Archive for the ‘Honor the cat’ Category

Cat News; A Ghost Story

Wednesday, January 22nd, 2014

 

So. I’m starting another day—the sixth such day in a row—wherein I’m free to make a twenty-four hour schedule without considerations for anything but the dogs and my veryownself. Honor has forced me into a required hiatus and I’ve had a belly full of the four walls here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. There’s only so many of New Mexico’s infamous dust bunnies one man can gather-up in wet paper towels. Which begs the question: Where, inthefuck, do all those dust bunnies come from?

Wait. I don’t mean Honor the Cat, I’m speaking to the other Honor, the personal integrity and single-most important trait I seek in other men. As for said and same fucking cat, Honor Johnson has been on hiatus from our company for several months. And you cat people don’t need to be getting all up in my ass about my lack of care and allowing, as so carefully said by one feline-obsessed reader when she said to me, she said, “You can’t let a cat run wild in Santa Fe, you inappropriate shit, the coyotes will get her.”

Honor Johnson—house cat to this brood of Texas transplants—has decided that the living is far better in the environs a block over and one down from the adorable stucco compound we call home. It seems that said cat finds life far better with a crazy woman and her dozen other cats than living here at Sane House with me and the dogs.

“Don’t be pissed, Mooner,” the Squirt told me when I ranted upon first learning that the fucking cat had changed addresses. “It’s what cats do. Besides, your ADHD is tough on cats’ nerves. She says she doesn’t need a hot tin roof when you’re around.”

“But I saved her from that last crazy cat lady who had her imprisoned with a hundred other fur ball pukers. She said she hated that stinking place.”

“She did, Bwana. But she was a prisoner with that woman in Austin and she says she’s a welcome guest at her new home. When I told her we wanted her to come back, she said she likes living with her own kind. Those are cats and cat people over on Third street, Mooner. Here at our place Yoda and I are dogs and you’re an asshole.”

The adorable brown puppy was right about living with the same kind as yourself. I’m guessing that a cat living with dogs and me would be akin to me living with right wing conservatives, like the Jimmy Swaggart family. Then, again, old Jimmy Swags did get him some poontang, a commodity I’m finding rare in the rarefied, thin mountain air of Northern New Mexico.

Which reminds me. I had this dream the other night—one of those enjoyable dealieos that leaves you awakened with joy—and in this particular dream my daddy was still dead, but alive. The dream setting was back to Austin and we were having this big “Welcome-back-from-the-dead” party for Daddy. The entire family was there—Gram, Mother, Aunt Hilda, Grampa (also, I guess back from the dead), Sister and her wife Anna the Amazon, Rush Limbaugh the Pig and the ostrich Rick Perry, Streaker Jones and Gnat.

I’d BBQed a whole hog, Rush Limbaugh’s favorite, and everyone else had prepared a favorite dish to go with the succulent pork. We all were enjoying the food and company and everyone was asking Daddy what it is like in the afterlife. Daddy wouldn’t answer any questions about his current residence, he’d only say, “Don’t worry, you’ll see soon enough.”

Ordinarily, I’d have found myself somewhat disturbed at having a dead person tell me that I’d be finding out what being dead was all about “soon enough”, but just seeing Daddy was plenty to chase all fear away.

We finished dinner and as the table was getting cleared, Daddy asked me to go outside with him for a chat. We took fresh Carta Blanca beers and a fat doobie and walked to the fishing dock that sits on a cove off Lake Travis. After sitting on the worn planked deck and taking several pulls of beer and doobie both, I was staring at the tiny ripples in the brown water—thinking how nice it was to sit with my father one more time—w hen Daddy asked me, he said, “How’s it hanging, son?”

“Hanging is a good word choice, Daddy. Seems I’m all up in the air over a particular situation.”

“Hmmmm,” my father hmmed me in a voice that was familiar yet not my father’s. “I just want you to know how proud everyone is that you held your honor. You’re a right strong shithead sometimes, son, but you’re good for your word. If all a man has is his word, he’s rich beyond gold. You’re golden, boy.”

I felt tears in my eyes, the tears that only a father’s approval can put there. Those were the words I heard my father speak hundreds of times when I was a kid. I realized, in the dream, that it was my father who taught me honor. Daddy taught me how to be a man.

I turned my head from water’s gaze to look into my father’s face. The words, “I love you, Daddy,” were in my mouth, but stuck there when I found instead God, and this visit He looked the spitting image of my friend, BJ. As a devout agnostic, it has been difficult for me to accept that God pays me somewhat routine visits. But as a man who tries to give all precepts fair review, I’ve grown to think that this God is my God, my personal imaginings of who God should be.

Said another way, If I was God, this God is who I’d choose to be. OK, this God is Who I’d be. I’d get to be the subject of intense and silly capitalization rules as well as all-knowing and all-seeing.

Fuck. I’d be All-Knowing and All-Seeing.

“Are you taking good care of your mother?” BJ God asked me. “She’s in one of Life’s hard spots, son. You need to have patience with her.”

“I try, Pops, but it’s so fucking hard.”

“She’s got dementia, Mooner. Try harder, don’t be such an asshole,” and with that, God disappeared in a poof of sparkled dust.

I recounted this dream to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson in today’s telephonic psycho therapy session. She says to me, she said, “Oh, my God, you do have a conscience! I’m calling Psychology Today to report an actual miracle has occurred.”

“Bitch,” I told her. Why “bitch” was the best shot I could take makes me wonder at the state of my own mind, and trying to be a more caring son to my demented mother is my new goal. I’m guessing that my God thinks that putting in the time isn’t the same as caring.

Ugh. Ugh-ugh-fucking ugh!

But who really gives a shit about my travails. I’m going to call Mother and make nice-nice and then I’m cleaning the floors of dust bunnies. Again.

Fuck Walmat and all the other greedy fake capitalistic goat turds. Manana, y’all.

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All That Is Golden Is Not Gold; Fuck Walmart Anyway

Saturday, March 23rd, 2013

 

So. As a well-traveled man of reasonable reasoning, I have long known there must exist a yang for the incredible enchantments that are New Mexico’s yin. There is no “perfect” anyfuckingthing, and each of the Universe’s ups has a down. My New Mexican yang was discovered Wednesday morning.

I was standing rooftop on a two-story house in Eldorado, New Mexico. Not an actual Zip Code, and not an actual town, Eldorado is a sprawling sketchbook of high desert beauty that is dotted with homes built in a somewhat thoughtful coexistence with Mother Nature’s beauty. The main roads meander for miles, homes are situated on quite large lots, and un-buildable common areas occupy large swatches many times more land area than does the infrastructure and habitats.

Whenever I reach a perch here to New Mexico, I stop and take a moment to look around. With over seventy different, specifically-named mountain ranges, our state has more varying vistas than the cut glass chards in a kaleidoscope—a complex word that I just spelled correctly with my first effort. When I wrote my stupid fucking book, I had trouble rememberating the word, much less its spelling.

Which reminds me. I’ve had but one applicant for my open position for an Editing Assistant. And that one applicant—the lovely and charming former editor, Cynthianne from the ABQ—has agreed to take the position just so long as she isn’t required to perform her job. To misquote myself when I posted the ad for this new position, basically what I said was, “I’m looking for a nice lady to rub my feet while I self-edit this shit before publication.”

What with the ADHD and ADD and all, my original drafts are daffy documents full of drivel. And misspellings and tense changes and wait. See right there? See where I should have said, “Changes of tense?” That sort of shitty grammatical crap litters my verbal landscape like so much fresh dog shit on the little rug everyone has beside their bed. You know, that little rug set perfectly so you can place your tootsies in comfort as you sit on the side of the bed—rubbing your eyes upon first awakenment from deep slumber—to contemplate your first conscious acts of a new day.

Fucking dogs. They wanted to take a long walk yesterday and I didn’t. They felt like cruising the walking trail that runs alongside the Rail Runner tracks, and me… I felt like I was getting water-boarded by my ownself.

“Quit sniffling like a baby, shithead, and take us for a walk,” The Squirt told me after several hours of bargaining. She and the goat dog had offered me everything from their promises to behave to threats of making my life miserable in efforts to barter a walk.

“I’d love to, little Missy, but I just can’t risk going outside right now,” I told her. “And that’s that.”

“Alright, fuckhead, you’ve been warned. On a brighter note, is it still whole fish Friday?”

Once a week I buy a whole fish from Whole Foods, cook it in an interesting way, and then place the head, carcass and whatever else remains after the dogs and I dine, out back for the fucking cat. Honor—said fucking cat—returns from wherever it is she habitates on those days not whole fish Fridays to visit and dine with the family. She purrs and rubs Spring sheddings from her long coat all over the fucking place, pukes fur balls of bones and feathers woven with the hair she’s swallowed hair into little sausage links, eats her fill from the fish offering, and then disappears.

Early this morning, I awoke with a head full of congestion and reached for a handful of Kleenex with which to blow my nose. I got my head cleared just enough to take an actual full breath through my nostrils, and took said full breath.

“Holy shit! It smells like rotten fish in here.” The stench of old fish and camel ass was strong enough to burn my half-cleared nostrils.

I turned and put my feet on that small, aforementioned carpet carefully-placed by most of us at our bedside, and squished both feet into piles of dog crap.

OK, stop. My ADHD has dislodged the train and headed us off into the wilderness. What I was saying is that I was on this roof out to Eldorado Wednesday morning. It was cool, crisp and windless as I surveyed the views of the Sange de Christo mountains and the golden hues of the rolling landscape between them and my house roof perch.

“The golden hues are beautiful, Jerry,” I told the homeowner upon whose roof I perched.

“I call it the Beauty and the Beast, Mooner. That gold you see is the Spring pollination of the Mountain Juniper. Some people are allergic to it,” Jerry told me.

We surveyed his roof for a good half-hour and stopped to look at the mountains a last time before taking the ladder down. “Look over there, Mooner. See where the wind is coming over the mountains and stirring the juniper trees?”

It took me a couple seconds to see what he saw. When I caught the sight, I could see the wind starting and puffs of golden smoke bursting from the trees. As the wind thickened and moved downhill towards us, the air quickly filled as if by a dust storm. It was actually quite interesting to see the sky grow golden as the wind pushed—harder now—towards us. The first wind hit my face as I held the ladder for Jerry, and by the time I said “Goodbye” and got to my truck, its white finish was already covered with gold dust.

It wasn’t until ten minutes later as I reentered the Santa Fe City limits that I first sneezed. Ten minutes after that that my eyes itched enough to want them scratched out. And within an hour of first exposure to juniper pollen, I became a test dummy for self water-boarding.

“We’re going to rename you Snot Bucket, asshole,” were Squirt’s words to me last night. “You’re hacking and spitting and blowing constantly.”

Anyway, I’m miserable in a major way and maybe the pollen will go away soon. Which brings me to this instant—the one wherein I’m first drafting today’s missive. I just flipped the page of my wall calendar to take a peek at April, and was greeted by a photo of one of Salvador Dali’s’ melting, exploding clocks. It’s a photo of the same Dali’ exploding clock I have tattooed on my left arm. The calendar has a different Dali’ painting on each month, and this painting was inked on my arm when I first learned that my father was dying from cancer.

Now, I can’t tell if the tears spilling from my eyes and the snot bubbles billowing from my nose are from the allergy to juniper pollen or my allergies to the loss of Daddy. But as my Gram always says, “Oh, who gives a shit, Mooner. Yer a fuckin’ mess. Now go put a bag on yer head an’ walk them two dogs a yers. Maybe you’ll run inta that alligater crawfish lady an’ git ya some poontanger.”

Huh? Alligator crawfish lady? “Oh, you mean Allie McGraw, don’t you, Gram?

“Lik’ I told ya, Mooner, I don’t really give a shit who ya choose so long as ya git yersef laid.”

After all these years my father’s death still leaves a huge hole in me. I loved him when he was here and realize that I took him for granted. The tattoo was a manifestation of my commitment to not fall victim to the slippery explosions of Time’s realities melting away. I think S. Dali’ was fantastically brilliant, and his insights into Time sublime. Take a minute to find some of his clock paintings and linger with them… See if you agree.

Me, I’m putting a wet gunny sack over my head and taking a walk with the dogs. Maybe Allie McGraw will be out with her puppy charge, and maybe the wet gunny sack fabric can filter enough pollen to prevent my death.

Manana, y’all.

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Are You Smuggling Dead Fish Or Is Your Cat In Heat?; Rick Santorum Quits

Wednesday, April 11th, 2012

 

So. I’m flummoxed, and dear god how I love that word. Since I’m more than bewildered, way passed confused, and said simply, as I’m dumbfounded and baffled to the max, I am, therefore, flummoxed. Since I have a limited vocabulary of words whose meanings I truly understand, there are few words I can use that are as fully descriptive as the word flummoxed.

I mean, OK, I’ve got the words shit and fucked and asshole and republican down pat as far as knowing precisely all their meanings and literations. And don’t even start on me that literation isn’t a word. A literation is, “The iteration of a word when you don’t mean the simple repetition of said word but, rather, you are speaking to that word’s unique combination of meanings that allow it to be used repeatedly in the same sentence without being repetitive, and boring.” [Id.- Mooner’s Dictionary of New American Words]

Perfect example: “The ignorant shit, Rick Santorum, shit all over women yesterday when he made a shitty comment regarding a woman’s right to make decisions about her own body and shit.”

To belabor my point, try this: “The ignorant fuck, Rick Santorum, fucked all over women yesterday when he made a fuckheaded comment regarding a woman’s right to make decisions about her own body, and other fucked up stuff.”

See—literations.

I could go on and on and on with other examples but I’m too flummoxed to give a shit. If you haven’t gotten my point on that one, you’re a right-wing conservative christian fuckball and, as I said, I don’t really give a shit. And speaking of the pompous asshole, Rick Santorum, he is why I’m flummoxed. Specifically, his not winning the GOP Presidential bid to become their next candidate has me flummoxed.

And holy shit is my ADHD on fire this morning. Have you guys ever been around a female cat in heat? Hey-sus-fucking-christimino but that is an annoying trick Mother Nature pulled on us. I was awakened last nigh at 2:31 in the am by my fucking cat, Honor. I’m all asleep and dreaming about having three-way sex with Joan Rivers and the Queen of England. Under normal circumstances, I would find both of those ladies somewhat out of my price range.

But with SAC Ellen out of town twenty-eight of every thirty days, my dreamscapes have become more widely populated. Now I’m getting the message that dreamscapes isn’t a word. Bite my ass Microsoft Word.

In this dream last night I was in a field of fresh mowed hay. It was sweet alfalfa and it smelled of chlorophyll and retsin as I lay on my back in a soft pillow of grass. I had Joanie at my right side and Her Highness on my right. Each was snuggled up and both were naked as Jaybirds. I want to say that if my dream is accurate, the Queen has got herself quite a rack. And Joan’s skin is remarkable.

Anyway, the three of us were deciding how they were going to divvy-up their individual slices of Mooner when the rank odor of spoiled fish ass invaded. The terrible stink was followed by the Queen screeching like a banshee and Joanie trying to rub her ass in my face.

I awoke with a start and was startled to find the fucking cat was standing on my chest, and rubbing her swollen little kitty poontanger in my face. The sound she was making reminded me of what the lamenting of those Sirens of ancient Greece must have sounded like.

I’ve washed and scrubbed and shaved my face six times and I’ve still got the smell in my nose. At breakfast this morning, I asked the table what I can do to stop that cat madness. Other than, “Drown her,” the best ideas were to simply wait it out. This freshening event must have been what spurred Honor’s desire for a mate. I likely should have seen this coming.

I did see Rick Santoria’s dropping out of the race coming, but I’m flummoxed none the less. My flummoxing comes at Ricky’s hands. While I have always felt the Herr Schmidt Rommel would be the republican nominee, I have always wondered if the republicans were really that stupid.

He is, they are, and I’m flummoxed. Do enough Americans hate our President so much that they would vote for a two-faced, lying, job killing chickenshit asshole instead? Are there that many people who will ignore the fact that Obama has done a remarkable job in getting America’s ship righted, and focus on the stupid, fake issues? Are there enough women in America to vote this particular republican into office?

I keep asking myself these questions. I keep hoping the answers to all are, “No fucking way!”

Then I see a 350-pound woman wearing a leotard and belly shirt over to the hardware store. There are rolls of fat pinched above her waste by the tight fabric of the pants, and her camel toe has double chins. The belly shirt—a tight, white cotton tee-style shirt with a deep V neckline—says, “Nobama in 2012—No Mo Monkey Business.”

I was with Streaker Jones or I might have done something stupid myself.

“Let ‘er be, Mooner. She won’t unnerstand.”

Streaker Jones is right. And the answers to my questions is, “Oh, man, I hope not.”

Anyway, I’m headed to the cheese store to get some Limburger. I’m going to wipe a little smudge on my upper lip and hope it cancels out the smell of horny cat’s ass. Manana, y’all.

 

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pope Still A Prick And Geraldo Rivera Is A Dick; easter Wishes From Austin, Texas

Saturday, April 7th, 2012

 

So. Just when I thought I could move on to happy subjects and away from the hypocrisies and redundant bigotry of modern christian dogma, the flouncy old queen of all things catholic gives two speeches in a row that manage to refocus my attentions.

Please note: Until the bulk of christiandom stops persecuting gays, lesbians and transgenders too, and as long as they attempt to enforce legislation that takes away a woman’s right to make her own choices about all things her body—I choose to minimize all things christian by using the diminutive version of grammar when discussing them. Said another way, I will not acknowledge their names with capital letters. Won’t use capitols either.

That having been said, her royal highness, herr pope bentdick the sixteenth—chief fuhrer of the holy roman nazi church—spoke on Thursday to warn progressive catholic priests of the dangers of pushing modernized ideology. These progressives would like to see women as priests and allow women to make decisions about their own bodies without incurring the wrath of the church.

Why, during this holiest week of all holy weeks, the old Nazi fuckball decides to dress-down his church’s free thinkers and attack womens’ rights is way beyond my ability to reckon. (E)easter, I would think, is a time to take a happy swim in the pool of everlasting life. This should be when the pope’ster jumps in that pool and splashes its holy water on all who would listen. I was raised baptist, of the southern persuasion, and not catholic. But I know that baptists and catholics share the resurrection of jesus as the central theme and center post upon which their entire religions were born.

Holy shit but that was awkward. Let me try again. It is upon the rebirth and resurrection of jesus that all christian religious dogma are founded. Awkward once more, but accurate. To get to heaven, a christian must be a true believer that jesus died a most horrible death on the cross and was then reborn to go home to see his daddy, god. I remain unsure as to the specificities of mormon ideologies on this issue, but hold steadfast in my thought that mormons remain one little ‘m’ from the truth.

If it were true in the literal sense, that all we need to do to have everlasting life in heaven is believe in jesus as our saviour, then shouldn’t the pope be a little more focused on that? Rather than chastise some of the boys for thinking for themselves, might he have gotten more into the spirit of easter? Spanking the catholic bad boys could have waited until next week. I mean really, easter comes but once a year and bad boys are bad the whole year around.

However, the pope is an angry old shitball who reminds me of Mrs. Leticia Browningwell—wife of pastor Browningwell at Mother’s baptist church, and my teacher for several classes as a kid. Leticia was forced to teach Darwin’s theories in Junior High science class and she did everything possible to not do so. Her first attempt was to skip those chapters in the book, but Streaker Jones undid that effort. He produced a copy of the lesson plan, previously filed with Austin independent School District supervisors, that clearly showed a week’s worth of schooling on Darwin.

This happened the semester after Streaker Jones and I were expelled from Leticia’s Spanish class and sent to the AISD central offices for “evaluations”[.] That story is in my silly book, a handsome addition to any library and available over there ===}}}} to my Bloggie Roller. You can also see the book trailer and a flattering review.

OK, wait. the review flatters the book and not you. But me, I think you are the cat’s pajamas.

Actually, anybody who can read their way through 600 words of this crap is the pussy cat’s PJs to me. Which reminds me. Honor, my fucking cat, told the Squirt that she wants to be a mommy. Told the little puppy to tell me that she wants me to help her find a suitable suitor and arrange a tryst. It seems that listening to Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry have sex in the closet has stirred her maternal instincts.

The noises made by my gay pig and his likewise homosexual ostrich lover as they grunt and shriek don’t stir anything in me besides an occasional, “Ick! Was that what I thought it was?” But it seems that the fucking cat gets turned on.

I will say this about Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry as lovers. Those two boys are incredibly unabashed and unreserved with their lovemaking. Maybe uninhibited is a better word than unreserved. Compared to those two, the Marquis De Sade was unreserved and my ADHD is on fire. I’ve so many disparate thoughts spinning inside my thick skull I can hardly think.

I didn’t want one fucking cat in the first place, and I for certain don’t want a houseful of cats. I only have the one kitty because I wanted to avoid another stay at Shoal Creek Mental Hospital. You can read about the Loony Bin named Shoal Creek Mental Hospital in the book after you buy it. Now that I think about it, my book should be required reading for this bloggie. That way I wouldn’t need to take time to reference it as often as I do, and I’d not need to pimp it so much.

Which reminds me to tell you about my plans for easter. I’m actually going to church with Mother and Gram in the morning. That’s right, for the first time in decades I’m willingly—and willfully as well—attending a service at the baptist church. I’m wearing designer jeans with artfully pre- torn knees, a University of Texas burnt orange hoodie and sandals—all made of recycled hemp fabrics and other byproducts—and a tasteful knit polo shirt made of hemp as well.

The shirt is white to match the base color of my mother’s pretty sun dress, and the blood red printing matches the roses printed on Mother’s dress as well. The printing says, “Jesus was homosexual because he washed peoples’ feet.” My lesbian sister and her wife both have foot fetishes, so my baptist Mother thinks all people who share the same interest in feet are likewise, gay.

Maybe I should go barefoot to honor jesus for choosing to follow his heart and show his love for all men. Now that I think about it, the shirt might should have said jesus was bisexual. He washed womens’ feet as well.

The hoodie is in honor of Trevon Martin and in defiance of any right-wing shithead who thinks that child’s murder was justified by a clothing choice. And by the way—Fuck You, Geraldo Rivera, you chickenshit asswipe goat-fucking turd ball.

As for the pope’s second stupid speech, screw it. I’m going fishing. Manana, y’all.

 

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Reflections In A Dark Mirror; Mending Mooner’s Mind

Wednesday, February 22nd, 2012

 

So. I was out early this morning to finish my fishing and reflections to complete the task that was interrupted by SAC Ellen’s booty call yesterday. I’ve got a crick in my neck from having my head jammed against the door of the truck, I’ve got a bloody patch in my chest hairs where a little tuft was twisted out, and I’ve got a bruise on my hip that would be a perfect match for a “Hello Kitty” gear shift knob. Ever since I was adopted by the fucking cat, everybody thinks it’s funny to give me “Hello Kitty” shit. Who even thought that there would be a market for “Hello Kitty” gear shifter knobs?

It does have a nice feel in your hand though. But everything in the entire HK line is pink, for shitsakes. I don’t think I actually hate the color pink, but I can say with absolute certainty that I don’t care for the color pink.

I do like Pink, the singer, and Arrowsmith’s song is a favorite romance tune.

SAC Ellen likes to be on top when we’re in a hurry and I’m A-OK with that. What makes me uncomfortable is when we’re in a hurry and the only safe room for sexing is the truck. “Why couldn’t I drive the GTO?” I asked her when we’d finished the sexing and she was getting redressed to re-board the airplane and I was blotting the blood from my chest. “The seat lays back in the goat and I don’t hurt my neck.”

She had a 90-minute layover—layover an appropriate double entendre in this case—and our sex was fast and furious. She told me, “I’ve banged my head on the roof of that damned GTO so many times my skull looks like a horse apple, Sweetie. Thanks for taking one for the team.”

With that she kissed me, handed me the soiled moist towelettes she’d used to clean up, and said, she said to me, “Keep this one close to your mind, Mooner. I’m not sure when I’ll get back to town.”

“You’re lucky it was good,” I said to her back as she slammed the old truck’s door. I watched her disappear through the big opening in the airport parking garage as she ran to catch her flight, and marveled one more once at how nimble she is on medium-heeled shoes.

I guess I’ll try to keep that memory close to mind—damned if there isn’t room for it. I’ve had so many thought strings banging around in the ADHD swill I call a mind that I can’t keep them all straight. That’s why I wanted to reflect and spend some time by myself yesterday. So, I grabbed the cooler—still packed with icy-cold Carta Blanca beers from yesterday’s attempts at reflections—rolled a fat replacement dubie for the one not left over from yesterday, made some sausage sammies to replace the eaten BLT’s from yesterday, and headed to the dock.

I thought of BJ as I was making the stacked sausage-and-bread pies. I put a fat-yolked eggie one each in Beej’s honor. He made me pork and egg sammies when I left his house last November so I wouldn’t need to stop to eat on my way home. He stacked spicy pork sausage, bacon and ham with fried eggs and I must say, “Yum-fucking-my!”

I forgot fish bait, not really a problem, and parked my ass on the dock with my feet hanging over the water. I snagged a little ball of bread from one of the sams and stuck it to the end of my hook before flipping the hook and bobber lazily into the creek. I didn’t want to catch anything but genius and I figured the fish in our creek are so spoiled with the fat earthworms I normally use that they’d leave me to my thinking.

I set the top-spinner reel and rod on the dock, cracked a beer and lit the fat wonker for a hit. I met an Irish guy who called a joint a wonker and for some reason I thought about that. Then I drifted to the many words used for pot—like chronic and weed and bud—and drifted off to sleep. I was dreaming about the Kardashian sisters and their mother, and the four of them were fighting over me. Quincy wrote a dealie about Kimmy K yesterday and I guess that was somewhere lodged in my brain in the “Sex” section.

I had just told the K-Girls there was no need to fight because there is plenty of Mooner to go around, when I was jerked awake as the fishing pole started running off the deck on its own. I grabbed it by the last inch of its pistol grip handle, tugging as I sat up. The tug I got in response almost pulled me off the dock.

“What the hell is this all about?” I asked the air. “Can’t a man get any peace and fucking quiet around here. I was this close (see Mooner’s thumb and index finger a quarter-inch apart) from banging all four of the K women in a five-way.”

As I fought and reeled the fish, I started thinking if there really is enough Mooner Johnson for those four women. Hell, Kimmy has been through Reggie Bush, Miles Austin and that basketball player in just two years time, and Kloe looks like she could put a hurt on a man. But the mother, she’s the one that most fascinates me. That one looks crazy to me and you know how much fun crazy women can be.

Anyway, I’d hooked a giant fucking Asian carp. The carp were imported to eat the hydrilla that was imported from Asia and is clogging our lakes. These guys are prettier and cleaner than native carp so it was this fellow’s unluckiest of days. I smoke them with pecan wood after a day in the walk-in cooler covered with a dry rub. Use hot smoke to crispy-up the skin.

I could hardly wait to see how Honor the fucking cat would react to a fish this big. She’s seen three-pound bass but never a fifteen-pound anything. I packed my stuff with the fish in the cooler and headed back up to the house.

As I walked, I wondered why a carp is a fish—carp species includes Asian carp, goldfish and even Koi—and a carp is also a bitchy person. Like say………. my mother. How do pretty fish and quibbling complainers rate the same name? Again, I find myself continuously baffled by the Grammar Police.

I felt the tumblers of my muddled brain starting to fit into place and the thread of an answer to this question started forming. Just as I started puling on the thread, wrapping it around my mental spool, the back door burst open and the menagerie of animals I call pets stormed out.

The fucking cat raced to my feet and started circling and rubbing and purring at my socks. They all gathered and stared at the cooler. “Honor says she smells fish, Herr Mooner,” the Squirt informed me. “Was ist in der verdammten Kuhler, dude?”

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, this here cooler contains a big fucking Asian carp, and we’re giving the honors of gutting him to Honor. Now Squirt, you tell the her to keep her claws off the tenderloins, OK?”

Guys, you have never seen suck a mess or such a sight. I started to think that maybe my life isn’t so tough after all, and I guess I’ll need to finish reflecting manana, y’all.

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

Friday, February 17th, 2012

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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When ADD Loses Focus; How To Write A Bad Bloggie

Thursday, February 9th, 2012

 

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

That has to make sense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Rick Perry Requests Sex Change; This Story Is Different

Wednesday, December 7th, 2011

 

So. Here’s the dealio. When I got back I promised to catch you up on all things Johnson family—both events that occurred before I left to Floriduh, things that happened while there and, of course, those things happening now that I’m back, in real time as they actually happen, or soon thereafter happening.

OK, wait. That last sentence couldn’t have been a “both” conjunctioned constructure, as both would imply two somethings, and I listed more than two somethings. Way more than two somethings as you are soon to discover if you can force yourself to keep reading this shit and drivel.

I should have said, “…on all things Johnson family—numerous events, which included, but are not limited to…,” and then I could have blah, blah and blahed about said numerous events. But like Gram always says when she tells me, “Oh, who gives a shit, Mooner?”

Truly.

First, for all you cat lovers, the fucking cat came home, and in the middle of the night at that. That would explain why I now sit in the chilled, dark hours—steaming cup of Costa Rica’s best at my side—writing you about the fucking cat. I would be sleeping soundly and comfy-cozy under my down comforter, if not for Honor.

Honor left yesterday in the am to go “bird hunting” and didn’t return as scheduled. Scheduled meant “before anyone started worrying about her”[,] and Mother, of course, started worrying early. That meant I needed to go looking for Honor, a pursuit many people have said is a futile effort on my part, and futile the search was. We looked high and low, walking, and then driving the 3,000 total acres that comprise our modest spread.

And look, don’t be too impressed with the 3,000 acres thingie. A large Texas ranch will comprise tens-of-thousands-of acres and a big one one-hundred-thousand or more.

But searching 3,000 acres as you look to find a shoe box-sized cat—with fur the same color as the winter and drought-dried under brush—is a chore. The old flat bedded work truck we use for ranch chores has a big stereo system and bull horn intercom we use for both entertainment while we work, and communications as well. Squirt was as adorable as it gets as she called, “Here kitty, kitty, kitty,” in half a dozen languages as we drove the property. Her sweet voice booming through the big Bose speakers sometimes brought tears to my eyes.

Then, again, it might have been the chilled air tearing my eyes. But I’m finding myself more, and more, auto-tearing sentimentally with the silliest of shit. Oldies music, thoughts of good friends and good times are cranking up my tear ducts routinely. Hell, Tuesday morning I started weeping like a widow woman when I awakened to discover I could still get a nighttime woodie.

Squirt’s verbal skills will be a recurring thematic content contributor in today’s posted writings, and I want to say here and now, that the Squirt is the number one, most adorable ten-pounds of dog meat ever. In all ways, adorable, and I need to find some synchronyms for the word “adorable”[.]

We drove and drove and found signs of Honor—evidence, in abundance, that Honor had passed—but no actual Honor was discovered. It seems Honor is fleeting and hard found. Little piles of hunted birds, mice and rats lay stacked in pyramid heaps like the stacked-stone mile-markers used by the surveyors who penned the first, original surveys of central Texas. The birds were all grackles—cockroaches of the air in our country. Grackles are the only bird I let her kill without eating the resulting bird carcass. Even I don’t like smoked grackle, and I’ll eat most anything.

Anyway, we drove and looked and Kitty, kitty, kitteyed for several hours and found nothing but signs of Honor passed, which fact earned me the full-blown wrath of Mother’s martyred soul when we returned with no Honor.

“God will find a way to punish you, son,” were the first words of my mother’s lament. “I wish I knew what it is I did in my early years to deserve a child who mistreats animals the way that you do.” This said as the Johnson family shared a big pot of chicken soup and jalapeño cornbread I had made for removing a part of the chill from the cold weather that invaded Austin while I was in Floriduh.

“Oh, fer shitsakes, Mother, leave tha boy ta his bothers.” Gram to the rescue. “It ain’t but a fuckin’ cat, an Mooner loves it like it was family. Now sumbody grab me another cervezer, an Mooner, pass me tha cornbread. Ya baked it too dry, but iffn ya slobber it with butter ya can git it swallered. Soup needs salt.”

See what I mean about that whole love/hate/hate/love dealie with my grandmother?

But Mother was undeterred. “I could have been a Broadway star, and I was saddled with this.” Here my mother did that motion with both palms opened starting from her bosom, where she opened her arms in what would seem to an outsider to be a gesture of welcoming.

With the finish of the motion, both of Mother’s arms were fully outstretched, open palms shoulder height. She looked like a Baptist preacher encouraging the sinners to come to the front of the church to accept Jesus as their Saviour, the finishing punishment delivered at the end of every Baptist service.

“I could have been a star, but God placed me here instead. Forgive me, Jesus, for I have sinned. I pray that some day you will shed your glorious light in my life and release me from this burden. It isn’t enough that my other child is homosexual…”

“Aw-right, Mother,” my grandmother interrupted. “That’s enough a that shit ta last me a lifetime. Now ya put me offn my grub.” Gram had had a belly full of Mother and dinner both. “Shut yer snotty yap an be grateful yer son puts up with yer shit.”

Love.

“Now, Mooner, git out there an find the fucking cat. I’ll kick yer fat ass up ta yer ears iffn ya don’t bring Honor home.”

Hate.

Anyway, another few hours of nighttime searching revealed no new clues and we turned-in to bed at just after midnight. Then, at 3:23 am, I was awakened by sounds of furious purring as my balls were shredded by the tiny pin pricks of kneading cat paws. My kitty had returned home and appeared to be none the worse for my wear.

Sometimes you can’t find Honor, no matter how hard you try. Sometimes, Honor finds you. Now I’m crying again. I think I need help.

Shit. Shit and ugh. I didn’t mean to spend today’s twelve-hundred words on the fucking cat, I wanted to tell you that the morning I left for Floriduh, Rick Perry awakened me with his tearful proclamation that he wants a sex change operation. Squirt did the interpreting, my giant flightless bird did the sniveling and blabbering. I did the open-mouthed gawking of a stunned father when told by his son he was, “Born with a woman’s heart.”

Ugh. And shit.

Where will I find a vet who does ostrich sex-change operations? But we don’t have time for all of that now. I guess we’ll save it for manana, y’all.

PS- Please click over there ===}}} and check out my book, Full Rising Mooner. Especially you silly shitballs from middle, eastern and northern Europe, the countries formerly known as the USSR, and you other fuckers who only visit me for camel toe stories. The mother of all camel toe stories in in the fucking book. So buy it already.

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Squatlo Shows Ass; Here’s The Unvarnished Truth

Tuesday, December 6th, 2011

 

So. I feel compelled to rewrite you today due to a series of situations having arisen from several of the predicaments in which I have found myself during the last, let’s call it ten hours. I’ll call it ten hours and not even attempt a closer proximiTY AS I’M TOO FUCKING FRAZZLED TO CATCH myself hitting the “Caps Lock” button on my keyboard. I hate doing that and needing to go back and re-fucking type whole paragraphs in their entireties.

I’m thinking that last paragraph might be a prime example of what that person from Floriduh meant when telling me my prose lacks professionalism of any sort. But who really gives a shit, right? When last I researched the subject, writing was invented as a method of communication first, and foremost. So, as I previously said, and quite eloquently at that, who gives a shit?

Predicament number one. We can’t find the fucking cat. She headed out early this am to go bird hunting and hasn’t been seen since. Normally, not having a fucking cat around isn’t problematic for me, but it’s to be quite cold tonight and Mother has become worried about the little short-haired miscreant we call Honor.

“Mooner, you go out and find that sweet little kitten and you do it now,” were my mother’s words to me. Then she added, “It would be just like you to leave it outside to freeze. You’re not right, son, and you need to spend some time thinking of someone other than your self.” And no, grammar police, I didn’t mean to say “yourself”[.]

I was about to attempt an explanation as to the fact that the fucking cat ran off without any assistance, or counsel, from me, but Mother felt the need to martyrize the situation to fit her needs. “I don’t know how I can face the shame if people find out that you killed that poor kitten.”

Give me a fucking break.

Anyway, that started the shit storm and then I got so frustrated with my attempts to download pictures from my new camera and get them posted here to Loony Land. I had the sharpened machete at my carotid artery (right side) when I thought to enlist the aid of my bloggie buddies to see if they could help. Bob, over to Squatlo, had me email them to him and he sent them back as JPEGS with a note that said, and I’ll quote Bob here, “Pretty simple shit…”

Asshole. Do you see any photos with this posting? Well do you? Simple my rosy-red plucked and dyed to look like Sarah Palin in a blood-colored thong ass.

Then, adding insults to my injuries, he started pimping me about this dealie that happened at his house when I was there to Tennessee for BlogCon2011. “That was the funniest thing that happened the entire time you were here,” are Squatlo’s words in their precisenesses.

Asshole. That wasn’t the funniest thing by maybe a factor of thirty-six. It was funny, and I’m going to tell the story here to insure truthful reporting of the events.

OK. Look, the background you need to know for this story to have any kind of import, is that, and quite simple put, Bob is a bit of a whiner. Not a crybaby snot-nosed whimper shit, but a more sophisticated piss-and-moaner. He’s the type that says, “Are we going to eat anytime soon?” rather than saying he’s hungry. Or he’ll say, “Charmin is really a good value when you consider how few sheets you need,” when what he really wants to say is, “My finger broke through your cheap-assed toilet paper and I got shit under my fingernail.” That kind of stuff, where he whines by trying to not sound like a pussy.

Bear that in mind when I tell you that we were at BJ’s place and it was cool inside and out. BJ and I were remarking as to how we like a house chilly, and we remarked additionally as to how those around us bitched about it. Just as Bob bitches about his house.

“Well, then you should come over to my house because Cindy keeps it so cold that I can’t feel my feet unless I soak them in gasoline and set them on fire. Chez Squatlo is colder than an ice house.”

Knowing that the boy has a way of exaggerating shit, neither BJ nor myself placed much credence in his words. So, we boo-hooed his whiny ass and told him he was e xaggerating.

Next day, a Saturday, we gathered to Squat’s house to watch football, a gathering with no happy football endings. Texas was stomped first, then the Tennessee Vols were stomped more later. Now, I’m not saying it was cold in the house, but it was maybe 50-degrees outside, and we went outside to warm up. BJ and I found every excuse we could to go to the back porch.

“Oh, look,” BJ shouted as he raced to the back door. “It’s a hyperbolated jack bird with purple tufts. And it has blue eyes.”

BJ and Bob both are bird birders. Birdophiles? Each has a backyard built for bird watching and each attracts birds by the thousands. Me, I can take your bird or leave it and wouldn’t know a jack bird from a donut hole, but I beat BJ to the door with, “Incredible. I-i’-vvvve nnn-evver sss-seeen a tufted one yyyy-yet.”

He and I huddled on the back porch, hugging to share warmth. “Jesus, Bob wasn’t kidding about how cold she keeps the place,” BJ told me.

“I agree,” I responded. “I’d suggest maybe that Cindy has the menopause and she should see about some hormones to adjust her internal thermostat, but I’m afraid she’ll break my neck with one of those karate dealies.”

OK, wait. I would likely be able to distinguish between a donut hole and a bird—any fucking bird.

Back inside, Bob took the opportunity to twist our twats and poked fun of us in front of the ever dangerous one. Cindy got up and we thought she was going to flip from AC to heater. That’s when asshole Bob said, “She’s not turning on the heat, she’s getting you pussies some blankets.”

See, I told you he’s an asshole.

Cindy came back and pitched the blankets at us, a tight smile on her lips. “Here, cover yourself with this, Mooner,” BJ told me as he placed a beautiful woven blanket over my lap. As soon as it touched my skin it set my entire body to a glow.

“I’m not using a blanket until you use one first,” this from me as I threw the cover back at him.

We neither gave in and both froze our balls off. My left nipple is still scabbed-over from where it got so cold-engorged that it split like an overripe watermelon. And yes, BJ did offer to burn couch cushions in the fireplace and I did offer an all expenses trip to Iceland for a little heat.

In retrospect, I think it’s only fair that Squattie lives in a meat locker. Asshole.

Now, I’ve got to go look for that fucking cat. Manana, y’all.

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I Say Floriduh, You Say Tomahto

Tuesday, December 6th, 2011

 

So. Call me crazy, but I think the Republican Party’s slate of presidential candidates is funnier than a three-peckered cat at a rocking chair convention. Each rises to the top of the heap as if fired by a rocket ship, then soon explode in a fiery ball of tears and spilled guts—the results of self-inflicted wounding. I can hardly wait for BJ and Squatlo to post the latest videos from J. Stewart and Rachael M. and Colbert. This is seriously funny shit, guys, and we were here to watch it live, and in real time. We’ll look back on these times and say to anyone who’ll listen, “I was there.”

BJ has been posting music videos over to his place at Dumb Perignon aka Un-Original Thoughts, which is available for your viewing pleasure by clinking onto the linkster over there ====}}} to my Bloggie Roller, and at the very top. BJ has great taste in music, and pork products as well, and I find myself downright nostalgic when I visit over to his place.

Squattie, also over there ===}}}, has recently posted some of the sillinesses of Fauxed-up Newbs. The heros at F-uped Newbs have decided that the Muppets are commies and anti-capitalist instigators training our kids to be moronic liberal future voters. To hear the pompous, big-haired Fox announcers speak of this horrible Muppet affair is hilarious. Sad as well, but hilarious.

Which reminds me. I have spent numerous hours over the last week working on the thirty-second video trailer for my book, Full Rising Mooner. And having said that, I find myself reminded that when I went to the Amazon site that sells self-same book, a situation that occurred when I clicked on the linkster over there ===}}} marked “Full Rising Mooner- Amazon Sales Linkster”[,] I discovered that there are six different places to buy my silly fucking book.

At first I was impressed with myself, and quite so. “Look at me,” I said to the Squirt and Yoda, “not only am I a published author but I’m on sale in six different places.”

The two adorable puppies were each perched atop my desk—their standard position when wanting to bug me. Squirt sits and gives me the steely-eyed stare she’s perfected from watching old Oz reruns on HBO, her brown eyes burning holes through my soul. Yoda takes a more direct approach as he romps across the desk, stomping on my keyboard and stuffing his snout into whatever drink I have sitting desk side. They wanted to bug me for their “pick-snack”[,] what they call their before bedtime morsel of food.

“Holy shit,” Squirt exclaimed when I got her eyes diverted to the computer screen. “Someone is charging $47.00 for your silly fucking bibleo!”

She was right. “Anyone willing to pay forty-seven bucks for my shit needs to contact me directly.” If someone makes ridiculous profits from Full Rising Mooner, it should be me. And that reminds that I also saw where there are three books titled “Full Moon Rising” and by three differing writers, all for sale at the same time. That, dear friends, is ridiculous.

We logged off the Amazon sales site and back into the video trailer linkster so I could make final choices and click the “SUBMIT” button. I had to choose photos, short videos, music, and “style” selections from the multiples of each given me by my video team. They did a nice job of choosing choices for me, and the dogs and I did a nice job of selecting final choices.

I love the music we chose and if they will tweak the visuals as we requested, we’ll have us an award-winning thirty seconds of book trailer magic. I’ll post it here as soon as it’s ready.

The weather turned brutally cold while I was in Floriduh, and Yoda fought with Gram about taking his shits outside. Everybody peed in the sink and Gram remembered to flush with adequate frequencies, but the funky-looking bat wing-eared puppy seems to have a strong dislike for standing in icy-wet grass. He left several loads on carpets, and always Navajo carpets.

I’m either worried that Yoda has a Navajo prejudice, or proud of his good taste in woven art. Raising kids is a series of risky decisions and I try to never jump my conclusions and act foolishly. So I scolded him for shitting on his tastefully-chosen spots.

Oh, and get this. I got an email from this fuckball down to Floriduh—some shithead calls himself Gator Bill. Seems Gator Bill takes offense to my calling it like I see it by saying “Floriduh”[.]

To rest my case, please allow me to paste Gator Bill’s literal wording: “You Texas shits think your so fucking smart. If you dont stop calling us DUMB and RIGHT NOW I’m coming to Teaxs to kick You’re ASS!!!! I’ll feed you’re dogs to the gators and fuck you in the eye sockits.”

Hey Billy… Floriduh, Floriduh, Floriduh!!!

Seems Gator boy and I suffer the same needs for editing.

Anyway, I’m headed out to take my collection of animals on a walk. Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are both rather pasty-faced from spending so much time in the closet. My pet pig and ostrich need what little sun is peeking from behind the clouds. I’ll likely need to carry Yoda since it’s still cold, and I’ll have to find the fucking cat. Honor left the house early this morning to hunt birds and hasn’t shown herself since.

You should hear the Squirt calling for the cat. “Vinir aqui gato, gato, gato. Kommen hier kitty, kitty, kitty. Come the fuck ici votre asswipe chat!”

Some people say I’m a bad influence on my little dog, what with all of her cussing and rude behavior shit. But I limit her Carta Blanca beer drinking and refuse to buy her cigarettes. In my world, that’s good parenting.

Anyway, manana, y’all, we’re walking.

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Hoof, Hoof and Hoof; ADHD Kills

Friday, November 4th, 2011

 

So. It’s Friday and who really gives a shit? I’ve got so many tasks to complete before I can head out of town on Monday that it might as well be Tuesday. Or Wednesday, or even last Monday. I’ve got more stuff to do than usual because I have 2.5 weeks of jobs to complete in one week.

The worst of these tasks is that I need to go over to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s place and mow the lawn, and clean and adjust the chemicals in her pool. Performing those duties is an effort by me to reduce my total mental health care expenditures, from the cash perspective. Gnat, as my bookkeeper, tells me that the actual cost for me to do those chores far exceeds the cost of hiring a lawn and pool service to do them. But it’s the principal of the whole thing to me. Wait, it’s the principle.

I actually like pushing the electric mower around and the kids like to swim as their reward for assisting me. Squirt has the most experience so she’s my best helper. Her new role is to direct Yoda and the fucking cat. Mostly what she does is tell them to stay out of my way.

I didn’t know that cats like to swim, and likely most do not. Honor, however, might not be 100% actual cat. Or maybe she’s spending so much time with the dogs that she’s starting to think like a dog. When Yoda barks, it’s a heart-breaking, but hilarious event. Someone at the puppy mill must have choked him or kicked him in his throat because his bark is quiet and hoarse. What he lacks in volume he more than makes up with his enthusiasm.

Yoda puts his entire being into each “Hoof” he barks. With each hoof he throws his head straight back, like when a wolf howls, and he looks like a cuckoo clock birdie. “Hoof, hoof, hoof,” he goes, and he does so with his bug eyes glaring.

Now the fucking cat has a right close imitation except that she does it from a sitting position, and in a distracted manner as well. Like she’s mocking him. Squirt tells me she isn’t mocking him, it’s her way of being supportive. I say Honor is a fucking cat and can’t yet be trusted.

Oh Christ with a bum knee, my ADHD has driven me waaaaay off course. The reason that mowing and pooling is the worst task this week is because I have to drive by the Planned Parenthood offices, twice, in order to get the tasks completed. And I don’t have time to stop and anti-anti-abortion protest.

And I really don’t have any time for jail. My buddy the Sheriff would keep me over the weekend just to screw with the departure date for my Bloggie Posters’ Tour.

As a matter of fact, I don’t have any time for this shit either, so I’ll see you manana, y’all.

P-fucking-S- please buy my book. The linkster is:

http://www.amazon.com/Full-Rising-Mooner-Inappropriate-World/dp/1456339869/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1319551191&sr=1-1

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Camel Toes Give Mooner Woes; Buy Mooner’s Book

Thursday, October 27th, 2011

 

So. My webber and bloggie sites are running amok, again. I guess I just need to get used to these periodic interruptions. I should swallow the lump of bile stuck in my throat, take a mood stabilizer and get over it. I should be an adult and admit that this shit just happens, get it fixed and move on with my life. Every obstacle in life doesn’t require full Mooner meltdown. I need to accept these website problems as a part of successful bloggerating on the I-net.

Instead, I want to smash my computer, kick the fucking cat, and set my hair on fire.

I might actually kick the fucking cat. As you all well know, I have been working with the dogs to get them on a later morning breakfast schedule. I have been negotiating with Yoda and the Squirt for a week, and last night we reached an agreement. I sent Jeff the basic terms for him to draft into a contract. Jeff is my attorney for all of my “legal” activities.

Basically, in return for them eating breakfast at a time of my choosing—but under no circumstances at any time later than 9 am Central time—I agree to do whatever the dogs want to do one day each week. I was wary about this agreement at first but now I see it as win-win-chicken-chins.

We agreed to these terms, shook hands and slapped backs all around, and I even popped a bottle of bubbly. We each drank a toast and then gave the bottle of silly wine to Gram and Aunt Hilda. Gram brought home two young cowboys from the Broken Spoke night-before-last, and the girls were still riding the trail last evening. I’m not crazy about champagne, but I am crazy enough to aid my randy old grandmother with her conquests.

Anyway, as I lay my head on my pillow last night, the dogs settled into their regular spots and I said to them, I said, “OK, guys. I’ll agree to get up at 6:30 today and you agree to let me sleep.”

“No problemo, Bwana Mooner. No problemo at all,” Squirt replied.

I reached up to scratch the cat before drifting off, but she wasn’t there. I realized I hadn’t seen her since after we reached our landmark agreement earlier. But Honor is after all, a cat, so I didn’t worry. I went to sleep.

Am I the only person in the world who has camel toe dreams? Really? I was having another of my celebrity camel toe dreams where I’m the judge of a contest. In this one, the ladies were competing for “Best in Show” ribbons and the theme was “Walt Disney Cartoon Characters”[.] Queen Elizabeth had her pocket meat dressed like Cinderella, a classic preparation if ever I saw one. In homage to her loyal subjects, the Queenster had Cindy dressed as she was in the Disney movie when she was on hands and knees before the fireplace and scrubbing the floor.

Chelsea Handler was a big disappointment this dream. She chose Dumpy the dwarf and it was poorly done at that. Wait, maybe it was Dopey the dwarf. Marcus Bachmann was stellar, as always, with his Daisey Duck. It was really cute the way he could make Donald Duck’s girlfriend wiggle her tail, just like in the cartoon.

And Michele Bachmann was a mess, and a consternation as well. When she unveiled to the audience, her Mickey Mouse camel toe looked like a big, bloody rat. I got closer, as judges do, to get a better look.

“Ick,” my first impulse. “That is disgusting. And what is that smell?”

I stuck my nose to the rat-camel to take a bigger whiff… And I awakened to find myself eye-to-eye with an actual bloody rat. The rat sat on my chin and the fucking cat sat on my chest. The rat was fresh kill, a detail I gathered from its still-glistening eyes, but it stunk anyway. All rats stink.

“Get this thing off of me, Honor, and right now!”

She did, reluctantly, but only to lay it beside my pillow. “Oh for shitsakes, take it outside.”

She didn’t. Wouldn’t. I looked at the clock—it read 5:02 am. Squirt and Yoda started giggling, and the cat got this shit-eating grin to her face.

“Son… of… a… BITCH!” I looked at each of them individually.

“Oh, now I get it. You think I need to negotiate with you now, right?”

“Cheh, cheh, cheh,” was the fucking cat’s answer. I’d never heard a cat laugh before, and that’s my best spelling of the noise.

The rat is still on the bed, and I’m not moving it. And I am definitely NOT negotiating with a fucking cat that I didn’t even want.

Any of you guys need a cat?

Manana.

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Who Gives A Shit; Road Trip High

Thursday, October 6th, 2011

 

So. All of this political crap is happening and I’m wanting to get all angry and shit, but I’m having trouble getting a mad on about much of anything. For the first time in decades, I’m taking a road trip all by myself. No wife, literally no wife, nor girlfriend nor any pets are loading up with me to head East. I’m not taking the Squirt or Yoda and I’m for certain not taking the fucking cat.

I’ve told you guys about the sleeping arrangements here to Mooner’s pet emporium, right? I have a big California King-size bed and a giant closet both, and each are filled to capacity with animals. The closet holds Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry, closeted gay lovers in both the figurative and literal senses, and the over-sized bed holds the Squirt, Yoda and Honor the fucking cat. I don’t need to make room in the bed for the gay ostrich and giant pig, and for that I’m grateful.

When I sleep, I have three specific positions through which I rotate through the night. OK, I need to throw one of those throughs away. Try this: During the night I rotate through three positions. Position Number 1: Flat on my back, arms straight by my sides, hands flat and palms down, feet with toes pointed slightly down. This is my “start sleep/restart sleep” position. It is vitally important to not tuck the sheets into the bottom of the bed to keep pressure off my big feet. I cramp and have nightmares if my feet feel clamped-in by the covers.

This position is where I do my final thinkings of the day and practice my relaxation techniques to get calmed and sleep.

Position Number 2: I lay on my right side with my hips perpendicular to the bed, arms bent and flat on the bed under my pillow edge and with my head turned laying flat and looking at my right palm faced up, and my left palm down. The hands are side-by-side, my head is cradled in my pillow—the one with the rolled edge and cupped center—and my legs are casually bent. As I sleep, I’ll bend my legs more, or less, to ease any strain on my back or neck.

This position is the one where I spend most of my sleep time.

Position Number 3, AKA “The Fetal Position”: Always on my left side and always curled perpendicular to the bed. This is the position I lay in when I’m frustrated and aches and pains hit, either physical or otherwise. Since my brain always hurts, Position Number 3 is frequented.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Jesus, Mooner, who gives a shit how you lay when you sleep?” Right?

The reason I told you all of this is because how my body is positioned has lately become additionally encumbered with modifications required as the result of my sleeping with a small female dog, a slightly larger yet still small male dog, and a fucking cat. Each of them loves me and I love them back, and each wants to stake a claim to differing patches of my naked carcass as we sleep.

Squirt gets first dibs since she was here first. She like to be between my legs as I lay in each position. As time has passed, she’s learned to anticipate my shiftings to avoid serious injury. Honor the cat has second choice and she seems to want to be near my head. She tries to lay on all of my pillow that is not covered by my own head. Sometimes this requires her to lay across my neck or over my head in order to put furry cat parts on exposed pillow case.

Yoda takes his choice from what of me is left. His usual choice involves him curled in a tight ball anywhere that he can poke his nose to the crack of my ass. I’ve learned to ignore his breath as it tickles the hair on my butt, but I still jump at his occasional lick.

These sleeping arrangements have caused me to totally lose respect for The Princess and the Pea. “Fuck you, you spoiled little bitch. Shut up and go to sleep.”

So I’m sleeping last night just after the 3:30 am trip to the back yard to take Yoda to pee. I had awakened with mild night wood, so I was able to pee in the back yard with the dog. We climbed back in bed and I lay flat on my back in Position Number 1 to restart my sleep. I bumped into Squirt and she cursed me and moved to my feet, Yoda wedged himself to have his snout at the crease of my left butt cheek, and the cat hissed at me and jumped off the bed.

“Hang your ass all the way over the sink, little lady. Don’t be pissing on my tooth brush again.” I’m finding cats to be somewhat more difficult to potty train than dogs.

Anyway, I’m finally back to sleep and I’m having a sex dream about Roshandra, my ex-wife number five. Roshandra is the only one of my wives I have sexed up post divorce, and she likes me to play “human vibrator” for her. Since that is in the book I can’t elaborate, but let me just say the she and I have a buzzing good time.

In the dream, Roshandra has decided to return the favor, and she’s vibrating on me. She’s got her face buried in my crotch and she’s running a Rabbit of some other vibrator over my pecker and balls. It must be summer in the dream because I’m sweating. After a few wonderful minutes of this play, Roshandra looks up at me and says, “How about a little pain with your pleasure, buzzy boy?”, and she starts pricking my scrotum with needles.

That would be when I awakened from the dream to find the cat laying in my lap, purring like a mother fucker and kneading my scrotum. I blame Squirt for vacating her spot.

Should I be worried about this? What would it have meant if I hadn’t awakened before Roshandra finished the job? Is it bestiality if the animal sex is dream sexing?

I’m thinking that so long as I don’t start fantasizing about it and have cat dreams that I’ll be OK.

But what I wanted to tell you is that even though all of this silly political shit is raging around me, I’m too happy about my road trip to get mad. I won’t need to worry about anyone but myself and I’m going to meet some great people. Friends who (whom?) I have never laid eyes upon.

So, FUCK RICK PERRY and the rest of them too. I’m spending the day fishing and drinking Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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Mooner Matures; Not A Rick (The Prick) Perry Story

Sunday, October 2nd, 2011

 

So. I realized last night that I am becoming a much more mature man. I’m getting older as well—not a proud moment of self awareness—but my previous remark was addressing my personal growth factors as they would be evaluated by my psycho therapist.

“Wow, Mooner, you are actually showing some signs of maturity,” Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson remarked at my Friday afternoon session. “To recognize that you have no boundaries shows real growth.”

We were discussing my having been seen peeing in the sink down to Austin City Hall. I was there to discuss several issues with a Councilmember and also to say “Hello” to my fifth ex-wife and policewoman extrordinaire, Roshandra Washington-Johnson. Roshandra was the first of my two Robin Quivers look-alike wives. Robin is Howard Stern’s ebony-skinned sidekick and a beautiful woman.

Not that this hasn’t happened before, I mean I pee in the sink at City Hall and some asshole sees me and demands to have me arrested. First of all, sink pissing is not against the law—I’ve done all the research—and second of all, if you want me arrested you need to find someone other than my fifth ex-wife to do the honors. Roshandra has only arrested me once in all of the times the demand has been made, and that was in error.

So, in therapy I was telling Dr. Sam that I felt that I was not taking Roshandra’s situation into consideration when I peed in the sink down there. Since she is the main police protector of City Hall, I should know that it will be she (her?) who (whom?) is required to address my perceived indiscretions.

Therefore, I have decided to check-in with Roshandra before I pee at City Hall to be sure she’s not too busy to deal with the silly shitballs who don’t approve of my bathroom habits. And saving water with sink-peeing is my habit.

Which reminds me. If I’m ever going to set a water-saving trend with my personal habit, I decided that I needed to expand my experience and repertoire. I am learning to multi-task sink pee, ambi- and no- dexterous sink pee, and multi-user sink pee.

My furry four-legged helpers serve as both observers and participants in this endeavor. Maybe I should say these endeavors. Firstly, I have learned to pee while: pecker holding right, left and no-handed; brushing my teeth; flossing my teeth; shaving; trimming the hair in my nose ( I’m still squirting the mirror while trimming my ears); examining the adult rosacea that punishes me for having had clear skin as a teen; applying deodorant, rosacea cream, and Tuscany cologne (on those rare occasions when I have a date); and as I clean my glasses.

I always clean my glasses as an integral aspect of my preparatory compulsions to obsessively attempt to control the diversions caused by my ADHD. If I routinize my daily habits it helps keep me on tracks.

Like now.

So far, in the multi-user sink pee category, I’ve managed to get the Squirt, Honor the cat and myself all urinating simultaneously in the same sink. We’re trying to get Yoda worked into the plan, but he takes up too much sink bowl circumference because as a boy dog, he has to stand sideways to get his lifted-leg side over the sink.

Squirt and Honor back up and hang their adorable little tushies over the edge and let her rip. With the two of them I just need to pay attention. I hang my pecker over the rim and lay it on the bowl surface to prevent splashing.

But we’ll figure a way to get Yoda worked in. We’re working on a strap-on device for him.

Anyway, today is pro football day. We’re filling the cooler with Carta Blanca beer and going fishing first. Manana, y’all.

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Rick Perry Appointment Screws Texas Again; No Honor In Goat Dealie

Saturday, October 1st, 2011

 

So. America gets another chance to witness the businesslike ways of Texas Governor Rick “Let’s Create A New Agency So I can Give My College Roommate An Executive Job” Perry. A little background.

Luminant Energy (LE), a subsidiary of Energy Futures Holdings, has been center stage in what I’ll call Governor Rick Perry’s Great Anti-EPA Crusade. See, LE is an electric company that makes its living producing energy from old fashioned, dirty coal-fired plants. You know those plants—the ones with the giant smokestacks that belch continuous, ominous streams of burned-coal pollution twenty-four hours and three-sixty-five. The same kinds of coal-fired plants you see in any movie or TV show or video where the director wants you to get a sense and feel of pollution, economic decay and desperation.

Those kinds of coal-fired plants.

The US EPA has long identified those plants as major sources of pollution and targeted them to be either cleaned up, or closed. Countrywide, state environmental agencies have forced new “scrubbed discharge” emissions be added to those plants or they shut down. States everywhere have complied with the Clean Air Act in efforts to protect their citizens and their environments.

Except, of course, for Texas. Nope, folks, you see we do things our own way down here to Texas. Our governor, Caesar and Jesus-appointed leader, Rick the Prick Perry, doesn’t think there is any such a thing as pollution. To semi-quote the Prickster, “Pollution is just another one of those “lution” words, like evolution and convolution. And evolution don’t exist.”

That wasn’t an actual quote but rather my interpretation of the facts.

Because of the governor’s efforts to assist Future Energy Holdings’ LE and others like it, the EPA has seized control of our environmental controls from the air quality perspective. Because Governor Perry forced lax air quality standards onto our state environmental agency, the TCEQ, we have moved into the spot as number-one worst air quality state. An honorable position in our Governor’s eyes.

Next, the Texas Department of Transportation (TxDOT) is our state’s company-owned engineering firm. Responsible for designing, constructing and maintaining our roads and bridges since 1917, TxDOT has been an agency that is all about the engineers. Why would that be? Why would we want engineers running the government agency that performs the State’s most important engineering functions?

Maybe the most obvious reason is safety. Personally, I want a structural expert—one who understands all the dynamics of stress and flex and all of that silly physics shit—to sit in judgment when approving the plans for my roads and bridges. I really do not want some bean counter to have the final say as to whether the 200-foot tall concrete flyover I drive to get onto IH-35 will be built to either 200% safety or 65% safety engineering.

And the last person I want to run my TxDOT would be a fucking political aide and lobbyist for the energy giant Energy Future Holdings and Luminant Energy, who has similar ideologies as Perry. I cannot even imagine that a man who spent fifteen years under the coattails of Senator Phil Gramm and Governor Perry would be named to succeed an engineer with 33-years at TxDOT, a professional engineer who worked his way through the ranks to the top spot.

But guess what, folks. Perry just named Phil Wilson, his and Senator Gramm’s former aide and current LE and Future Energy lobbyist, as the head of TxDOT. Thaaaaaat’s right, we just replaced a professional engineer—Amadeo Saenz, a 33-year TxDOT veteran, with this shitball.

Huh?

Oh, and it gets better. Rick Perry has based his Presidential rhetoric on a foundation of his smart business acumen, how he saves money by cutting non-essentials (like medical services and education), and how he doesn’t waste a dime of state funds.

Guess what. Professional engineer Saenz was paid $190,000/year for his 33-years of specific, dedicated experience—a fine salary for an experienced profession. Phil Wilson, a fine Christian man with zero specific experience either as an engineer or in management nor did he even work any construction jobs as a kid, is making $292,500 per year.

Holy, fucking shit! Is he serious? Which reminds me. Why don’t we have an exclamation mark for the question mark—you know like the exclamation point is for the period?

Folks, that extra $102,500 of salary is enough wasted money to buy 205,000 meals for hungry people! You can imagine my consternation.

But I can take solace in this one dealie. Engineer Saenz made his decisions solely based upon sound scientific principles. When he approved the 200-foot flyover my car sits atop at 55-MPH, all I had was the solid confidence I would make it down as planned and continue my drive up to Dallas because it was engineered to provide that assurance.

But with Phil Wilson in charge, I don’t need no fucking science for my flyover because old Philly has something waaaay better. Yep, I know that Mr. Wilson is gonna pray to Jesus and have his Lord and Saviour protect me.

Ugga-mugga-fugga UGH!

Thankfully, it’s Saturday and college football day. Carta Blanca beer, catching up on my bloggie reading and a bar B Que’d goat are on today’s agenda. Which reminds me. Honor the cat was pretty funny last night. When we were sitting at dinner discussing tonight’s dinner, she wanted to know if she could have the honor of hunting down the goat. I told her, “Sure, little lady, we’ll go hunting in the morning.”

We’re headed to the neighbor’s place, he’s the goat farmer. Manana, y’all.

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F-day Ends With A Pffft; A Missing F-word Tragedy

Saturday, September 24th, 2011

 

So. My plans for a fully-fulfilled F-day came up one F short. Not that any of the f-words planned into yesterday were minor in nature, but the one that was dropped was my personal most important. Fishing- great. Fried food- tasty and fresh from the Catfish Parlor. My original plan was to have some fried fowl, but Honor the cat went totally batshit crazy when we passed the Catfish Parlor on US 183.

It was Squirt’s fault. My diminutive translator was doing a tour guide patter as I drove her, Honor and Yoda down US 183 on our way to find a fried chicken joint. As we passed the catfish place, Squirt says, “And a la derecha es la Parlor de Pesca Gato. They have tout ce que vous pouvez manager every Freitag.”

“I don’t want all you can eat fried catfish today, guys. I want fried chicken to prime my pumps for when I go to see BJ and Squatlo and the Reckmonster in November,” I informed my GTO full of animals. “Besides, we’re having fish tonight for dinner. You know the rules.”

I make all my pets eat what they catch, and the morning’s fishing trip had been quite successful.

Honor the cat hissed and spit at me, and then she made this yapping noise I’ll call speech. It was disquieting. “Did the cat just say something?” I asked Squirt.

“I think she said, ‘Help me to kill Mooner and we’ll have fried catfish.’” Squirt asked the cat to repeat herself, and then confirmed the original translation. “Yep, only this time she mentioned shredding your nut sack rather than actually killing you.”

See what I mean about cats? Fucking cat.

Since I trust my pets to be true to their words, we had catfish for lunch and then headed to downtown and the national headquarters of the pompous prick, Rick Perry, presidential organization. I ordered children-sized “Fuck Rick Perry!” tee shirts for the guys and a manly-sized pink one for me, and I had three “Fuck Rick Perry!” tote bags filled with the bumper stickers. Each of the dogs and I carried a bag and handed-out the bumper stickers and the cat acted as security.

I really did not want to be arrested because the big f-word finally to F-day was to be a heavy dose of sexing with SAC Ellen. She was due to arrive sometime after her late flight arrived from Cleveland. An arrest might have spawned an extended stay over to Sheriff Wozniak’s jail and I needed the sex. With that in mind, we quietly went about the task of bumper sticker distribution.

Except for the one nice lady who slapped my face, and the cat-shredded white sock on her left foot, that f-word was completed without serious indecent. Next time we go down to fuck with Rick Perry we want him to be in town. Then we’ll try for some serious airtime and anti-Perry publicity.

So we handed out $200 worth of stickers in just an hour and I loaded the guys back into the GTO to head home. We decided on fish tacos for dinner and needed some tortillas and avocados for that. It was as I stood in the check-out line over to the flagship Whole Foods store in downtown Austin that I got the call. “Hey, baby,” I answered the call ID’d as SAC Ellen. “Have I got something planned for you!”

There was one of those pregnant fucking pauses on her end of the line, then, “Oh man, Mooner, I’m really sorry.”

“Fuck, fuck fucking-fuck!” I might have said a little too loud. The people around me put space between us.

“I’ve been held over to Sunday, sweetie. They want me to evaluate a threat from one of the militia groups up here in Ohio. I won’t make back to Austin for two more weeks.”

“Fuck, fucking-fuck.” This time I almost whispered. “Call me when you have time.”

I got out of line and walked over to the personal care section and got a twelve-pack of Ivory soap bars. I’m going to need to start alternating hands when masturbating or my right arm will be twice the size of my left. I’ve always preferred using my right hand, which my chiropractor says explains my strange skeletal twist.

Now it’s Saturday- Carta Blanca beer and BBQ day. I’m taking Gram’s Ferrari over to the race course to see if I can aggressive-driving my frustrations away. Manana, y’all.

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Rick Perry’s Job Legacy- One Of Five Texans Lives In Poverty

Thursday, September 22nd, 2011

 

So. When I got up at 5 am this morning to take Yoda out to do his business, I intended to spend today’s time with you telling you about the amazing progress he has made. Marilyn Nichols with Happy Puppy Tutoring calls taking a pee and a dump “doing business”[.] OK, maybe it wasn’t Marilyn who said that, but it is Marilyn who is responsible for this little dog’s progress.

Which brings up an important point. My entire life—until recently—I have only had Golden Retrievers as pets. Big, smart and frisky dogs like my current beauty, Dixie. I mean I might have adopted a snake or a lizard or a skunk when I was a kid, but none of those adoptions lasted long enough for the papers to clear processing before the animal ran away, died or was shot by my grandmother.

And why doesn’t the word lizard have two Z letters? I get that lazy has the single Z, but lizard really should be lizzard. Same dealie as the word really, right. Really comes from real, with the extra L and a Y. Lizard has it’s origins in Liz, so it really needs to be lizzard.

All of my best friends have been big dogs until now. As Dixie sinks deeper into her retirement and withdrawal from my presence, my life has become infested with a menagerie of pet animals that at best must be called strange. At worst—hell, what’s the worst you can say about a man whose pets include a ten-pound half Mini-Dachshund-Chihuahua, a half Chihuahua-Terrier and also ten pounds, and a now-550-pound American Domesticated Pig and his gay lover, the 350-pound African Ostrich named Rick Perry.

Oh, yea. And a fucking cat. Can’t forget the fucking cat. Many of my blogger buddies have cats, and they are constantly writing about how their cats do this or that stupid thing. Then they say stupid shit like, “What’s up with my cat,” or “Why did she do that?”

Look, guys. I’ve only been a cat holder for a few months but I can answer every one of your cat questions using the same five words. All you cat owners write this down. Ready:

“It’s a fucking cat, dumbass!”

Should I have said six words since it’s is a contraction? Maybe I’ll print little friggie magnets and bumper stickers that say, “It’s a fucking cat, dumbass!”

OK, I’m waaaay off the reservation. When I read the newspaper this morning, a front-page story pissed me off. That’s what I’m trying to tell you about that interrupted what I originally intended to tell you about when I got up with Yoda to do his business.

You have all heard the pompous prick, Rick Perry, brag about all of the wonderful jobs he has “originated” for Texas as our governor. I will tell you that the city of Austin, my personal hometown, is the star recipient of all of Mr. Perry’s job-creating largess. We lost fewer jobs and we obtained more of the jobs that our governor stole—oopsie—I mean originated for our state.

Austin has the state’s most robust economy, strongest housing markets and supposedly best business climate. We would be the shining star of Prick Perry’s bragging on his job creationism.

However, just like Rick Perry’s preaching about Biblical Creationism as compared to Evolution, the boy’s job creationism has a few holes in it. Today’s paper printed a story with a little demographic information from the latest US Census. This information centered on populations and poverty. In Texas, the income line for poverty in a family of four is about $22,000 per year.

Last week, the paper printed a blurb that the average price in Austin to rent a two bedroom apartment is $900+ per month plus utilities. For those of you who might be math-deficient, that means that a person making less than $22,000 per year can’t afford electricity if they house their family in an average two bedroom apartment. Can’t afford to eat either. How the hell they able to watch those giant screen TV they buy with food stamps if they have no electricity?

But here’s my Rick Perry point. The recent census shows that one in every five adults in Austin is living UNDER the poverty level. That’s right, twenty-percent of the people in our state’s best economically conditioned city are paupers. Now don’t get me wrong because College Station, home to Rick Perry’s beloved Texas A & M University, has the state’s worst poverty numbers. In College Station, their numbers exceed thirty-seven percent. Thirty-seven fucking percent!

So wake the up America. Rick Perry is coming to fuck your state too.

I’m cracking a Carta Blanca beer and watching the Tivo of Dancing With The Stars. Maybe I need more than one to stomach the entire thing. I had the entire family voting for Chaz Bono, but none of us has watched it. I swore I’d watch every minute that Chaz survived the stupid fucking contest and I’m a man of my word. Manana, y’all.

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Pi Aren’t Squared; Pi Are Yoda

Monday, September 19th, 2011

 

So. Another glorious near-fall weekend has closed and things are better in Austin, Texas. It rained over much of Central Texas, my beloved Longhorns won a big game, and both pro football teams logged a W. As for the rain, it missed the ranch but hit most everywhere else, so that’s a win too.

I’m not a true fan of our pro teams because Jerry Jones is an asshole more concerned with his ego than great football. I’m not a true Houston fan because I grew up a Cowboy fan. I was born shitting burnt orange and pissing white, so it was only natural that I be a University of Texas man.

It took old Doc Ashburn a couple of months to determine that the UT-colored discharges of my infancy were due to my Gram’s potions, and not any serious medical condition. He was worried that I had bad kidneys or a fried liver causing the vivid-hued poops and peeps. Or that I might possibly be the devil’s spawn.

“Aw that’s jist tha persimmon inna one potion anna chalk in tha other,” Gram explained to the doctor during my third monthly visit. “Had ta stop with tha alfalfa an skunk juice, though. Bright green shit what smells lik a skunk’s ass was unsettlin’.”

Maybe that explains my fascination with my bowel movements. I have a suspicion that most folks spend far less time examining their poops than do I. Did you like the way I said, “Than do I…,” as opposed to saying, “Than I do…”[?] I was talking to this woman at the bookstore yesterday, a snooty younger lady wearing Birkenstock sandals, hiker’s shorts and a man’s cotton button-down shirt.

She was medium height (and why not “heighted”[,] since we say “weighted”), wore her auburn hair long and clasped neatly in a tortoise shell keeper, and everything about her seemed to scream, “I know better than you will ever know.”

I was looking at the murder mystery books to find something that might occupy my fevered brain. My ADHD has been on the fritz something crazy—appropriate for a crazy man yet not a constant state—and I was thinking that a nice murder would help me calm my mental storms.

Let me stop here to say that this particular brain fritz, while intense, has not been unsettling. This fritz’s influences on my system is more akin to a splinter under my right index fingernail rather than to have the soft skin of my pecker caught in the rusty zipper of a pair of my daddy’s old coveralls. I can’t tell you the zipper story as it is in the book, but you shouldn’t require any additional information to understand that this current brain fritz is one of minor consternations.

So the young lady was looking at me looking at the murder mysteries. She was staring, actually, and with a haughty stare at that. I’d check a book jacket, decide against it and place it back to the shelf. I’d check the woman’s stare, un-shelf another prospect, reject it and re-shelf, and check the stare.

“Are you looking for inspiration for your own selections, or do you find me sexy?” I asked the studious starer. “You’ll find I have quite good taste in murder mysteries, and the ladies find me quite tasty.”

I find myself quite clever in close encounter social settings, a belief not always shared. “Actually, I was just waiting to see if my instant evaluation of your personality is accurate,” she answered. “To respond to your classless and inappropriate comment, good taste in murder mysteries is akin to having a preference as to choice of cigarette brand. Only individuals of low class and self esteem ever develop that taste.”

Huh?

“As for your tasteless sexual innuendo, I can only guess that your class of women have far lower standards than do I.”

I bought the new Mitch Rapp novel, American Assassin, and I’ve already forgotten the author’s name even though he is a favorite. It’ll come to me. I finished the book just before midnight and tried to sleep. The two dogs, Squirt and soon-to-not-be-named- Pi, have started to compete for bed space with each other. Each wants to be either between my legs, with their head nestled beside my pecker when I’m on my back, or in the crook of my knees—with the top of their head pressed against my ass—when I shift to my side.

They prefer me to sleep on my back. That way they can be staring holes in my face at 5 am when they awaken me to eat. OK, got it. Vince Flynn is the author of the Mitch Rapp novels. Great reads one, and all. And it’s alright to start with this last one because it’s a prequel sort of dealie.

Anyway, I didn’t get much rest last night because the two dogs kept nudging each other to jockey positions, and Honor the cat parked her carcass on my pillow at my neck. It was like trying to sleep on the rubber sheets in the holding tank over to the loony bin. Nerve wracking and hot as hell.

So we’re all sitting for breakfast an hour ago. I placed Pi on a chair beside me because I’m teaching him take it/leave it—the dog trick where the dog either does or doesn’t eat or go to something. I’m putting different food items on the table in front of him and telling him to take the things he can eat, and to leave the rest.

Gram is staring at the bug-eyed little shit with the same look I got from the lady in the bookstore. “Yodel,” Gram said. “He looks lik Yodel.”

Huh? Yodel?

Then I got it. “You are correct sir,” I told my grandmother. “He’s the splitting image of that Star Wars guy, Yoda.”

After I finish this bloggie dealie, I’m taking the Squirt and Yoda back to the bookstore so I can get another book to read, and then we’re going grocery shopping at the farmers’ market. Then we’ll go home, load the wheeled cooler with Carta Blanca and head to the lake. Manana, y’all.

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Pious Pompadored Prick Rick Perry; The Idiocy Of Faith

Monday, September 12th, 2011

 

So. The pious pompadoured prick we Texans call our governor has made another numskull move. Little Ricky Perry announced Saturday that he was going to cancel a visit to the fire-ravaged areas of Central Texas that have been scorched by wildfires over the last ten days.

These fires have left thousands homeless and have destroyed tens-of-thousands of acres in the process. Much of the habitat for several endangered species of quite unique creatures has been desiccated. Decimated, maybe. Whateverthefuck, these poor creatures’ habitats have been laid to waste by fires.

When I tell you why little Pricky canceled his appearances, you won’t believe me. Some of you will insist on checking the stories to obtain an independent observation. That’s OK by me, you silly shitballs. Go ahead and check if you find me lacking voracity. I don’t give a shit.

The reason Rick Perry canceled his tour to meet with the thousands of people who have been displaced by the wildfires is because he couldn’t get adequate press coverage. That’s right folks, look it up. Our governor decided to stay at home rather than waste his precious time visiting displaced citizens because it was not convenient for the press to cover his little trip.

I guess that since he’s a presidential candidate, his presence requires more media on site than when he was simply our governor. Before he tossed his name into that ring, the Prickster was happy to make an appearance as long as somebody showed up with at least a camera phone. It seems he now requires representation from the entirety of the world’s press corps to warrant his pretty face.

Which reminds me of something. I might have invented a catch phrase or whateveverthe fuck you call those dealies. We were sitting at breakfast this morning as usual on a Monday during football season. Mother is a Dallas Cowboys devotee, bless her martyred little heart, and the rest of us are University of Texas fans. Except for Mother’s, “Oh dear, what’s wrong with my Cowboys?” Monday morning conversation centers on the Longhorns team and the former Texas players in the NFL.

We were discussing the Cincinnati and Cleveland game from yesterday as both teams feature high-profile former Longhorns. Our favorites performed well both in victory and defeat. I was trying to explain to Squirt and Honor the cat what it means to be a fan and how that word—fan—comes from the larger word fanatic. “But isn’t that the same as terroristic?” the miniature dog asked me.

“I guess that would be true in extreme cases,” I told Squirt.

Gram was chewing a mouth full of homemade granola, her cheeks puffing like a chipmonk’s. “Ith layth thim futhin light phwin thisthan futhwaths,” were the words that managed to escape Gram’s lips around the dry cereal.

“You’re right, Gram. It’s just like the right-wing Christians who accuse Islamics of terrorism for the same ideologies as they themselves practice,” I replied. “It’s like an idiocy of faith.”

My mother gave me a stern look before saying, “Mooner Einstein Johnson! You take that back and right… now! How DARE you compare a Christian’s devotion to Christ to those evil heathens devil worship.”

Gram had managed to swallow her granola and cleared her throat loudly. “You lissen here, Mother. Mooner’s right. It don’t matter the juxtaposition, it’s the same melody.”

Huh?

Oh, I got it. “That’s what I was trying to say Gram. It doesn’t matter what your justification might be. If the net result is that you act like your belief system is the only acceptable one—and if you force it on others—you are a terrorist. You exhibit the idiocy of faith.”

Faith is a wonderful and scary emotion. The same faith that drove Mother Theresa to devote her life to the underprivileged fueled the Inquisition. One definition of the word faith is, “The strong belief in a God or a doctrine of a religion based upon spiritual apprehension rather than fact.”

Since apprehension is, “A fearful anticipation of the future,” then faith is, effectively, a fear-based emotion. What that means is that faith is a two-edged sword. When a person becomes consumed with the ideologies of their faith, fear of non-believers can become hatred. And hatred breeds violence and threatening behavior.

Threats and violence? That is what defines terror. My point with all of this is that faith, just like love, can make you an idiot. Right now I think the world is suffering from the idiocy of faith.

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

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Psycho Therapy Sucks; Mooner Gets Community Services

Wednesday, September 7th, 2011

 

So. The winds have calmed and temperatures cooled somewhat, and firefighters have managed to get the Central Texas wildfires under control, somewhat. Police are searching for numerous suspected arsonists and I hope the authorities catch them before our angry citizenry.

We’re normally a peaceful bunch, but “Don’t Mess With Texas” isn’t just an advertising slogan. It’s how we roll.

Except, of course, for our governor and right-wing Christian dominated legislature. Voters have seemed to lack the ability to connect the dots between our state’s eroding environmental qualities and the brain-dead fuckball, Rick Perry. Since Perry became our governor, we have become a top-two state in the air pollution category and we are soon to be the home of the largest nuclear waste dump ever.

But it’s cool this morning and I’m in a pretty decent mood. Brandon, from over to My Own Private Idaho, is designing a second set of anti Rick Perry merchandise. Less offensive to the greater masses, this new slogan should get a better grip on a marketing surge and gain better sales traction. The products should be ready any day now.

Speaking of the fires, we were headed to our psycho therapy session yesterday (I’m down to one per day since I’m doing so well), and I say “our psycho therapy session” because my little dog and cat are attending with me. Since Honor the cat is trade bait for the little puppy, Squirt, in the deal I made months ago, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson wants to monitor our progress. My long-time dog, translator and business partner, Dixie, is older and retiring.

At least she’s tired of me and has chosen to spend her golden years with Streaker Jones where she can concentrate on her love of spoors. Streaker Jones is a mushroom grower and Dixie is now his assistant. I’m happy for both of them and miss Dixie less each day. She and I have been through quite a lot together and she has been the most faithful of dogs. I’m more than happy to give her her freedom.

Anyway, the deal with Dr. Sam is that I can have the good doctor’s dog, Squirt, as my new puppy and translator just as soon as I find and train a replacement kitty to give to Sammy. Honor the cat is the self-selected nominee in the cat category. Dixie has completed the Squirt’s language training so she’s already assumed most of Dixie’s duties for me. As far as training the cat, other than teaching her to pee in the sink, whatthefuck sort of training can you give a cat?

I mean really, what can you teach a cat if it doesn’t CHOOSE to fucking learn? Many of the things I want to train her to do she already does. She has good table manners, she speaks her mind and she doesn’t take crap from anybody. She came pre-programmed with a fierce family loyalty, she loves Carta Blanca beer and fishing has become her favorite non-sleeping activity.

Honor the cat would rather fish than hunt, and she LOVES to hunt.

“OK, everybody,” I told the little cat and dog when we parked the GTO at Sammie’s office. “Please be on your best behavior. If Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson doesn’t sense that I have a good handle on you two I’ll be getting extra assignments and homework, and you’ll be getting a grumpy master.”

We went inside and sat in the waiting room. When the light next to her door turned from red to green, I said, “Come on kiddies, it’s show time.”

Honor the cat led us inside Sam’s office , and before I had a full step inside, she was hissing and spitting like a maniac. “Tell your cat to zip it, Mooner. This little bundle can’t handle the stress.”

“This little bundle” was a small white dog that cowered at my psycho therapist’s feet. For those of you new to these pages, separating the psycho from their therapy is my favorite mental health joke.

“His name is Pi, like Pi-r-squared. He’s a rescue dog who has spent his first year of life locked in a kennel, and he is a tad bit skiddish. He’s your new assignment. All three of you are getting too big for your britches and you need to perform a little community service.”

“Bitch.” I might have mumbled.

“Speak up, Mooner, and he’s a boy. He’s from an Oklahoma puppy mill that got shut down. Call Marilyn Nichols at Happy Puppy Tutoring and get her to help you get him adjusted to a new life with people.”

When I gave her my best “are-you-fucking-kidding-me?” look, my therapist and first ex-wife stared me down. “Look, Mooner. This is a very sweet dog who has been traumatized. Let Marilyn work her submissive magic on him. I want all three of you to take part in his readjustments.”

“Ugh,” was the best I could do at the time. I loaded the now three pets into the GTO—squirt and Honor in their harnesses and Pi in his crate. I called Marilyn on the way back to the ranch and set an appointment for later today. I know she can work wonders, but this little guy is seriously fucked up.

Which gives me an idea. Over to Shoal Creek Loony Bin they use electro-shock therapies on the most severe cases of anti-social behavior. Maybe I can turn-down the volts and amps on a stunner gun and work a little magic here with Pi. Hell, maybe I can develop something useful and Marilyn can market it for me.

But the first thing we’re doing is renaming the little shitball. I’m out in the back lawn area this morning trying to get the little rascal to do his business and I’m saying, “Come on Pi, pee. Come on, pee, Pi. Pee, Pi.”

That shit is not going to work when we start our sink training. He needs a new name. Manana, y’all.

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