Archive for the ‘Howard Stern’ Category

Special Diet to Drive People Away (Part 4)

Monday, May 3rd, 2010

SAC Ellen and I just watched the movie Crazy Heart and I want to say how glad I am that somebody can still make a good movie. I’m not saying that I don’t enjoy your epic Batman or Kung Fu or end-of-the-world epic blood and guts offerings, or even what Jim Cameron is making, because they can be good entertainment.

But they are not good movies.

A good movie will move you in a special way. It makes you sad or thoughtful or angry or proud at the most basic level. Good movies can stir social change. They can create awareness for an unseen crisis. They can highlight the good deeds of an unknown benefactor. A good movie can help you see your faults by using a character to mirror your weaknesses.

A good movie can make you want to be a better man.

I have always favored good quirky movies. Slaughterhouse Five, Where’s Poppa?, And Catch 22 are three of my favorites. I think maybe Crazy Heart might make its way onto my favorites list.

I said that SAC Ellen and I watched the movie together, but that is almost the truth. Is it the truth if the actual words are true but the message of the speaker isn’t quite as precise as the words? What I mean to say is that tonight when the clock rolls around to 12:59:59 on American Central Standard Time, I will have completed a full week on my March To Respect- One Man’s Struggle For Appreciation.

That would be the onions and garlic diet and no bath or tooth brushing regiment I started last week to be appreciated for everything I do for others. Since I’m not allowed into the house, I’m sleeping out to the barn. The loft has a big screen TV with cable and everything.

So, when I said we watched Crazy Heart, what I should have said is that the SACster watched inside with the rest of the family and then they had Dixie lay the CD in the yard for me to pick it up when they finished. I had to wait for them to watch it twice so they could feel good about the $49.95 price I paid to buy the new release.

We had rented Avatar from Blockbuster Friday night but they wouldn’t take it back after I touched it, so I’m just gonna need to buy CDs for awhile.

Gram says to me, she said, “Mooner, it’s kinda like that Mission Impossible jobbie back to the TV inna sixties. Ceptin their tape dealie would burn all up and you just put them CDs to a smoldering.”

So, I’m sorry I misled you or lied to you or whatever it was that I did.

But that isn’t what is caught in my craw right now. What is buggerating the ever-loving shit out of me is the lack of social graces I see everywhere I go. I know I’m likely prejudiced when I say that most of what I see in the younger set is what social commentators call “entitlement,” but that’s my observation.

I was talking to my Editorator out to the big Barnes and Noble bookstore in the Galleria area out to US 71 at 620 and we were talking about our recent encounters with tweeners and teens. I don’t remember what it was that was bugging her, but loud talking on cell phones when in public places with other people around is my personal major pet peeve.

And yes little blond girl in the Westwood High School cheer leader outfit, that large and crazy looking man in the hemp cloth Hawaiian shirt and baggy cargo shorts who started talking to himself very loudly as you were yakking away to your girlfriend as we stood in line over to the Starbucks on US 183 last Tuesday morning, was me. You know the me I’m talking about, right. I’m the me who got louder and louder and kept crowding closer and closer to your phone and parroting your idiotic conversation about, “I just don’t see how Emily can wear her hair that short.”

I’m the one who kept after you until you left the store in a panic. And I happen to be the same man who reentered the coffee shop to the applause of the remaining customers. A proud moment for common decency.

After my Editorator and I had bashed our topic almost to death, I actually had what I think was a moment of clarity. Here is what I think I know:

“We have not been teaching our children how to act. Instead, we are teaching them how to act up and act out.”

Look, I’ve quite a bit to say about this but my body vapors are overpowering my will. I need to go get some fresh air.

What do you guys think about this subject? Tell me what you think.

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Sandra Bullock, Chelsea Handler, Kathy Griffin and Oprah Fight Over Mooner Johnson (Part 2)

Thursday, April 29th, 2010

So. I’m asleep in my bed last night and I’m dreaming about Sandra Bullock, Kathy Griffin, Oprah Winfrey and Chelsea Handler. I am the judge of the Miss Celebrity Camel Toe contest between these four of my favorite women, and the contest is heated. Likewise, my dreams are heated due to my garlic and onions diet.

If you don’t keep up with things here to the bloggie, I am on this diet to get some respect and appreciation. I will not take a bath or brush my teeth while on this diet until I get me some. Respect, that is. SAC Ellen impressed upon me that I won’t be getting any loving until I end this personal habits routine. Actually, what she said was, “Mooner, you smell like the dumpster at Quality Seafood on a hot August day. Call me when you eat some meat and take a bath.”

I think that means I won’t earn her respects until I get my respect.

There’s five categories of competition in the big dream contest: an evening gown, khaki pants, swimsuit, and exercise gear competitions as preliminaries, and a final “open” category. The ladies are each in their finest fettle, and each has won one event. Oprah Winfrey stunned the crowd, and the judge, in her sequined Valentino number. Cascades of shimmering light escaped Oprah’s well-defined toe. The light was like the beacon atop a lighthouse- both as a warning and a summons as to what might lie beneath the sea of organza fabric of the fancy gown.

In a surprise win, Kathy Griffin won the exercise portion of the show, looking absolutely ravishing in skintight gear from Doe Skins. I knew she had been working out recently, but I hadn’t seen her since her last Austin Tour stop. Her well muscled look was as captivating as was her pouty pose.

No surprise to anyone, Chelsea Handler won the swimsuit competition by a mile. Since I’ve seen her naked, I knew Chelsea has magnificent womanly charms to display. In this dream competition, she showed both her hidden charms and her sense of humor as she flashed me a luscious moon on her pass down the runway.

Sandra Bullock won the khaki pants event by a camel’s nose. I really wanted her to win the whole thing, but her heart just wasn’t in it. She withdrew after her first place finish in very fashionable slacks. Men can be such shits. This I know with the absolute certainty that comes from my being a shitty man.

So. With the score tied at one win each, the final Open event was going to determine the winner. Each of the three remaining contestants had chosen to pose in Lycra tights covered with flowing robes. The final pose-down was done like one of those body builder dealies with the contestants jostling for position to get the Judges’ attention. Soon a cat-fight developed and I stepped on stage to break it up.

Next thing I know I’m all tangled up in in the womens’ robes and I fart. This giant, raucous and ugly garlic and onion fart. The ladies stop fighting because they are gagging and I fart again- this one worse than the first. Chelsea says to me, she says, “Mooner Johnson you inappropriate shit, I’m gonna torch you off if you fart again.”

Of course I fart again and wake up screaming. I’m all tangled in my bedsheets and Dixie is lying on my face. Through sweat-filled and matted dog hair that fills my mouth I say, “Wuth thah fuhh, Dithee?”

Dixie says to me, she says, “I can’t decide which end of you smells worse, Mooner, your ass or your breath. I just decided to try and smother you to end my misery.”

“Well you just ruined the best dream I’ve had in weeks,” I told her. “Now get out of my face so I can dress for our trip to Sprouts.”

My dog aggravates the shit right out of me but she is right. I’ve got a touch of the BO from not bathing for three days now, but you can’t even smell my pits from my other ripenesses. Maybe that would be “ripenings”.

I’m dying to brush my teeth and I’m so sick of this garlic and onion diet I could slit my own throat. I’m sitting there to dinner with the family last night and my Gram is tormenting me. She’s waving every forkful of her sweet bean tamales in my face.

“Mmmmmmmm,” she says. “Wouldn’t little Mooner love a bite a my tee-mallies?”

She’s administering this torment like I’m a baby who won’t eat without a little food tease.

This morning my mouth feels like the French Army bivouacked in it. I love that word, bivouacked, but the feeling is just awful. And my breath would melt a block of ice sitting in the next room.

But it is the farts that are the killers. Dixie and I needed to go to Sprouts and then to the body shop, both over to US 183 near the Great Hills/Arboretum area. The trip to the grocery is to get some more grapefruit, and the need to go to the body shop is a recurring need.

See, my Gram learned how to drive in a 1903 John Deere tractor while plowing a four section sized farm up to the Panhandle. To you non-farm informed, that means she was driving a big, open farm tractor with a top speed of maybe six miles-per-hour. And all of this driving was done on perfectly flat land that was a big rectangle that was one mile wide and four miles long. I don’t know where you live, but here to Texas a section is a one-square-mile chunk of property.

And since my Gram never really learned how to drive a tractor at six miles per hour on flat land, she’s hell on wheels driving a 550-horse power Ferrari at a hundred in the Hill Country. She did learn how to plow though. Dixie and I took her little Italian hot rod on our errands this morning because she plowed it into a bunch of those orange plastic barrels over to FM 2222.

Since Gram routinely plows into stuff, I have a standing appointment each month with the body shop I keep on retainer.

It’s a wonderful day here so Dixie and I were driving with the top down, which provided benefit other than driving topless. I was farting so much and they stunk so bad, that I might have asphyxiated us with the top up.

When we got to Sprouts, Dixie waited outside and sniffed around. She’s such a dog. When I got inside the store was pretty crowded and I had to pick my way around people. I guess something besides grapefruit was on special because there were people everywhere.

You know how when you are in a big crowd and you need to fart and you kind of hunch into yourself so you look smaller. And then you release the gas in little fits-and-starts as you walk. You guys know exactly what I’m talking about.

So, I’m taking advantage of the crowd and venting my blue vapors as I serpentine through the crowd. I hear gasps and, “What the fuck is that smell?”, and other comments. But I’m always a few yards away by the time my stinky gas slithers through peoples’ nostrils and attacks their brains like a computer virus.

I walk all the way to the back of the store to release my pressure so I can take my time standing still to the grapefruit display. It takes me some time to select produce because I take my time picking and I didn’t want my gas to get me into a predicament. I choose 40 perfectly chosen grapefruit, placing each selected orb carefully in my hemp cloth tote bag that sits in my little baby grocery basket.

Sprouts has these little baby carts that I like for short-list visits. I’m finally satisfied that I have both the correct number and quality of fruit so I start for the checkout line.

The store, like I already said was packed, and I was having trouble maneuvering the cart. So, I decided to ditch the cart and just carry the tote bag. I reached into the cart and with both hands, grabbed the straps of the tote, lifted the heavy bag and, “Phggrrraaaaappp.”

I ripped one of those farts that would win a contest on the Howard Stern Radio Show over to Sirius Satellite Radio. It was noisy and long and had multiple layers of volume and sounds. And brother was it stinky.

Eye-watering, lose your lunch, extinguish all smoking materials stinky. Standing trapped in a crowd of already teary-eyed shoppers who were nauseous from my earlier eruptions, the looks in the eyes around me said it all.

It really was one of those, “If looks could kill moments.” This one crazy old bat slugged me with her purse and then tried to choke me. Next thing I know I’m in the Manager, Harry’s, office, sitting in his side chair with my clothes ripped and torn.

“Sweet Mother of Jesus, Mooner. I had to give everybody their groceries for free and shut the store down,” my friend Harry informed me. “They will do tests to be sure, but the Haz-Mat Team says I’ll need to disinfect the walls and repaint.”

Harry is a good Catholic boy and honest and open minded. Until I met Harry I thought any two of those traits were mutually exclusive.

“Here,” he says as he sips the bottle of Hornitos tequila and then passes it to me. “Take a big slug of this and don’t fart in my office.”

“Hells-Bells, Harry. I didn’t do it on purpose, it just slipped out,” I told him in my manly-most voice.

“Don’t crybaby Mooner. You’ve got plenty of money to pay for the damages. Your real problem is that my boss, Regional Director McCoy, told me I would have to ban you from the store if you cause another incident. And I’m in love with Patty, so I can’t date everyone you pissed off this time.

Harry is dating Patty Pritchett, the woman whom’s camel toe created the incident here awhile back. Maybe that might be who’s camel toe. No wait, I know who’s it was, so let’s go with whom’s camel toe.

I had the happy pair out for Easter dinner to the ranch. They are a cute couple but I see trouble brewing in the east. See Patty’s a Wiccan and Harry’s momma is an old-school, Latin-is-the-only-language-for-mass kind of Catholic girl.

Gram says we need to call Patty “The Wicc’ster”. Says she “sensed” it.

I say Patty cast a spell on Harry’s heart because he’s taking Patty home to meet Momma.

“What do you think I should fix for the big dinner Mooner?”

“I’d say sacrifice a lamb for your mother and a rooster for Patty. That way you can be sympathetic to both tribes.” I offered him the animals but he passed.

Holy shit but I am digressing all over the place. My point is that I don’t know how much longer I can wait to be respected. I’m going down to the Long Center to the Chelsea Handler stand-up show tonight, and if I have another farting incident in a packed theater- I could cause a stampede and get arrested. Again.

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Happy B-day George Takei- I Admire You

Tuesday, April 20th, 2010

Oh my!

Today is George Takei’s birthday. Happy birthday George from one of your most… from your best…. from the world’s number one…

From me. Happy birthday from Mooner Einstein Johnson, George. Happy Birthday from a man who just became unsure of what it is he wants to say to you because he wants to say so much.

I started to say your “most appreciative fan” and then I wanted to say your “best fan” and then my ADHD-addled brain started swirling and I had to put down my Postie Notes and re-cap my Sharpie, and stop writing. I have enough trouble reading my handwriting when I translate my notes on Posties here to the bloggie, but when the ADHD/ADD gets itself all wound-up and my brain is fritzed- the term “Lost in Translation” refers to the translator rather than that which gets translated.

I just know that will all make perfect sense after you think on it a bit.

Look. Here is precisely what I want to say:

George Takei, I admire you.

I admire you in many ways. I admire your honesty. I admire your huge heart. I admire your sense of fairness. I admire your ability to forgive. I admire your sense of humor, your ability to laugh at yourself and your laugh. I admire that you have the balls to say what you think and to stand up for what you believe. I admire your standing up for what others believe even if you disagree.

George, if I was a gay man your husband, Brad, would need to staple those “Stalker” poster dealies around your neighborhood and carry my photograph with him because I’d be gunning for you. If I was gay you would be everything I would be looking for in my man.

Until I met you to the Howard Stern Satellite Radio Show, the man I would want to chase was my college buddy Lloyd. I think that you and Lloyd would be great buddies if you met. Lloyd loves musicals and he’s got all of your same human attributes.

Plus, he looks like Johnny Mathis. If Johnny Mathis had German ancestors. And he can sing like Johnny too.

Wait, George and Lloyd, I don’t mean you’d make good boyfriends buddies, I mean good guy friends buddies. I’ve broken-up way too many marriages already to be messing with other men’s wedded blisses. Wedded blissi, maybe.

Lloyd and his partner adopted children in need of adoption years ago- way before it was a popular thing to do. I haven’t met his kids but I know with a dead certainty that they had the finest parenting kids could have. I don’t know his children, but I know Lloyd.

Lloyd and our other buddy Pat are the two of my old college buddies I most admire. As a single father, Pat raised his kids himself and has gone on to be one of the few lawyers in the world that I would shelter from a shitstorm.

Pat has distinguished himself with his work providing criminal defense for the defenseless- standing up for the rights of people whose rights get trampled. He’s kind of semi-retired now and spends time teaching at the Texas Tech Law School up to Lubbock.

Maybe semi-retired are the wrong words. My guess is that Pat is more like spreading himself thinner than before. You know, he’s still got just the one spoonful of peanut butter but now he’s got two slices of toast.

Lloyd lives out to California near Los Angeles and he’s working for a medical appliance manufacturer and of course, he is in Customer Service.

You can tell for sure that my brain is fritzed because I haven’t seen either of these two guys for years, and thinking about George Takei has made me think of them. Hell, Pat and Lloyd likely don’t remember anything about me except that everyone thought that I was nuts.

I’m still nuts but I think this last thirty years of psycho therapy has finally found a little purchase on the slippery slopes of my brain. Maybe realizing that George Takei, a gay man, is more manly than I- a fully heterosexual man with ten ex-wives, is a sign of growth.

Now that I’ve been cogitating this over, I think that what this might be is a part of my attempts to miss people before they have left my life. Like my so-far feeble attempts to appreciate my Gram before she passes. Maybe if I tell George and Lloyd and Pat how much I admire them now, my acknowledgment might have some actual meaning to them, and not just me.

Telling people you admire how they have lived their lives has little meaning to anyone but yourself when the first telling takes the form of a eulogy. You know, like the difference between when your mother makes you apologize to your sister for setting her hair on fire and if you had been smart enough to apologize before Mother even finds out about how you needed a punk for lighting your Cherry Bombs and struck a Match to Sister’s pigtail.

The first “I’m Sorry” is a sorry excuse for an apology while the other has true meaning.

What if I could find an actual way to introduce George, and Brad, to Lloyd? That might buy me a little credit in my Paid-forward Account of Life. Maybe I can Google George to find out where he lives. I could buy flowers and write a poem to George and surprise him there to his house. I know what George would say when he opened his door to me. He’d say:

“Oh my!”

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Chelsea Handler has a great one, George Takei said “Oh my!” on Howard Stern first

Monday, March 29th, 2010

The weekend was great weather here and we started the hot season garden out to the ranch. We garden in a fifty-acre patch that I won in a poker game back to 1983. With all of the mouths we feed from it Gram is wanting to expand its boundaries next year. So while the rest of the crew were planting, Streaker Jones and I were spreading the compost and granite sands on the adjacent land and tilling them in.

We’ll grow alfalfa this year and then plow it under. That’s the best way to prepare your soil around here. I let Gram and Gnat decide what we plant so long as I get at least ten acres of tomatoes. I love homegrown tomatoes. Especially the old fashioned ones. You know, the purple ones and the striped ones, and those that get really big and gnarly looking.

Back to 1990, or maybe it was 1991, we grew a Merced that looked like Washington crossing the Delaware. To me, it looked more like a bunch of goat pellets stuck to the bottom of a tire-tread sandal, but Gram got her picture to the Garden Page of the Austin American Statesman anyway. That’s our Austin newspaper.

Once June hits, I carry pre-mixed salt and pepper in a shaker in my hip pocket, and a hemp cloth tote bag full of ripe tomatoes. Take them everywhere I go. Lured one of my ex-wives into my sticky web with a perfectly-seasoned old timey beefsteak. Supplying her with tomatoes from the ranch garden is one of the conditions to our Alimony Agreement. Woman loves her tomatoes.

OK, enough about me, let’s talk about you. I had no idea that so many people did not know what a “camel toe” is. I need to thank Mrs. Che-Che La B, from up to North Dallas, for her thoughtful voice mail and inquiry about the subject. How did you get my phone number, and are you a stalker?

But, “Yes,” I do know that the camel is a pachyderm, and, “Yes,” I do know that the camel provides essential transportation, nutrition and night-time comfort to the nomadic peoples of the world. But “No”, I disagree with your thoughts that I am a brain dead Troglodyte.

I even understand how important the camel is from a cultural perspective. But I don’t get the part about sleeping with camels. Have you ever smelled a camel? Maybe all of that dry desert air kills a person’s sense of smell. Or your nose gets all dust encrusted from the sand storms and you can’t smell anything.

But back to topic. While I have always known that it has many names, I thought that camel toe was the universal nom de plume for when a woman has her pocket meat on display. Whether on purpose or by accident, I always thought the name was “camel toe” for when a lady places said meat into the display case. And I figured that every woman knew this.

Other names I have heard are “moose knuckles” and “my honey’s hams” and “girl package”. If I was naming it I think something along the lines of, “Oh my!” would be my choice. Like George Takei says on the Howard Stern Radio Show. George was Mr. Zulu on Star Trek too.

A nice lady with a well-tended and proudly displayed camel toe walks by me, I’m thinking to myself, I’m thinking, “Oh my!” Maybe I can start a new trend and create a new saying and get famous.

Oh my!

Maybe I’d need to credit George.

My Gram calls hers her “pocket poochies”. While I guess that “pocket poochies” is perfectly and properly descriptive of Gram’s camel toes, I can only hope that particular descriptive name would have limited applications. My Gram looks like she was constructed from dried goat bladders to start with. To imagine her camel toe would be traumatic. But again, “Oh my!”

But to be technical, Mrs. La B, I will quote to you the definition for Camel toe that I am sending to the people to Websters. You know Websters, the dictionary folks.

“Camel toe. Noun. From the early Egyptian meaning “Oh my!”. The result of a mature woman wearing outer garments which are pulled into a frontal wedgie, placing the pubic mound and crevice at maximum visual display.”

From the historical perspective, Cleopatra invented the camel toe. It seems that one of the few positive genetic flaws of all the inbreeding, which is so common among the ruling classes, was that the women offspring’s labia and surrounding mounds majoris, were truly major mounds. And these were not mounds like what glandular malfunctions cause. These mounds were meat-swollen and not swollen meat or water-retentive in nature. I wonder what Queen Elizabeth looks like down there.

Old Cleo would have her hand maidens pluck her crotchie areas clean of hairs using tweezers made from dried shark cartilage. Cleo discovered that if the hairs were plucked one at a time, she could avoid razor rash. Of course, she didn’t call it razor rash since razors were a future invention, and the plucking took hours, of course.

When I did the research on this shark cartilage dealie, I called Ingrid over to Ingrid’s Hot Wax Emporium to ask her if we could try plucking me that way for my next ass show. Ingrid told me to get some rest and make an appointment with Dr. Sam I. Am.

Actually, she said, “Have you lost your mind Mooner?”

Anyway, Cleopatra used her toe jobber to mesmerize Mark Anthony and Julius Caesar and a bunch of other Roman men back to the B.C. times. I think that’s maybe why Italian women lack the basic sense of humor to enjoy a free-thought discussion of the subject to this day.

Cleopatra would get herself all skinned-off by hand-maiden-and-shark-cartilage tweezing, and then have her hand maidens anoint her polished loins with oils. The oils would be fragrant with frankincense and myrrh. Do you think she had special oil-anointing hand maidens or were they maybe multi-tasking maidens who both tweezed and anointed?

I think I could use a hand maiden or two. And why is myrrh spelled that way?

After proper exfoliation and anointing, the royal camel toe would be bound for presentation. When I heard that she had it “bound” I was kind of admiring Cleopatra for taking one for the team. You know, it sounded like when the oriental women would bind their feet up to make them attractive. Sounded painful as all get out.

But when I read the records of this on the net the other day, I got the sense that this binding was quite different from foot binding and that old Cleo actually enjoyed it.

And then this morning, Streaker Jones came to my office with some timely news. “Mooner, ya need ta know that Chelsea Handler is kechin a buncha crap bout her camel toe. People’s callin her a man cuase shes got her a man-sized load.”

Then he added, “I don’t lik em talkin bad bout Chelsea, Mooner. Wud ya say sumthin in yur bloggie?”

Streaker Jones is a huge Oprah Winfrey fan. But with her ending her talk show soon, I think he is changing the channel of his TV attentions. Actually, what I think is that Chelsea Handler is me with a pretty face and different plumbing. I really don’t think she is a man. If she is all I can say is, “Holy shit, I have fantasized about a man.”

I got on the E Entertainment website and sure enough, there’s like 10,000 blog comments posted about Chelsea’s camel toe, and some are quite cruel. Chelsea is funny, irreverent and inappropriate- attributes which I much admire. When I got the letter telling me I’d been voted the Most Inappropriate Man In the World, I just assumed she’s garnered the woman’s trophy.

Well, actually I didn’t get a trophy, just the letter that I framed and hung next to my other awards.

Anyway, one of my objectives in starting this blog was to perform public service. Dr. Sam I. Am said that helping others would help me get a sense of satisfaction that I don’t find other ways. So, I am offering here to provide a public service to any woman with camel toe concerns. If you are worried that you have an issue with yours, just contact me. I’ll be glad to advise.

My Gram’s best buddy, P-cubed, says that maybe I could sponsor a club to support the issue. I think maybe I can. I could have a contest for the best name for the club and everything. You know, generate some buzz.

Speaking of buzz, Roshandra called me to talk about her camel toe. She wanted me to tell you guys that a woman needs to be proud of her stuff. I don’t remember if I ever saw it displayed in classic camel toe fashion, but I can say that Roshandra has world-class stuff.

Wait. P-cubed is Penelope Paxton-Parades, who is also known here to Austin as the “Guacamole mama”.

Let me know if I can help with the club.

Now, I need to go. Mooner

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