. Now that we live 40 miles from the Okie border, mayhaps we can locate the former owners of the aforementioned puppy mill, pay them a visit. The Squirt has threatened to snap their balls off if she ever sees them and Yoda has promised to eat the resulting mountain oysters in the raw. Would that be a molestation, or a rape? As for my own rape, my birthday next week will mark the 56th anniversary of that horrible event. While my rapist wasn’t a Catholic padre, he was of the same ilk—Baptist Deacon, local business icon and Boy Scout Troop Leader—using his credentials to bad intents.


OK, let’s do a current events refresher so as to put a harsh patina on the lens through which adult humans in civilized communities must now view life. Two world leaders, each with the smug and pissy demeanor exhibited in the stereotype of a spoiled, rich thirteen-years-old teenaged boy, are in a pissing match over which of them has the less small dick. My fear is that the blue-stained out-of-focus images of world instability we now see—much akin to a documentary filmed on a cell phone with a finger-smudged lens—will turn into those equal to a cheap horror film where fake blood is splattered onto the camera to bring the evil closer to home.


I don’t know what to say anymore as it relates to the immature person who is our president. What words haven’t been said to describe the negativities and possible negativities that are, and can be resultant, of Trump’s childish demeanor? “But, but, huh, he said what, what a moron, doesn’t he realize, ah, ah, ah, whatthefuck?” don’t seem to cut it anymore. Me, I’d never want to be in charge of the nuclear codes. What with the ADD, pot smoke and mushroom juice I routinely ingest, my occasional childish outbursts are inappropriate for presidential decision making. Then, and once more again, my drug-mellowed mood would make me less likely to anger up an order to nuke Venezuela, so maybe I am actually presidential material.


Which reminds me. As the years have worn down since March of 2010, so have the comments, and commenters, to the pages herein. As I stopped writing daily, then weekly, and settled in these intermittent scribblings, my readership and the attendant comments have subsided. My good buddy BJ is the last of those Mohicans, a steadfast and thoughtful correspondent presenting responsive fodder to my printed ramblings. And speaking of Baptists and commenters brings about another thought.


There’s this fuckball Dallas pastor named Robert Jeffress who tends the flock of right-wing Christians congregated in a north Texas mega church. The good pastor is Trump’s “evangelical leader”. This fine Christian man said yesterday that Romans 13 gives President Trump the divine authority to, “Take out,” North Korean Trump wannabe Kim Jong Un. I looked up Romans 13, and give it to you as follows:

Submit to Government

13 Let every soul be subject to the governing authorities. For there is no authority except from God, and the authorities that exist are appointed by God. Therefore whoever resists the authority resists the ordinance of God, and those who resist will bring judgment on themselves. For rulers are not a terror to good works, but to evil. Do you want to be unafraid of the authority? Do what is good, and you will have praise from the same. For he is God’s minister to you for good. But if you do evil, be afraid; for he does not bear the sword in vain; for he is God’s minister, an avenger to execute wrath on him who practices evil. Therefore you must be subject, not only because of wrath but also for conscience’ sake. For because of this you also pay taxes, for they are God’s ministers attending continually to this very thing. Render therefore to all their due: taxes to whom taxes are due, customs to whom customs, fear to whom fear, honor to whom honor.

Love Your Neighbor

Owe no one anything except to love one another, for he who loves another has fulfilled the law. For the commandments, “You shall not commit adultery,” “You shall not murder,” “You shall not steal,” “You shall not bear false witness,”[a] “You shall not covet,”[b] and if there is any other commandment, are all summed up in this saying, namely, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”[c] 10 Love does no harm to a neighbor; therefore love is the fulfillment of the law.


Now me, I’m no Bible scholar, and I’ll not waste your time translating the simple-minded concepts in this Romans quote. But I’m seeing some pretty significant broken branches in the First Baptist of Dallas preacher boy’s logic tree. Then, again, this is the same dickhead who’s built a giant Texas cult of doomsdayers by claiming the end is near for many years. Little Bobby Jeffress has been attempting to manipulate every global event into the final signal for Armageddon. And now he’s the lead religious counselor to our president.


Yea for us! So, since the end is so near, please pardon my wordiness and let’s all get together and Fuck Walmart!!!

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Homegrown Tomato Maddness; Clarence Thomas- Old White Man

Friday, June 28th, 2013


So. Summer’s here and so are the big forest fires that burn and blacken our beautiful mountains. Just as the fire scorches the earth and consumes everything in sight, our US Supreme Court burns and blasphemes a hundred years of increasing civility with one sweeping act. Fires are blind and greedy; heartless and dumb. Fires are indiscriminate—fire consumes each and every thing without prejudice, without emotion, without thought.

Some of our Supreme Court Justices—the five assholes it took to strike down the most powerful tool we have to enforce nondiscrimination in our voting booths—have acted with extreme prejudice in turning a blind eye to the continued racial hatred and distrust that seems to have managed to refill the ranks of the new neo-conservative Republican and Libertarian Parties.

This Justice isn’t blind, it’s instead five old white men who have chosen to not see the truth. And don’t even start to tell me that Clarence “Marshmallow” Thomas isn’t an old white man. That brain-dead and gutless shithead is the worst of the five. Just as a former smoker is the worst of we anti-smokers, a former black man is the worst of all racists.

I can just hear the fuck head. “Why, nobody has ever discriminated against me. I kissed so much white ass that I actually turned white, like a chameleon. Those darkies need to get a grip.” Then that Long-dong Silver asshole would add, “What I meant to say is that all of me except my dick turned white. You know how the white women love black dick.”

How can Clarence Thomas deny that racism is alive and well in many, identifiable areas of the United States? How can five of those Justices live with themselves having made this decision?

Fuck the five of them!

Which reminds me. Did you know that dogs cannot tell a lie? They can fuck with you with evil intent and they can withhold pertinent facts, but they can’t lie. Don’t have whatever it is that allows you to lie. As the owner of two yakking dogs, I can attest to the this as fact. Many’s the time I’d take Dixie—my beloved Golden Retriever and first speeched puppy—out to help me troll for women, and many’s the time she’d say, “I’m not telling any unsuspecting woman’s dog that you’re a good catch, fuckhead. No way I’m lying for you.”

We’d watch cartoons together, and whenever a dog character was on the show Dixie would be a running narrative. “That is NOT what we say. I’d never say that, that Deputy Dog is a fake. That’s a human trying to talk like a dog”

And my sweet Dixie has a special place for Walt Disney characters. “And that Goofy. Someone needs to put that asshole to sleep.”

Dixie is old and has retired to live with my good buddy, Streaker Jones. Her replacement, the Squirt, came to me as Dixie’s protégées, and why, inthefuck, is a single follower and student a plural? Why isn’t Squirt a protege? Fucking French. I’m starting to think that most of the stupidity in the English language is all the French’s fault.

I do wish we’d inherited the way they flip their hands dismissively. I also like the way they say, “Oui-oui-oui-oui-oui…” softer and softer and really fast until they run out of breath. I’m always looking for apparently unoffensive ways to piss people off.

Anyway, I’m sitting on the portal with the dogs with a snoot full of beer and a head full of my favorite bud last night. I was looking at the little garden in the raised bed—the one I surrounded with rabbit wire to keep the dogs out of the tomato plants—and I noticed that the four heritage tomatoes that were days from picking were gone.

“Whuh?” I mumbled through the haze in my skull. “Where’s the tomatoes?”

Yoda sat up at my feet and looked at me like I needed a lobotomy, and the Squirt jumped from my lap and said to me, she said, “I’ve got to go take a crap,” and she trotted off across the little patch of grass and around to the side of the house where I couldn’t see her.

Like I said, I was, effectively, wasted, so it took me a minute to remember what it was that had me all consternated. I re-lit the doobie, dragged another thousand brain cells to the curb, and emptied the Carta Blanca bottle hanging in my hand between the index and middle fingers of my left hand. I’m a left-handed beer bottle holder when I’m smoking pot, and have you ever noticed how comfortable a long neck beer bottle is when fitted between index and middle fingers of a hand that dangles off the arm of a chair? The easy motion of bringing the bottle to your lips as you sit, slouched from brain fog, is something I need to remember to thank God for the next time They pay me a visit.

“Wait a fucking minute… Wait just a fucking minute!”

Now the goat dog looked like he was the one needing a lobotomization. He suddenly jumped up and ran around the house to join the Squirt. And don’t you grammar Nazis even start on me about my jumping tenses. I was, am, and always will be an ADHD-addled fuckbrain who did, does and will do multiple-track thinking, so you will, should and have to put up with the textural blending of my sequences.

If you can’t handle it, go the fuck on over to Glen Beck’s place and leave me alone.

Anyway, it finally dawned on me that the dogs had acted mightily funnily when I asked about my missing tomatoes, so I walked around and confronted the dogs. “I know how much you two like tomatoes. Did you two somehow find a way into the garden and eat my almost ripe tomatoes?”

They each looked away. “Well, did you? Answer me, Squirtie girl, are you the guilty party, little lady?”

“Na-na-na… Na-na-na-na…” Squirt stammered. She was sounding like a Frenchman with the Oui dealio except it was like she was trying to say “no-no-no”.

“Squir-rt?” I slowly queried, “you need to an-swer me.”

“God dammit, Mooner, you know I can’t tell a lie. Yes, we did it. We’re sorry, we didn’t mean to do it, but we love tomatoes,” she said with what was not a small trace of indignity.

“But why, little lady, you know you aren’t supposed to get in that garden area.”

“Humph,” she went, “we’re dogs, idiot, we can’t help ourselves.”

“But how’d you get in? I had rabbit fencing run both ways up and down. A snake would have trouble getting inside. There’s no way you could get in.”

Squirt stuck her chest out and said, “We’re smarter than you think.”

“Bullshit. I made that fencing dog proof. I’ve watched you for six weeks try to get inside of there. Somebody must have aided and abetted you. Did somebody fix you a way into my…”

Have I ever told you that my mother doesn’t really seem to like me. Did I tell you that she was here a week ago and how I was thinking that things have gotten better between us?

“Squirt, did Mother fix you a way to get into the tomato patch? Did she?”

She puffed her adorable little chest out even further. “We’re not squealers, asshole, we’ll never sing like canaries. Eat shit and die.”

Eat shit and die? When was the last time I said that wherein she picked it up to pitch back into my face?

It took a few minutes, but I found the place where someone had cut and bent the wire into a Squirt-sized opening and then pushed mulch over it. Seems the dogs uncovered and then recovered the opening as they came, and went. I repeated a conversation Mother and I had while she was here and I was showing her the back yard. “How are you going to keep the dogs out of your tomatoes, son?”

“Not a worry, Mother, I’ve dog-proofed it with two runs of rabbit wire. They’ll never get in.”

Once again I found myself forced to sing that Don Henley song. “Forgiveness, forgiveness, even if, even if, you don’t love me, anymore.”

I need to call my buddy BJ—talk to him about the great relationship he had with his momma. He just lost her and is going through those tough times, and I’m needing a support group.

Ugh. Manana, y’all.

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The Garden Is In; Yoga Is For Lovers

Sunday, May 19th, 2013


So. The dogs and I have been landscaping and garden planting, and I must admit that I find myself both impressed with our results, and, likewise, satisfied with the efforts. The reasons I’m impressed with the results are obvious—good design, personal preferences considered all around, and strong team participation.

“No, no, shithead, get ones that already have tomatoes on them. I’m hungry.”

That was the Squirt when we were over to the Aqua Fria Nursery yesterday choosing garden plants. If you know anything about us Johnsons, you know that we are absolute freaks for homegrown foodstuffs and totally bonkers for tomatoes raised by our own hands. Squirtie and I were in the big greenhouse where the nursery keeps the dozens-of-varieties of heirloom and regionally-adaptive tomato plants that thrive here. We were arguing about “is it smarter to get healthy, barren plants or weak ones already fruited”, and I was pushing for strong starter plants. The diminutive brown-furred smart mouth wanted weak plants pre-adorned with snacks for the ride home.

“Sir,” a not all that friendly voice said from the open entry in the plastic-covered greenhouse. “There, you, sir, the big man in the dirty shirt with the noisy dog. Do you also own a white dog that looks like that Star Wars gremlin?”

“Why that would be my Yoda, sir. Isn’t he a cute little shitbird?”

“That ugly mutt of yours just ate our last three flats of Thai basil, five one-gallon spinach, and is now started on the Greek oregano. Will you be paying cash or credit, sir?”

When we finally had a tabulation on the damages, I told the Squirt as we were checking out, I said, “Well, at least his farts won’t smell so bad. Asshole’s been eating the stink weed growing behind the shed and he’s had the gag gas.”

My puppy giggled and said, “Yea, he’ll be farting Pad Thai and spanikopita gas. If he gets a-hold of the Italian parsley, he’ll be an international fart festival.”

Reality is often different than imaginations. I was awakened last night by bedsheets billowed with rancid dog gas and a pile of plant stems that had been puked half on the edge of my bedside rug and the other half on my socks. Which reminds me.

Am I the only one who has become more tolerant of stuff as I age? Ten years ago, just the thought of a mouthful of short dog hairs would stir my gag reflex. Now, I simply think of it as roughage. I don’t gak up fur balls like a cat, but I do often crap small patches of brown and white fabric. I clean up animal turds as a routine and don’t even bitch so long as it’s solid.

OK, stop. As I sit here bragging on my maturities, I realize that my growing tolerances are with animals and I’m becoming less tolerant of asswipe humans. The number of humans I want to thump on the nose grows daily. If I’m ever to meet that right-wing goat fucker, Texas Senator Ted “Cruzin’ for a Bruzin’” Crudz, I’mma wind-up a nose thwack like never before delivered.

Anyway, I was sitting here early this morning with my first cuppa Joe. It was a quite strong and bitter brew, my favorite. As I gazed at the small, just-planted vegetable garden through the open window of my office, the dogs were out back standing—tails wagging—with their snouts jammed through the small crack between the back gates here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. Squirt left the gates and walked over to push her head through the rabbit fencing I placed around the tomato plants. She grabbed what appeared to be the largest Cherokee Purple that was a week from harvest and trotted back to the fence. She pushed the dark purple orb through the crack, wagged her tail and ran toward the house.

I watched as the goat dog started grazing in the dill and mint section and heard tiny puppy toe nails ticking on the wood floors. The Squirt skidded the corner from the hallway into the office, jumped into my lap, planted front paws on my chest, jammed her face into mine and said to me, she said, “Shit, shower and shave, asshole, and put on your tights and that new Humane Society tee shirt you got from the animal shelter last weekend. We’re going to go yoga.”

“Fuck yoga, little lady, we’re cleaning this house today. We’ve got company coming the next three weekends, including Mother.”

Squirt jumped off my lap and headed from the room. As she left, she flipped over her shoulder, she said to me, “Fine with me, shithead. But just so you know, Rooster the Dalmatian knows a Chow dog from Second Street who knows Ali McGraw’s dog, and Khan—the Chow dog—says that Ali does yoga most days at the place up the street.”

That was six hours, one shit-shower-and-shave, and four hour-long yoga classes ago, and who would name a Dalmatian “Roster”? I’m cramped from ears-to-knee caps and I can’t feel my pecker. Balls are swollen from the natural squishing that happens with some of those stupid yoga positions, but that’s not a happy ball swelling. Happy ball swellings occur differently, more naturally.

Anyway, I couldn’t last long enough to see if Ms. McGraw made it to an afternoon yoga class today and now I’m too sore to clean house. And that reminds me of that tantra yoga shit—you know, that yoga wherein you’re supposed to have six-hour sex.

I now believe it’s possible, and that reminds me to tell you something that I have already forgotten. Fucking ADD. I’m having a cold Carta Blanca while I decide about dinner. Manana, y’all.

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More On Beers With God; Yoda Is A Goat

Saturday, May 26th, 2012


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wednesday, May 23rd, 2012


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This linkster is what popped up:


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

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

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

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

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

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Freak Storm Slams Garden; Mooner Memories

Tuesday, May 8th, 2012


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

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

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

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

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

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

Mother Nature is one smart bitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ugh. I need beer. Manana, y’all.

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How Much Bosom Is Enough?; Breakfast With The Johnsons

Monday, April 16th, 2012


So. We are all way excited here to Austin, Texas. Wedding bells will soon be ringing for Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh, and we didn’t get the predicted nasty-assed weather I was worried would wreck my garden. Last year’s garden burned all the way out in early June because of the drought and very hot Winter and Spring seasons. Last year, it was so hot and dry that you could hear the plants crack and split.

Literally. I would be walking through my veggie plants and there would be “pops” and “snaps” all up and down the rows. It sounded like a tragic Rice Crispies commercial. It was a terrible sound that I never want to experience again. Last year’s crop was pounds as compared to our usual tons of harvested tomatoes, corn, peppers, egg plant, cukers and squash and beans and such. We usually have so much that we give basketfuls away to needy folks every week. But a year ago we were buying fresh produce at the store and what was available at farmer’s markets, and we didn’t put anything back, either canned or frozen.

This year I got a jump on things. I started seeds in the greenhouse in November and began planting the garden the first week in February. Normally that early plant date would mean everything would freeze a half-dozen times by mid-March, but times are no longer normal. The sad effects of global warming are everywhere and saddest to me are with food production.

Which reminds me. Click on the following linkster and go over to watch this short video at Squattie’s place. It is totally hilarious. The linkster is:

I wish they had included an anal probe reference in that vid for more complete accuracies, but it is a real gem as-is.

I have a guest bloggie running over to wherein I’m seeking advice about Rick Perry’s request for fake boobies. I’m not smart enough to link you directly to my guest post so you might as well read Lady Estrogen’s guest post while you’re there. Unlike me, Lady E can say things simply and directly so it’s a quick read compared to my trash.

Anyway, early results over to Q’s place indicate that I should buy fake titties as a wedding present for the boys, and that creates an entirely new problem. The wedding dress Ricky chose is form-fitting and has to be ordered a month in advance. That means I need to get him measured this week or no dress in time for the nuptials.

I am taking him to the tittie doctor in the morning to pick the size for his new melons but I’m not taking Rush. That pig is totally disgusting. We decided to get an idea of what size would look best on the big bird’s chest, so at breakfast we tried things out to get the family’s opinions. I had a cantaloupe halved, grapefruit, one of those small water melons and some large balloons.

As soon as I told the table of Johnsons and attending friends of my need, Mother pipes up with, “I will not participate in this heretical display of  heathenism. It’s bad enough that you allow those two pagans to live as homo-sex-u-als under our roof. But I will…NOT… be a part of this fiasco.”

Gram, who had a mouthful of Irish oatmeal sweetened with maple brown sugar, snapped her spoon on the table and caught Mother’s eyes. “Whuf hu footh uh dho tathi bafoufh?”

“Indeed, Mommy Dearest, please tell us what in the fuck you are talking about.” Translating for my wiry old grandmother is one of my favorite jobs.

Gram managed to swallow her oats to continue, “Jesus shit onna shingle, Mother Johnson, you ain’t never happy with not a goddamn thing in life. Book yersef tha afternoon with Mr. Dave an git a clock winding. Have him do that dealie he does with the vibrator in yer ass. Ya kin have my time slit.”

“Oh my,” Mother blushed, but said not another word.

Me, I wanted to tell Gram it’s a time slot and also to ask the giant-peckered Mr. Dave what his vibrator-in-the-ass trick is, but we were, after all, eating breakfast.

Anyway, Squirt was telling me what Rick told her were his opinions as I held the fruit to his chest. I started with the grapefruit and worked my way from smallest to larger. Ricky was standing next to me as I was seated at the big kitchen table with the fruit on the table to my right. Rush Limbaugh was standing to the side, on my right, eyeballing every move. I placed the grapefruit on Rick’s chest—adjusted them high-to-low, and with different spacings—while the pig stared and grunted at every move.

When I got the grapefruit into the most favorable position, Rick turned to face his lover for approval. “Snoink, snoogle.” The domesticated porcine language is unnerving to most people when they first encounter it. I’m used to it and usually unfazed.

“OK, Rush, I think you’re right, “ I said, “the grapefruit are just too small on this big boy’s chest.”

The pig smiled at me and gave his lover boy a soulful look. Love comes in all shapes and sizes in this life, folks, and a male 350-pound African ostrich in love with 550 pounds of domesticated hog fits them all.

Next we did the same with the cantaloupe. When Ricky turned to Rush, the big hog’s eyes sparkled, but again he said to us, he said, “Snoink, snoogle.”

“All right, Rushie, but we’re starting to get out of hand. More than a bucketful is wasted. Let’s try the watermelon.” I try to be a good father and provide solid advice for all my charges.

I worked with the big melon, a difficult job as each half weighed seven pounds. By the time I had them situated in just the right spot, my hands were slippery with the juice that was now running all down the front of the ostrich. I didn’t get Rick Perry turned even half way to face Rush Limbaugh when the pig made his alpha male sex announcement and mounted Rick Perry. He had Rick on the floor and was attacking the watermelons like a madman.

“Why that is terribly disgusting, Mr. Johnson. Doesn’t your hog know about foreplay?” Mr. Dave is a true gentleman, and this randy display unsettled him.

“Rush Limbaugh isn’t one to let anything stand in the way of his piggish appetites, Mr. Dave,” I told him. Then I added, “And it looks like the watermelon wins the prize.”

I may never eat watermelon again.

Manana, y’all.

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Good Parenting Skills Are Hard To Find; Telling Rick Perry “No”

Friday, March 23rd, 2012


So. It’s a beautiful day here, one of those gorgeous May days our Austin Chamber of Commerce loves to brag about. Only thing is that it’s still March and we had our March weather in January. At this rate we can expect July to hit mid-April and destroy my beautiful tomato plants. My tomatoes are already knee-to-waist high and have flower buds all over the place. It’ll be a bumper crop with decent weather until June.

I was listening to the news this morning and it seems like the Republican Presidential hopefuls have taken a new tactic to win the hearts of their voters. These silly shitballs have decided to support President Obama in order to gather votes. Tactic change one is from the great tactic changer his own self, Etchin’ Sketchin’ Schmidt Rommel. The Mittster’s lead political tactician has said that come general election time, they’ll just shake the red-and-graphite-colored-Chinese-made-plastic box, and wipe out all of his primary positions so that they can write an entirely new slate of positions.

In order to reverse all his extremist right-wing positions, the former Massachusetts Governor will be forced to more closely align himself with the President. Former Senator and all-around funny guy, Little Pricky Santoria, has taken the tack that Obama is a better President than Mitt-A-Sketch could ever be. Basically, the two front runners have decided to imitate and support the President.

That, dear friends, is fucking brilliant. It seems that the American voting public really is stupid enough to fall for anything, as long as you make it clear that you are a christian and a conservative christian at that. Mark my words here when I say that the next step is for them to steal President Obama’s successes as their own. They’ll say that the economy is getting better and take credit for it. They’ll be bragging about saving General Motors and how it was their plan that got Bin Laden.

And please note that I am still holding the high ground in my plan for marginalization of all things right-wing and christian fuckwad. I will continue to lower-case them and theirs with impunity until I feel I’ve made my points.

Have you ever wondered who in the fuck named Boston’s home state “Massachusetts” and decided to spell it like that? According to Wiki, it’s named after a Native American tribe’s words meaning “on a large hill” or something close to that.

Bullshit. Some silly-assed Pilgrim school marm who hadn’t been layed in thirty years named and spelled it to torture school kids. Maybe I should have said “…silly-assed school marm whom hadn’t been lain in thirty years…”[.] Who’s and whose and whom’s and layeds and lains have always been problematical for me.

Speaking of tomato plants, why don’t we say “tomatoe plants”[?] One tomato is a tomato and two are tomatoes right? Well, my garden is filled with not only many different individual tomato plants, but also plants of many different varieties of tomato. So why don’t I have tomatoe plants? Come on you prissy Grammar Police, conjugate your silly butts out of that one.

While back on my tomatoes, I had all of my charges out to the garden early this am to look things over and to provide some life lessons. As a newly-dedicated father… OK, stop again. As a father with newly-dedicated desires to be a better parent, I had the two dogs, the fucking cat, Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry out to the garden to tend the crops.

I wanted to teach them that you need to love and nurture Life’s creatures if you expect the best from them in return. Since the recent rains have caused the weeds to almost jump out the ground, I wanted to use weeding as the metaphorical hammer to drive my points home.

We were weeding and talking about life when Rick Perry squawked about something. It was obviously important to him because the big ostrich was running in circles and lashing his head up and down. I couldn’t understand a word of it, so I asked the Squirt to translate for all of us.

“Well,” the brown-furred and adorable little interpretor answered, “his feelings are hurt because he thinks you aren’t taking him seriously. He feels disrespected.”

Huh? How do you not seriously take a bird that shits a ten-pound bucket every movement and can break your leg with one swing of his bowling ball head. “The fuck is he talking about? I take all you guys seriously.”

I try to not have hurt feelings with my kids but it can be difficult. “I allow him and his gay lover—a 550-pound domesticated hog—to live in my bedroom closet, for shitsakes. How much more respect does he think I should give him?”

Squirt squawked at the ostrich, who then squawked at Rush Limbaugh, who oinked and squealed at Squirt, who then turned to me and said, “You are such an asshole. Why can’t Rick Perry have a boob job?”

“Oh, for the love of god, is that what this is all about? Is this because I think he needs to think things a little deeper before getting giant rubber titties?”

This subject came up at dinner the other night and I basically ignored it the same way I did when Rush Limbaugh asked me for a sex change operation a while back. I always feel that the “First Ignore” sales approach is the best tactic to use when your kids have hair-brained ideas. Make them bring it up more than a few times before you take them seriously. Give them time for deeper thinking before attempting serious discussions.

Then again, Rick Perry lacks the actual brain cells required to have deep thoughts. Which brings a question to mind. I never really paid any attention to this until I was adopted by my ostrich, but have you ever noticed that an ostrich egg is the same approximate size as a mature adult ostrich’s head? Have you ever noticed it’s the same with chickens and ducks and robins and all other birds?

Wait, I don’t mean that all birds lay ostrich eggs, but rather I mean that birds lay eggs the size of their own heads. Except for a Duck-billed Platypus. I’ve never seen their eggs but I bet they’re either smaller or larger than their heads. Would need to be.

Anyway, we all discussed the concept of a gay ostrich getting breast implants to please his boy friend. Seems Rush Limbaugh is a breast man. I always figured him for an ass man as he has his head up his own, and those of others, so much. But go figure.  My five kids voted four-to-zero in favor of me letting Rick get his titties.  The fucking cat abstained from voting.  Cats, I’m learning, are trouble makers. 

Anyway, we’re going fishing down to the dock, and Gram and the P-cubed are heading the Ferrari down to College Station to fish for a couple young Aggie Cadets. Here’s hoping we all bag our limits. Me and my bunch are cracking the icy-cold Carta Blanca beers and baiting some hooks.

Manana, y’all.


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Rick Perry, Christian Terrorist; A Mooner Johnson Alert

Wednesday, June 15th, 2011


So. Since I have extra time to myself I’m able to catch up on my reading. That’s a good-news, bad-news dealie. I started rereading the Spenser series of books by Robert Parker again and that would be the good news. I have likely reread the series two dozen times. With ADD, I can’t remember the plot lines the day after finishing, so the series stays fresh for me. Spenser reminds me of me.

Except stronger. And smarter. Maybe braver and handsome-more as well.

The new-found free time, but one result of my recent dosing with skunk venom, has also allowed me to catch up with the many periodicals that usually go unread by me. Magazines are so celebrity biased and jammed with advertisements that I don’t enjoy them anymore. I did find one interesting discovery yesterday when I was scanning Vogue.

You know those tear-and-sniff and tear-and-scratch-and-sniff thingies for perfumes that are in magazines? The pages are always a different size than the magazine sheets, and there are so many in each publication that the fucking things won’t lay flat. Makes them a bitch to stack. We save all of our periodicals because, as Gram puts it, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Ya got room in yer barn an somebody’s gonna want my Grannies and Gangsters perscription one a these days.”

Indeed. I do have the room to store all of this shit, but since when does having the capacity justify the act? Sort of like what the Republican legislative majorities around the country are doing with their silly and sometimes abusive lawmaking.

I think I have also had a revelation about the ADHD, insight if you will. When I have free time on my hands my brain tends to fritz more frequently, more strongly and for more duration of fritz events. I went to the bookcase in the study to find the next Spenser book to read, saw a spider on the floor, and went to the kitchen to get the broom and dustpan to remove the spider. I try not to kill critters, I simply attempt to remove them.

Sometimes this “removal so as to do no harm by killing” philosophy blows up in my face. Like with fucking skunks.

When I got to the kitchen, Gram was sitting at the big bar top and told me that if I got my smelly skunk ass within fifteen feet of her she’s dumping a double load of buckshot in me. As her 12-gage was sitting on the floor propped beside her chair, I took the threat in earnest. So, I was working my way to the pantry, located on the other side of the kitchen from where Gram sat to the bar, with my back pressed against the wall, cabinets and appliances.

I felt sort of stupid, like some dumbass in a movie who is walking on the building ledge outside the windows– hands behind to keep contact with the building, and feet shuffling sideways as I scooted. Who in their right mind is stepping out a fifty-story window to walk on a three-inch ledge?

When I got to the pantry, I opened the door, turned the light on and quickly shut the door on Gram’s beady-eyed glare. When I came out six hours later, I had reorganized the entire pantry. Instead of having the stored goods racked according to varieties, alphabetically, I did my best to place things together as they are used together. Like I had the pastas with the olive oils, the rice with the olive oils, and so forth.

I’m lucky I have so many bottles of olive oils. Olives and olive oil are some of nature’s magic acts, like tomatoes.

Anyway, the spider was gone by the time I got back to the study, and I don’t like the perfume ad dealies in magazines except to say that, in their existence they caused me to realize not only that idle time plays the devil with my ADHD, but also that many perfumes have undertones of skunk venom in their aromas.

Somehow I knew this already, but sniffing a few hundred magazine perfume ad samples burned the knowledge deep into my gray matter.

The time alone has also allowed me to think more about Texas governor, Rick “God Anointed Me King” Perry. Thinking about that little Christian terrorist makes my brain hurt. I think he might be the most dangerous man in America. I fear for our country if his brand of politics gains purchase across the country.

Thank God for Carta Blanca beer, magic mushroom juice and homegrown tomatoes. Loneliness is a terrible thing to waste. Manana, y’all.

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Smoked Tomato Camel Toe Contest; @Reckmonster, @Thundercat832 and @ADaftScot Compete

Tuesday, June 7th, 2011


So. I awoke at 3:34 am to the sounds of barnyard sex. At least I think the huffing and ass smacking and grunting were barnyard sex. I hope it was barnyard sex. With Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh I can’t always be sure. My gay pig and ostrich are noisy as lovers and likewise during their daily routines as mates.

I needed to ask them how they made that ass-smacking noise. The ostrich has neither hands to slap an ass nor an ass that would make slap sounds when slapped. His thick, dense feathers cover all of his muscular torso. Slap the giant hog anywhere except his head and feet and it sounds like a slapped ass. Him having only hooves at the end of stubby legs, and we all know that hooves are ill-fitted to ass slapping, caused me to want to ask how they made the ass-slapping noise.

I had to ask. I had to fucking ask.

While I approve of any sexual conjoining among consenting adults, as a heterosexual man, I find many aspects of gay men’s sexual practices icky. I find many aspects of man-on-man pig and ostrich sex disturbing.

After hearing an explanation on the hows of their ass slapping, they settled back into peaceful, snot-snoring slumber and I lay awake. My eyes were burning from spending the day tending my big smoker, by brain was burning with the sick enigma of knowing that I would be perfectly willing, UNDER THE RIGHT CIRCUMSTANCES, to sex Sarah Palin until she walked bow-legged. And my heart was burning with pent-up desire to sex the SACster until I walk bow-legged.

I had been dreaming when awakened by Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry having sex in my closet. It was another fucking camel toe dream, and a dumb one at that. In this dream I had a motorcycle and the camel toe contest was to see which one felt best when the lady sat behind me for a ride on the Harley. The ladies were each required to wear white cotton undies, the kind preferred by my fifth ex-wife Roshandra Washington-Johnson.

Roshandra looks just like Robin Quivers on the Howard Stern radio show, and just the thought of her rich, black skin in those white cotton undies makes my heart skip a beat. But enough of Roshandra here. She’s in the fucking book.

So, the lady would sit on the back of the bike and snuggle her camel toe tight to my back. Now look, don’t start yakking at me about just how impractical this would be. It was a fucking dream for shitsakes. My dream at that, and I really like camel toes. It’s sick, I fully acknowledge that as fact. But I love camel toes.

This particular contest, and all of my camel toe dreams seem to be contests, featured Sarah fucking Palin, Thundercat-32, Reckmonster and A Daft Scots Lass. The winner last night was the T-cat. Her pocket poochie was full and succulent. I find myself saying, “Robust,” even. T-cat was second to take the ride after Ms. Palin, and the Reckmonster was next up when my silly-assed closeted gay pets woke me. T-cat won by default, but her’s was a winner under any circumstances.

Something always prevents me from evaluating the Reckster’s toe. For some strange reason I have never seen the Reckmonster’s lady meat in any of my dreams. Maybe I better ask Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson about that one.

Now, as I tell you about this dream, I realize that tomato camel toes were in the dream too. You know how sometimes tomatoes grow in interesting shapes? Quite often they grow in the shape of a camel toe. But holy shit am I digressing the points I intended when I fired-up my PC.

Squatlo asked me about why I grill and smoke tomatoes. Here’s the deal. OK, first, I am a tomato fanatic, a tomato nut case of significant magnitudes. I love to grow them, eat them, cook them, look at them and even dream about them. I relish all things tomato and I have learned to prepare and use tomatoes in all known ways.

Some unknown as well. Like the time I experimented with tomato juice as an enema. All I’ll say is that it worked.

Squat, grilled tomatoes are good for salsa– add grilled tomatillos, onions and peppers plus un-grilled garlic. That one we can same as plain grilled tomatoes. Makes tasty sauces and soups.

Smoked tomatoes are always slow-smoked in whole and also halves. Place the skin side down on the halvesies. Smoke the whole tomatoes until the skin pops then take them off. This is what Gram uses to make her famous catchup. The halves are left on until almost dry, and they are used to make tomato paste. And snackies. Nothing like a bite of smoked tomato followed by a deep swig of icy-cold Carta Blanca beer. Sweet, chewey and smoky goodness in every bite.

Gram’s catchup is crazy good. Now I’m signing off to go make some crispy hash browns to eat with the smoky catchup. I’m drooling on my keyboard.

Manana, y’all.

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Sex With Sarah Palin; A $50K Personal Appearance Fee Away?

Monday, June 6th, 2011


So. The early summer tomato harvest is finished and the big barn is brimming-over with the luscious red orbs. Efforts started early this morning moved from harvesting to processing. I’ll be in charge of grilling and smoking and Gram heads-up the sun drying team. Streaker Jones came at six am to help Gram and her crew to load up for the trip to his mushroom plant.

Everyone except Gram wears a hood for the trip. Streaker Jones is powerfully protective of the exact location of his psychedelic mushroom operations.

I’ll be smoking and grilling here to the ranch. I use a variety of woods, which I both blend and use separately, to smoke and grill tomatoes. I like mesquite for grilling. It has a flavor so strong and a fire so hot that I find it inappropriate for actual smoking. It can be too strong and make the food taste like nothing but mesquite smoke. If I wanted a smoked tomato that tasted like mesquite smoke I can always lick a mesquite briquette.

I also use oak, pecan, apple, peach and cherry wood. The oak and pecan are in big chunks of trunks and major branches. But the fruit woods are mostly smaller lengths of smaller branches and used in concert with oak or pecan. The Squirt wanted to be my main assistant for tomato smoking, so I assigned her the initial task of fetching the fruit wood sticks from the wood shed and stacking them by the smokers.

The shed sits maybe forty yards from the smokers, and I need a full cord of fruit woods for this year’s smoking. The miniature dog is thirty minutes into her job and already bitching about it.

“Holy shit, Bwana Mooner. C’est beaucoup de fucking bois.”

“Yea,” I told her, “that is a lot of wood. But you standing here bitching at me won’t get it moved.” Saying that embarrassed me. I sounded just like my Gram.

“Sie klang wie Gram, Senor Culo Agujero,” the soon-to-be-my dog said to me.

“I’m sorry, Squirt. I can be an asshole sometimes.” I hate it when I engage the same parental tools as my elders used on me. I stooped to pick her up and planted a big kiss right between her eyes. Her short fur is soft and sweet-smelling after our shower this morning.

Have I told you that Squirt and Honor the cat take showers with me now? We’re a fucking shower-taking sideshow. I’m teaching them to sing in the shower and our current song is the old Kinky Friedman and the Texas Jewboys hit, Waitress Oh Waitress, Come Sit On My Face.

Their favorite line is, “Eatin’ ain’t cheating, it sure ain’t no disgrace.” Mine too.

But here’s the thing. With Sarah Palin touring the country and saying stupid shit the last week, I had another camel toe dream with her in it. It was Sarah fucking Palin, The Daft Scots Lass and The Reckmonster in this one. The four of us were in the shower together with Squirt and the cat.

The Reckmonster made a joke by saying, “Look here, we’ve got four pussies, a dog and a giant asshole taking a shower together. Who needs the giant fucking asshole?” And they kicked me out of my own shower.

In the dream, I padded from the bathroom to lay on my bed, still dripping wet from my shower. I was there with my eyes closed and feeling sorry for myself, lamenting the loss of joy I was to have from soaping the three women into a lather. Then I felt someone snuggle into bed with me. Whoever it was sidled up beside me and began the prelims for a blow job. I didn’t open my eyes to see which lady it was because, quite honestly, given the proper circumstances I would have sex with any of them.

My order of preferences would be the Reck, the Scots Lass and then the brain dead Republican shitball. I don’t really know the Scottie except for reading her stuff over the last week, but I can tell that she’s my kind of woman. The Reckmonster can turn me on with a simple, “What the fuck?”

Sarah Palin is an elephant in a different room.

I’m ashamed to say that I would have sex with her. I have already spent maybe a hundred hours of therapy working on the problem. Translated into meaningful terms, my willingness to bang Sarah Palin is already a $20,000 problem. Hell, for a $50,000 personal appearance fee she’d likely come to the ranch and blow me.

Maybe not. That might be wishful thinking. Would I be breaking any laws to ask her? I guess my main concern would be violating the Mann Act. I could go to Arizona to mail my request since she’s in Arizona now. Seems she has an affection for the A states. But wait. Is the violation of the Mann Act if the request to break a law crosses state lines of if the act itself crosses state lines? Need to call Jeff, my attorney.

And the Scots Lass lives in South Africa, but grew up in Scotland. I’ve been married to an African woman, but not a white African woman, and not a South Africa inhabitant. I must be wondering about that stuff since she was in this dream. I find her charming and sexy as all get-out. But don’t go climbing all over my ass. Go first to the Daft Scots Lass’ site at and read some of her stuff. Then judge my affections.

OK, and I know she’s a married mother and quite happy and all of that. I’d still, under all of the right circumstances, sex her up. Just saying.

I’m seriously fucked up. But I’m loved and I have an ample supple of icy cold Carta Blanca beer to get me through today’s grilling and smoking.

Manana, y’all.

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What I learned In First Grade; What Punishment Ensued

Sunday, June 5th, 2011


So. I’ve got the whole crew harvesting tomatoes this weekend. It has gotten too hot for any new fruit to set on our full-size varieties, and the extreme 100-degree days are making their skins tougher than boot leather. This is the harvest time when we pick for sun dried tomatoes and also to roast, and smoke them. This is the off-season for Streaker Jones’ magic mushroom business, so we use his big commercial drying operations. All of the smoking is done here on the ranch.

From this point forward, only the smaller varieties will be much good for eating uncooked. The remaining large types will be allowed to almost over-ripen for making canned tomatoes. The extra ripening adds a little extra sugar and taste that holds up under canning.

Holy shit, I love tomatoes. Tomatoes, tomatoes, tomatoes! Yum-and-kiss-your-sister-yum!

Yesterday I made a comment here about something I learned in First Grade. I mentioned learning the N-word as a describer for a person with black skin, and how I took it home with me and put it to use. I can still shut my eyes and conger-up the taste of lye soap. Lye soap mouthwash was a routine part of my personal hygiene processes until I entered high school.

One of the many side effects of ADHD and its little sister, ADD, is the inability to filter inappropriate thoughts from your brain and remove them from verbal communication. As a kid I likely suffered the effects from my ADHD the most due to this particular side effect. And all of the advice on how to avoid the problem only fueled it.

“Think before you speak, Butcher,” my school teacher mother would advise me. Mother refused to call me Mooner until, same as the lye soap dealie, until I entered high school. Called me by my quite sophisticated given name, Butcher. Don’t even ask, because it’s in the fucking book.

Gram would say to me, she’d say, “Oh fer fucksakes, Mooner, you disruptive little shit. Why’nt ya put yer thinkin’ cap on afore ya open yer yapper?”

Nothing much was known about ADHD when I was a kid. In fact, I don’t think it was even invented until the early 1980’s. One of my sons has it and we learned of it together at his school-enforced visit to a state-sponsored psychiatrist. The doctor was a snotty little prick with a pinched-up face and really bad breath. Bad tooth breath.

Look, let me give some advice to you. Telling an ADHD sufferer to think more, or more carefully, before speaking is like telling a fireman to reduce the flames of a house fire with a few hundred gallons of jet fuel. It’s the thinking that sparks the inappropriate comments.

Better to say, “Stop thinking before you open your big yap.” That way you can limit the possibilities to a minimum few offensive remarks slipping through my lips. If I have but maybe six or seven different thoughts rolling around rather than my typical fifteen, the risk of offensive speech patterns is reduced by half.

Now I’m digressing, but you get it, right? Anyway, I made my comment yesterday about learning the N-word and that sparked Squatlo to tell me about learning to say the word “fuck” his early days of school. He got his little six-year-old ass blistered for its use when he got home.

Me, fuck was one of the first words I learned. One of the first words I heard since it was used as an exclamation upon my birthing. Again, in the book and, therefore, off limits for now.

I can hardly wait to get that fucking book into print. We’re working on the cover and all of the promotional bullshit to go along with it. I hate having big chunks of my life off limits. But I was never punished for using swear words at home. School was a different fucking bag of worms, but I never caught any shit at home for saying shit. Or fuck or hell or damn. Mother would do that deep sigh shit you get from martyrs around the world, but I was never punished for imitating my elders’ speech.

Anyway, Squatlo’s comment caused me to wonder what other folks’ experiences were like with the early days of First Grade. Tell us your stories. I’ll bet there’s some doozies out there. Come on Reckmonster and Thundercat-32. I can hardly wait.

Drink Carta Blanca beer responsibly, and come back manana, y’all.

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It’s A Crime To Let A Neighbor Go Hungry; Give To Your Local Food Bank

Friday, June 3rd, 2011


So. I have an action-packed Friday planned. We’re headed out in just a minute to go down to the garden to fill some bushel baskets with stuff to take to the Capitol Area Food Bank. I think that it is a crime to let a neighbor go hungry, and we grow extra stuff to give away. I also have a favored underpass over to Interstate 35 where we pass out stuff that can be eaten raw, or at room temp.

Don’t ever take homeless people leftover poultry.

While in the garden we plan to dig some fishing worms for a short trip to our lakeside dock. Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are not making this excursion. We just managed to repair the damages from their gardening adventure earlier this week, and Gram has unloaded the rock salt from her twelve-gage and replaced it with double-ought buckshot.

“I’mma plug yer fuckin’ hog, Mooner, an make me a pigskin quilt. An keep yer fuckin’ gay giraffe outta my sight too. I hate that fuckin’ bird.”

I know, I know, Rick Perry is a gay ostrich, but you try to straighten out my Gram’s logic. Long neck = giraffe. At least she’s stopped saying “queer”. My Gram has never been prejudiced except for when she holds something in disfavor. She grew up saying queer rather than “fag” because fag has always been disrespectful. When Sister, my lesbian sister, calmly told Gram that queer has become derogatory in the same way as the word “Negro”, my crotchety old gasbag family matriarch said, “Nobody never told me afore. Why in tha fuck do words keep changin’ meanings?”

Why in the fuck indeed. But whyeverthefuck words meanings change over times, I think that you can often follow social changes by looking at how certain words evolve in a society’s speech. And here, the word Negro is a good example. When I was a boy my family used the word Negro rather than any of the other words in common use by Southerners for people with black skin. I picked up the N-word during my first week in First Grade over to the school house.

Came home that night and said something stupid about the black-skinned boy in my class. We had run races at recess that day and I made a honest mistake. I said, “That N***** kid Jack can really run fast.”

Have you ever tasted homemade lye soap? And Holy shit am I digressing. I don’t have time to do anything but tell you how busy I am. I told you about gardening and fishing already. The fishing will be without benefit of any icy-cold Carta Blanca beer. I don’t drink and drive. Then the food deliveries and a trip to the Doc-in-the-box if any of my homeless buddies needs immediate care. I have a doctor buddy runs one of those emergency center dealies that isn’t a hospital. I pay for any medications required and he doctors them for free.

Then, it’s off to the picture framing shop. Squirt and Honor the cat want me to frame their mug shots. I guess it’s something akin to “baby’s first shoes”. I’m thinking that just maybe I’m committing some bad parental supervision here, but they took terrific photos, except for the cat’s left profile, and I find myself excited as well.

We’ll hang them out to Mooners Compost Plant on the Wall of Honor in my personal office. Squirt wants to place them on either side of my certificate for “The Most Inappropriate Man In The World” award. It’s a pretty thing– thick parchment paper with an embossed gold seal. Seal has little blue ribbons hanging from underneath.

Anyway, we’ve got to scoot or I’ll forget to do something, get sidetracked and get into trouble. Manana, y’all.

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The Best Laid Plans; Rush Limbaugh And Rick Perry Spoil The Broth

Sunday, May 29th, 2011


So. We finished a big breakfast this morning, and our holiday weekend plans went into full swing. I say “into full swing” rather than “into motion” because, quite simply, it is a far more descriptive describer to say that since our motions are more back-and-forth than linear. I always attempt to accurately scribe events here to the bloggie. And, again, I say “try” rather than simply say, “I always scribe accurately.”

Nothing in my life happens with any linear motion, everything swings back-and-forth with the ebbs and flows of the many women in my life. I have so many examples of how their mood swings send me twisting like a bed sheet in a tornado, I don’t even know which to tell you.

These distinctions are gathered to the forefront of my ADHD-addled brain due to events that occurred starting with said big breakfast. The breakfast was big in several ways– the assembled breakfasters, both quantity and quality, the food from the perspective of both variety and quantity, and the events taking place at the gathering.

Allow me to provide clarity to give you a foundation for understanding. First, the attendees included: Gram, P-cubed, Mother, Aunt Hilda and her shrunken-head-in-mahogany-box– Woodrow, Squirt and Dixie, Honor the newly-named cat (formerly known as Eighty-three), Streaker Jones, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, SAC Ellen, Gnat (my trusty assistant), Gnat’s beau (an associate of the SACster), Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry, and a one-pound live blue gill in a bucket of lake water.

The blue gill represents the strongest of his breed, the one-in-thirty we caught on yesterday’s fishing trip to survive the razor-sharp claws of my soon-to-not-be my cat. Aunt Hilda has taken it upon herself to blow air through a long straw into the bottom of the bucket to keep the water oxygenated, and she sucked instead of blew just the one time.

I think once would be enough for most anyone to get that lesson firmly fixed in their gray matter.

Streaker Jones brought us another gallon of the prized maple syrup he imports from this place that sits smack-dab on the US and Canadian border, so I made pecan waffles. Waffles are one of the near-perfect foods. You can cook almost anything into them, and the little grill pockets make perfect-sized cups to hold butter, syrup or whipped cream, and evenly distribute those condiments to each tasty bite.

I also cooked some bacon that I smoked with a glaze of the last maple syrup Streaker Jones brought, grilled flank steak ala Mexicana, eight dozen fried eggs, three loaves of seven grain toast (for the pig), one spelt muffin for Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, hash browns crisped in butter, sliced Merced tomatoes from the garden, coffee, Bloody Marys and, of course, Carta Blanca beer. And spicy homemade salsa.

We sat at the big bar top in my kitchen, the kitchen itself a separate wing we added maybe a dozen years ago. It’s 500 square feet features a commercial kitchen with walk-in friggie and freezer, huge pantry and attached cellar, big floor-to-ceiling window walls, with doors looking and leading out to the courtyard, and this bar that seats twenty comfortably.

What with the pig and ostrich seated, capacity is reduced to fourteen, so I had the cat sitting in my lap. I sat Gram at one end of the bar top and Rush and Ricky at the other, and I put Streaker Jones between them on one side and I sat across from him. That way we could intercede the most dangerous of the attacks mounted by Gram on my gay and closeted pets. Since I served grilled flank steaks, each diner had a sharp, serrated knife.

I’m a real stickler with knives. I think knives are to be respected, honored even. Knives should be kept honed to their sharpest and stored in cases or wooden blocks whenever not in use. And NEVER, EVER put a knife in the FUCKING DISHWASHER!

My opinions re: knives might be called an obsession. OK, my opinions on knives have been called an obsession, and also caused one of my divorces. Another story. Maybe my knife opinions are obsessions.

OK, fuck it. I’m obsessed with knives and I have very strong opinions thereto. Therefore, maybe. Shit, thereof?

Anyway, with a sharp knife within Gram’s reach, I felt it was prudent to keep sentries between her and my gay pig and ostrich. I’ve seen Gram butcher a hog.

Originally, my personal plans for the day included: a quick fishing trip with Squirt and Honor, a long and intimate relationship with icy-cold bottles of Carta Blanca beer, a relaxing afternoon at the BBQ pit cooking the cabrito that is our traditional Memorial Day weekend meal, and some serious sexing to cap off the day. Cabrito is goat, and I cook mine more like a roasted suckling pig than one of those Hawaiian steamed jobbies. I love crunchy food.

In order to get goat meat crunchy, I wrap it in caul fat. I love caul fat, you know, that fatty membrane that wraps animals’ stomaches. I learned to use it from a Sicilian woman years ago, and have seen it often on cooking shows. Like The Iron Chef. I love the Iron Chef. It reminds me of everyday cooking around here.

You can’t cook a goat in his own skin or else your finished product tastes like burned homeless mens’ sneakers, and I’m digressing the shit out of all of us. Not that the story about my having burned a box of sneakers I was taking to the homeless shelter isn’t interesting. It’s inappropriate for this posting.

What I’m attempting to say is that my day has already gone to shit. Gram made it clear that Rush and Rick were to stay at my side all day or else we’d have some specialty meats for our holiday feastings. So I gathered up the mini dog, kitty, 360-pound ostrich, 500-pound pig, a bucket and pitch fork, and off we went to dig worms for fishing.

Streaker Jones said, “I’mma go too. Be inner-estin’”

Dixie, SAC Ellen and Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson agreed, so they gathered some lawn chairs and followed us out to the garden for the worm gathering. When I chose the spot for digging, the group of observers set their chairs at the end of the two long rows of tomatoes. I started digging with my pitch fork, turning over the rich soil and exposing the worms to be gathered by Squirt and Honor.

Watching me expose the damp earth must have sparked some primal instinct from deep inside Rush Limbaugh’s hog brain. He snorted a half-dozen times and started rooting up everything in sight. I had a hundred tomato plants laying on their sides before I could stop him. I kept whacking his ass with the back of the fork, to no avail. Only when I confronted him with the business end did he stop.

Now I’m all sweaty and panting from chasing the hog and I can’t find the ostrich. I asked the observers, “Where’s Rick Perry?” and all I got was four fingers and a retriever’s nose pointing towards the cantaloupe patch.

The first near-100-degree days has brought the grasshoppers to the garden. Did you know that grasshoppers are an ostrich’s favorite food? Me either until this morning’s calamity recap and evaluation. Under intense questioning, Rick Perry admitted that when he sees a grasshopper, all fifty of his brain cells focus on nothing but the grasshopper.

Must be the same phenomena as suffered by his namesake, Texas governor Little Prick Perry, upon looking at a money man for a conservative political PAC.

So I’m goading my pet hog with the pitchfork, Squirt is chasing the ostrich as he slams through the garden snapping at grasshoppers, and the group of seated observers are laughing their asses off. I’m yelling and cussing my ass off when the reverie is interrupted by a, “BOOM!” Then a five-second pause and, “BOOM!” again.

Ever been pelted with rock salt that was hand-loaded into twelve-gage shotgun shells by a crazy old woman?

I’m just glad that I had a few rows of short corn plants between me and the trigger-happy old woman when she sparked-off the loads. The ostrich was caught terrorizing swimmers over on Lake Travis. The water is so low from the drought that Rick Perry has access to much of the lake, and the silly ostrich loves to primp and posture for any gathering.

Another shared trait with the governor.

Anyway, I’m just now getting the fishing trip restarted and Gnat has reset my schedule for me. The worst part of the new timings for today’s events is that dinner is moved back an hour, which delays the start of my planned sexing. I just hope that I can keep from fucking something up so bad the sexing gets canceled again.

Manana, y’all.

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Honor America’s Vets

Saturday, May 21st, 2011


So. My tomato crop is in full production mode and we’re harvesting bushels every day. Even after providing for all of our family needs, we have fruit left for donations. We can and sun-dry tomatoes in copious quantities, but ten acres of high-yield tomato plants can overwhelm even us when at their most productive.

A new product for this year is my recently perfected tomato-basil soup recipe. It has a secret ingredient that helps it stand out from the crowd. Streaker Jones wants to market it over to Magical Mystery Foods, our clandestine prepared food company.

I say clandestine since each item in our product line is considered illegal in each of the fifty united states. We have been trying to get Gram to let us market her potions for her but she’s too independent. And I’m glad.

Anyway, I’m usually at my happiest at this time of year because tomatoes, and all things tomato, make me very happy. But I am not so happy and rather find myself pissed. I’m so disgusted with our government that I’m angry.

I’ve been feeling sorry for myself because I was having separation anxiety over finishing my book. Since I’ve been ruminating over the way the US Congress has found justification for placing the greed of big oil companies ahead of education and veteran support, my mind was on both my personal anxieties and the vets.

With those two thoughts in the forefront of my congested brain traffic patterns, I posted a whiny blurb and compared my miseries to what a returning veteran experiences when coming home from Iraq or Afghanistan. I wrote that post because I’m a total brain-dead fuckball.

How dare I compare my silly mood swing to the tragedies of war. I know that inappropriateness is my hallmark, but I have too much respect for soldiers and other service personnel to demean their travails stupidly. And the worst part of this is that I didn’t get it until the Reckmonster told me that my story hurt her because she lost one of her vets to suicide the same day I posted my stupid shit.

Ugh. I am an idiot. And maybe the Reckster will tell the story and I can help promote the cause of supporting veterans as penance for my stupidity. Stupidities.

Which brings me to another issue. A buddy of mine, my biggest compost customer and Baptist man extrodinaire, has requested that I print something he wrote. I have known this man for twenty years and I know him to be one of the few Baptist deacons that I can call friend. He is what I think of as a true Christian man, and I admire him.

He has asked me to print his dealie here so that he can see what happens with it. We wants to have it printed in his church’s Sunday bulletin but he fears the retaliation and strife it might cause. I guess he wants to test drive it out here in the desert before parking it under the shade of the apple tree in the Garden of Eden.

Holy shit was that a remote analogy, or what? Allegory?

The title of his piece is “My Jesus”. I’m going to print it, maybe soon.

We must do something to upgrade the levels of support we provide our veterans. We need to finds ways to show our appreciation. I fear that we Americans have lost our honor. I feel that we have become so entitled as a society that we don’t know how to behave. We must restore our honor.

And I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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Kate Middleton, Osama bin Laden, Chelsea Handler Camel Toe Take A Vacation

Friday, May 6th, 2011


So. Now that I have your attention…

We are going on vacation. I decided to leave early, and the tour bus pulls out at 6 pm tonight. I told the crew that the bus leaves at 6-sharp, so be there or be left behind. It’s now 6 am, and Gram is already packed and sitting on the front porch with her old geezer-in-a-wheelchair.

“We ain’t missin this this wagon train, Mooner. Ole Cecil here, well he’s never been ta Florida.”

When I asked ole Cecil if going to Florida was on his bucket list, all I got was a wheeze of phlegmy breath and a look of stark-eyed terror. I then asked Gram if Cecil had some back-up oxygen bottles for the clear-tubed contraption that snaked around his head, and she told me, she said, “That ain’t my worry, Mooner. Nurse Judy– she’s the oxigeen an tha diaper lady. Me, I got tha Viagri anna toys.”

When she said the part about the toys, she patted a big Samsonite suitcase at her side. I got her that case in 1978 when she and Grandpa took an anniversary trip to Mexico. It is one of those big turtle jobbies with the indestructible sides, and large enough to carry half the books in the Library of Congress.

And also, it appears, large enough for a week’s-worth of my grandmother’s sex toys.

Mother has stocked the refrigerator on the bus with sandwich fixings, there’s ten cases of Carta Blanca beer in iced coolers (twenty more in the underneath storage dealie), and maybe two-hundred pounds of assorted varieties of tomatoes from the garden. There’s a bunch of other stuff but I don’t really give a rat’s ass about anything save my beer, my tomatoes and making sure that we have enough toilet paper.

Anyway, Aloha for a week.

Manana de la manana de la manana de la manana de la manana de la manana de la manana, y’all.

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Cat Scratch Fever; WTF Kind Of Name Is Eighty-three?

Monday, May 2nd, 2011


So. To catch you up on things, Squirt and I were abducted by a cat who participated in a massive escape from Cat Lady Prison, located over to East 51st Street. One of about one hundred fleeing feline inmates who fled the unbearable conditions, the little Siamese, named Eighty-three, jumped into the open window of my classic GTO and hid for her escape.

Somehow the cat lady, warden of Cat Lady Prison, had managed to know that Eighty-three had taken off with us and called the cops.

“You got a cat in there sir? We had a report that a man matching your description just stole a cat from over on East 51st Street,” were the first words the Deputy Sheriff said when he walked up to my window.

Eighty-three was sitting in my lap at the time, so even if I wanted to lie I was caught red-handed. Have you ever wondered where that expression “caught red-handed” came from? My best guess is that someone stole a chicken from a pot and their hands were red and scalded from the water. That or it’s a Billy Shakespeare dealie and it refers to bloody hands. Not that it makes a shit in the bigger scheme of things, but I was just wondering.

Like for instance, who was the first person to say, “What the fuck?” and why did they say it, you know what was their meaning. I remember when I said what the fuck the first time and I also remember the five swats the utterance brought from the assistant principal back to junior high. We were in Mrs. Browningwell’s class and that old Baptist gasbag said something stupid, and…

Anyway, the cat in my lap bristled at the officer’s words– back arched, hair standing up like she’d seen a ghost, and I felt each of the twenty pinpricks made by her claws as she anchored herself on my thighs.

I said, “Officer, I didn’t steal this cat. She stowed away to escape Cat Lady Prison.”

“This isn’t the first time that funny looking cat with no tail has pulled this stunt. It ain’t right a cat’s got no tail…” the deputy stopped mid-sentence, lifted his sunglasses and peered in at my face. “Oh for the love of God. You’re Mooner Johnson, aren’t you?”

“Why yes indeed, that’s my name. The cat in my lap says she’s called Eighty-three, and that cute little lump over there is the Squirt. You want my autograph?” I guess I’m gaining fame in law enforcement circles. “Just don’t Taser me until I call my girlfriend. She’ll want to be there to bail me out.”

Of course she’ll be pissed at having to leave work again, but pleased with her rewards. Every time I get Tasered I get a woodie to beat all get-out.

“I might shoot you, Mr. Johnson, but I won’t Taser you. I heard the stories about trying to get you into a straight jacket after shocking you. I want no part of that.”

It’s difficult to fit a 6”4” man into a straight jacket just for starters. His possessing a rock-hard stiffy adds layers of difficulty to the task.

“Look,” he said, “just hand the cat to me and I’ll return it to its owner.” With that said he reached into the window for the cat. Major fucking error in judgment.

Eighty-three hissed and spit when the officer’s hands approached her, and when he grabbed at her all hell broke loose. In a blur of cat fur and claws, a cacophony of spits and hisses and cat growls, and an, “Aiiiiiiii,” from the deputy, I witnessed the four-second shredding of a sheriff’s uniform. By the time he managed to extract his arms from the car, the sleeves of his shirt were tattered shreds of deep brown wool.

“Sonofabitch!” was all he could say.

“Holy shit, did you see that?” was the Squirt’s response.

After I got over the shock and surprise, I started laughing. Couldn’t help it. And, of course, my giggles started the Squirt. She and I laugh like little girls sometimes. We can be most inappropriate, like when Gram spilled gravy on her date’s lap and she starts cleaning it off at the table. I guess it was contagious because soon Eighty-three was laughing as well.

At least I think she was laughing. If a cat laugh sounds like a mix of hiccups, purrs and snorts, then the smelly little feline was laughing right along with us.

When I managed to get my giggles under control, I realized that the deputy was gone from my window. I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw him in his car. I stuck my head out the window to get a better look and that’s when he gave me that “shoo, go away” thingie with his hand. Made the gesture, repeatedly and with high energy. The shredded sleeve of his shirt looked like Hula skirt.

That particular moment is when my ADHD decided to seize control of events.

“Holy shit you stink; how you bathe a cat; what do we feed you; I hope Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson like imported cats; I need sex; will Eighty-three get along with Gram; I’m not cleaning a fucking cat box; do cats shed; I bet sardine shit make a terrible mess; can cat’s swim– what if cats can’t swim…” The jumbled thoughts spilled out of my mouth.

“Squirt. Ask Eighty-three if she can swim. And ask can she pee in the sink. If she can pee in the sink it will solve a bunch of problems for me.”

The puppy and kitty cat spoke in whispered tones. “She says she can learn to do anything, that as long as she feels respected and appreciated, she won’t any trouble at all.”

Ugh. That was the worst thing I could have heard. Every woman in my life has said those same words to me. I somehow manage to live my life in the attempt to show respect and demonstrate my gratitude to those women and all I get in return are giant loads of crap. The Squirt is the only woman currently in my life who doesn’t hassle my ass.

“Tell her respect is a two-way street, Squirt. Tell her she’s entering a world filled with strong, bitchy women.”

Squirt cocked her head and stared at me. “Qui estes-vous appeler une chienne, Senor Mooner. Are you calling ME a bitch?”

“Oh for shit sakes, of course not. Look, we need to get out of here and back to the ranch. Eighty-three needs a bath and I need a cold Carta Blanca beer.”

The cat stiffened in my lap again and said something to Squirt.

“She said if you think she’s taking a bath you better rethink things. She says cats don’t take bathes, they clean themselves, and thank you.”

Ugh, and ugh again. The bitchiness begins.

“Well,” I told them, “tell little miss stink bomb to get in the floor board at your feet so she’s safe. And tell her to get busy with her self-cleaning routine as we drive.”

I decided to give the cat a chance to do it herself. If not, I’d bathe her when we got home. Then I started ADHD’ing again. “What the fuck kind of name is Eighty-three; we need to rename you; I need sex; how do you bathe a fucking cat; will Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh get along with the cat; it isn’t natural for a cat to not have a tail; wouldn’t it be nice to have a fresh-plucked tomato from the garden with my beer…”

Manana, y’all.

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@Reckmonster And Squatlo Inspire; Back In Business

Saturday, April 16th, 2011


So. After a frustrating few months it appears that and its attendant bloggie are once again fully operational. I know you have heard this before, but I think I mean it this time.

As a computer dumbass I am always at the mercy of the strange digi-geeks and web lords who populate the world of my computer’s guts.

Holy shit was that a metaphoric nightmare of a sentence. What I tried to say is that I know nothing and the guys who work on my computer and Inet problems are like alien gods when they can fix my shit.

Dustin came through again. He has been trying to get me to switch from GoDaddy as the hoster company that serves-up my stuff for quite some time. As a loyal person, I make changes in my relationships with great resistance, so I resisted the change to Host Gator until yesterday.

OK, I hear the unasked question spinning through your brains. It goes something like this: “How in the fuck can a man with ten ex-wives maintain the position that he is loyal?”

Answer: “Easy, I’m a victim of circumstance. Both my marriages and divorces have been, for the most part, accidental.”

I’m in too good a mood to worry about explaining myself any further than that. My ADHD will not gain control of my thoughts, I’m too happy to get distracted. Which reminds me. Squatlo and The Reckmonster have said some things about gardens and I was planning to do a spring veggie garden planting tutorial when my site started crashing and I never got to it. So, let me summarize some of what I was going to say. I’ll do it in outline format as follows:

  1. Plot. Decide what you want to grow first. Then lay the plot out on a piece of paper. Organize your rows and mounds using the plant size and spacing dimensions for their growth. A crowded garden is a sad garden. Everybody needs room to grow.
  2. Prepare your soil. Use compost– the real thing, and only use organic fertilizers. And follow the fucking planting instructions for the liquid seaweed and stuff. Be careful of big box store bagged compost. It is often NOT actual compost. Not always, but often.
  3. Make water-gathering wells around your plants to collect water and deliver it to the roots of your plants. Once your garden has been properly plotted and planted, water is the most critical part of your efforts. “Too much, too little?” That, my friend, is the critical question. Read up on your choices, then water each variety separately. Those water wells around each plant will help you apply water where you want it to go.

OK, enough for now except to say that mushroom bedding compost and poultry compost are the best types for tomatoes in the many areas of the US wherein I have personal experience. If you have a choice and can choose mushroom or poultry, choose them. If not, pick whatever is your favorite barnyard animal from your options and you will get fine tomato crops. Love pigs– get pig manure compost.

Now, should you choose to not grow tomatoes in your home garden, go fuck yourself you right-wing conservative shitball. Get the hell out of here and logon to Leave me alone.

You can’t trust a man won’t eat homegrown tomatoes.

I’m cracking a cold Carta Blanca beer and slicing some Early Girls for breakfast. It’s a glorious day.

Manana, y’all.

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De-Civilization; Nobody Stopped

Wednesday, April 13th, 2011


So. I’ve been missing in action for a few days because my hand hurts too much to type. I had a terrible car wreck Sunday morning and smashed the Chevy Tahoe I drive for work into recycled, mangled parts. Luckily, I am basically OK, except for bruises, contusions and maybe some bone fractures in my right hand and foot.

I won’t discuss the specifics here because the man who ran a red light and pulled in front of me said it was my fault. I will say that ABS brakes, air bags and crumple zones in today’s modern cars likely saved three lives, and prevented any serious injuries.

I did have one of those slow-motion experiences and will tell you about it after the insurance companies figure what to do about the “He says, and the other he says the opposite” dealie. What I will now say is this.

When you witness an accident you should stop and render aid. It’s the law, for one thing, and the most basic of human kindness for enough more. This wreck was witnessed by people in at least a dozen other cars and not a single person stopped.

Not one single fucking person bothered to even see if the three humans involved in a major accident were OK. This wreck happened at a time when people were headed to church. I saw how some were dressed in church lady finery as they slowed to look for carnage but refused to stop.

My guess is that many said a prayer to their God that we were all alright, and I bet each said a, “Thank God that wasn’t me,” prayer during the reflection time in their church service.

I am terribly offended by my fellow man right now. I’m hurt and disappointed that I might have literally been ignored to death. If one of us in the accident had needed some immediate life saving help…. well that was just too fucking bad. These fine folks had an appointment with God at church.

My family raised me to put the safety of my fellow man at the top of my to-do list when I see one of those situations. I stop when I see a wreck, I stop when I see a car beside the road. I stop when I see someone in any kind of distress. I get involved when I see someone endangered by the actions of another person.

Don’t strike a woman, don’t bully a kid, don’t seriously abuse a waiter in my presence. I’m that guy, the big one, who takes sides for the little ones.

Gram says I’m too sensitive about this. “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Yer OK. Now shut yer yap an pass me tha tomaters.”

I see Gram’s point and I am grateful that I have but aches and pains, and a completely ruined large SUV. I just see this as one more bit of evidence that the human race is de-civilizing. Somehow all of the religious factioning is fracturing the fabric of humanity. Maybe that should be religious factionizing.

Ugh. Carta Blanca beer won’t soothe this one.

Manana, y’all.

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Don Pierre The Pirateer Pays A Visit; Tomato Dreams

Sunday, April 10th, 2011


So. I was deep in slumber last night and dreaming one of my recurring-theme dreams. This is one of my super-Technicolor jobbies with a cast and crew of thousands. These dreams are pirate fantasies and I am always playing the lead role as Don Pierre the Pirateer.

Swear to God.

I’m always dressed in fashion that would make Johnny Depp’s pirate character look butch. The ruffled, blouse-shirt I wear is white cotton and loaded with lace and lacy frills. I wear the tail out and over the top of my black leather pantaloons, and on my feet I’ve got heeled leather boots that further elevate my 6’4” frame.

All of my thick hair is black in this dream and it’s foppishly long on my head, and tied back in a lush ponytail with a gold beaded thong. I’m adorned with gold head-to-toe: rings, bracelets, earrings in rows hanging from multiple piercings, my giant felt pirate captain hat has a thick braided gold band, and chains of gold fashion my belt and adorn my boots.

My dense, curly black chest hair, showing from neck to mid stomach in the open front of my blouse, helps complete a mighty studly picture in black contrasted on white.

Each time I have this dream, the beginning is random– acts of pirating always, but sometimes attacking an English galleon to steal it’s booty, or ransacking some castle of its treasures. Or ransacking fair maidens of their treasures.

But every one of these dreams ends the same. Don Pierre stands on the balcony of his mansion that sits at the top of the main street in a harbor town. He has an unobstructed view down the crowded street and between the two-story buildings that line the cobblestones on both sides. Maidens in period dress are stuffed on the second floor balconies of the buildings, leaning over the rail and spilling ample bosoms in bright sunlight.

There is a Don Pierre the Pirateer song and it plays in my dream like a movie sound track. I have been having this dream for at least thirty years and the music is always the same. It is great music filled with brass and violins, and even though I’ve dreamed it hundreds of times, I can’t sing a note of it when awake. I can tell you that it is an ode to the man and uses his name multiple times.

At the end of this dream, Don Pierre, me, swishes out onto his balcony, removes his hat with a flourish, and makes an exaggerated bow to the frenzied crowd. He then spreads his arms wide in a sharing gesture, shuts his eyes tight and lifts his face to the sun, and is promptly awakened with a start by some silly fucking thing, every fucking time.

Last night the dream ruining awakening occurred at 3 am when Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry had a lover’s spat. My gay pig and ostrich were fighting because Rushie had hogged all of the homegrown tomatoes I served them for dinner and little Ricky’s feelings were hurt. The ostrich was boo-hooing like a little girl who had her pigtails yanked, and the silly hog started laughing at him.

Ever heard a 500-pound pig laugh?

I jumped from bed and threw the door open. “Shut the fuck up, you two. You just ruined another Don Pierre the Pirateer dream for me. And stop whining, Rick, I’ve got plenty of tomatoes and will have them for months to come.”

That seemed to salve the giant bird’s bruised feelings so I shut the door on my closeted gay pets, and lay back down. I started thinking, an always dangerous endeavor, and behind my shut eyes I saw vine-ripened homegrown tomatoes in a big Indian basket, and Rush Limbaugh the pig, both sitting around my kitchen counter. I got up out of bed, dressed in shorts and tee shirt, and padded out to the kitchen.

It’s 6 am now, and I just finished my third BLT sandwich and fourth Carta Blanca beer of this new Sunday. Streaker Jones makes this smoked bacon and ham, and sausage, and I fried a few pounds when I got up. I ate a pound on my sammies, and the rest awaits the women of the house. For tomatoes, I had purple heirloom, early girl and yellow grapes– one sammie each.

I’ll got coffee brewing so I could switch from beer before it’s too late, walked out and got the paper from its box at the road, and prepared for my first bitching-out of the day. Life is pretty fucking grand.

Manana, y’all.

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