Archive for the ‘Humor’ Category

Delivering Daily Mail; Choosing The Chosen

Thursday, March 3rd, 2016

So. I’m muddling in my own stew—stewing in my juices, if you will—because I’m a knucklehead, and so am I. My ADD is in the same state of pronouncements as is the Mountain Juniper pollen that so thoroughly wrecks my sinuses this time of year, thereby wrecking my thoughts and decision-making and, in turn, wrecking everything around me. I’m a snot-dripping-swollen-eyed forgetful and inattentive fuckball.

Having said that, a quite good friend holds the unerring opinion that I do not have ADD. Nopers, this otherwise bright man thinks that I have, as he calls it, “Selective Attention Disorder, You Asshole.” My buddy seems to think that I have control of the boiling cauldron of witches’ brew bubbling around inside my skull and that I make simple choices as to what sticks, or doesn’t stick, and to what I pay attention, or don’t. He thinks my day is filled with a series of black-and-white, choose A or B, decisions. Remember this but not that, see her not him, do one something and forget the other. See the rose, miss the thorn.

This friend says that my forgetting to finish a construction project and leaving construction debris all over the fucking place before sending a final bill to a client who already had a pre-fueled rocket pack up his ass was an intentional choice, while my acute insight into the workings of a poker hand I played in 1984 is forever etched on my pain-swollen brain. He believes I chose to not think about moving and resetting the client’s satellite dish in advance of killing said client’s access to the last Republican debate, when at the same time holds the position—with absolute certainty—that I would want to remember the precise number of Fire Ant stings I got that one time Streaker Jones and I were chasing bikini-clad girls down to the Texas coast.

Ever been stung by a Fire Ant? If you’ve any allergy to them at all, each tiny sting delivers enough poison to raise a welt the size of a quail egg, each welt capped with a pussy point, and all of them burn like fire, weep incessantly, and itch. They itch so bad you have to scratch, and each scratching sends jolts of almost paralyzing pain up your spine.

Fucking Fire Ants. And isn’t it interesting that a puss-filled something is spelled with alikenesses to many-a-man’s favorite female part, and a kitty cat? Isn’t the yin/yang of life amazing? Woman says to you, you’re on a date with this nice lady and she casually mentions to you, she says, “My pussy is pussy.”

“Hmmmmm,” you think, and hopefully to yourself, “Is the cat sick or do I have a serious choice to make in the next couple hours?”

In my daily telephone/SKYPE psychotherapy sessions, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson has been chiding me to make lists of the things I need to do, then USE the lists. “Make a list, dumass, and then USE it. How many times must you be told?”

This morning I produced a pile of Postie Notes containing a few of my lists starting from a date sometime in 1994, and marking the years passing until today. I held the bundled stack of party-colored sticky papers to the pin camera on my computer. God, I do love Postie Notes.

“Maybe at least one more time. Now, here. Look. See all these notes?”

I unstacked the pile about mid-way and removed the top paper. “This says it’s Tuesday and the items are: call Dr. Washburn about the infection; get Ferrari out of the shop; transfer from savings for Ferrari repairs; pick up laundry; mow Sammie’s yard and clean the pool; prepare for City Council meeting;… Hey, this must have been 2005. Remember when I bounced the check for fixing the front bumper on Gram’s car? I’ve got my pants down to my ankles to flash Councilperson Morales my depiction of the Mexican Flag for their Mexican Independence Day celebrations and that shithead process server hit me with papers. I thought it was because I bounced a check. Turns out it was that other thing. What was that other thing? That was a great Mexican flag, Ingrid got the colors just right. I need to call Ingrid–catch up.  Oh yea, and I mowed your grass but forgot to clean the pool. That was that time your sister brought her entire family down from Oregon and the kids all got eye infections. The pool wasn’t that dirty, Sammie. Your sister coddles those kids waaaaay to much.”

Anyway, I have one thing to say to anybody who thinks I have Selective Attention Disorder, You Asshole:

Fuck you, and Walmart too!

Print Friendly

What the Hell is a YA?

Thursday, September 9th, 2010


So. I went to a writers’ group here to Austin in an attempt to connect with that whole commonality-of-interest dealie. Both Dixie and Dr. Sam I. Am preach at me to understand and practice the concept in its full width, and breadth.

They seem to feel that I spend too much time with my own ADHD-addled thoughts, and don’t put enough effort into understanding other people. They have been beating this concept into my head for months now, and I think I’ve got it.

If I grasp the practical aspects of the concept, they are that:

  1. Commonality of Interest is the foundation of human nature which says that people will connect easier and quicker, and form tighter bonds, with other people who appear to share their same interests.
  2. Finding common ground with another person, and therefore the implicit support for your own thoughts and ideas, helps with your sense of self worth. This is the basis for Dr. Sam I. Am’s psycho therapy support groups.
  3. As a salesman, you can get prospects to feel comfortable with you if you can find some common ground to discuss. Show the prospect that the two of you could be buddies.
  4. Said another way- people like people who are like themselves.

I think I get the idea. The problem I keep having with this commonality dealie is this: the harder I try to find things I have in common with other humans, the more differences between us crop up; the more differences I discover between us, the more likely it becomes that a situation could unravel; the more things unravel, the more likely it becomes that I will spend some time in jail.

Take last night, for instance.

I was excited to be meeting with a group of local writers, and some of them actual authors. I distinguish the two in this way. I am a writer- I’m full of shit and find myself compelled to put thoughts to print. An author is a writer who doesn’t realize he’s full of shit, and feels compelled to use big words and confusing literary concepts to distinguish himself from us writers.

But, I harbor no resentment for writers or authors, either one. I can either like or dislike both with an unprejudiced eye. Same way that I like Carta Blanca beer and detest Dos XX.

However, I think I’m an amateur at getting along. For starters, as soon as I arrived at the meeting, the commonality of interest I sought was divided down the middle. Half writers and half authors. Then, I discovered that we word-smiths require additional layers of separation beyond writer vs author. Are we fiction, non-fiction, self-help, memoir, biography, children’s or young adult? Young adult is the infamous YA category.

In last night’s group, we had four writers and four authors. We had one fiction writer, me, and seven non-fiction. I have always thought of myself as a biographical memoirist. The group decided that I am a fiction writer after reviewing my webber and bloggie.

Of the seven others, one was self-help, four were memoirists (memoirators, maybe?), one historian, and the last a biographer. And each and every one of the seven was a Young Adulterer. Young Adulterator? I’m something like two minutes into the meeting and I realize that I have almost nothing in common with this group.

So, basically, I was a group of one, and segregated from the others by several invisible barriers. Confused? You should have been there.

These guys were all in their late twenties and older. Average age, I’m guessing, was maybe forty-three. And even with all of the commonality of interest they shared with their YA cohorts, these silly guys are fighting over everything.

“You simply cannot categorize vampire themes as anything other than YA,” this one guy says. “I’ve done the research.”

He was maybe fifty and was dressed like my college lit professor back to 1967. Long mop of stringy hair, thick black eyeglasses, tan cord pants with those shiny spots where they get rubbed with use, and this vintage wool blazer with elbow patches. This guy I had pegged as an author.

Now me, I’m thinking, “What research?” and, “This yahoo has his head totally up his ass.” That’s when I hear, “Oh, pull your head out of your ass, Johnathon. Last year when you were writing adult sexual fiction, vampires were for adults only. I appreciate your attempting to fit in, but try to say something smart. Stop being such a yahoo.” This from a writer, a handsome younger woman who said she writes for the lesbian and gay YA audience.

I have met her several times before, when I attended Sister and Anna’s lesbian meetings. Lisa is her name. I think she was the date of the lady who hit me with my own Carta Blanca beer bottle in that little scuffle we had over to Guerros Taco Bar that one time. That last fight- the one I didn’t start.

I have been accused of starting several fights while attending my Sister and her wife’s lesbian support and action groups. Once I actually said something I wished I hadn’t said. All the other skirmishes were caused by simple misunderstandings.

Like, for example, the difference between “more manly”, and “manly more”.

Lisa then turned to me and said, “Yo, Mooner. Of everyone here, I think you have the best perspective since you’re the oldest.” Her look was challenging. “Give us your erudite thoughts on the subject.

Maybe she’s an author.

Now all eyes are on me. “Tell us, Mooner. Are vampires the exclusive property of Young Adult writers?”

“Well,” I started. “I watched my first vampire movie to the drive-in theater back in 1958. Scared the shit out of me and gave me bad dreams. Then last Sunday night, I watched True Blood over to HBO with SAC Ellen. All of that neck sucking gets the SACster all randified, so I know vampires are in her wheelhouse.”

I took a sip of coffee, then added, “But who gives a shit anyway? Don’t you want a broad range of people to read your stuff even if you do write to a target audience?”

Am I wrong?

Of course Mr. Elbow Patch pipes in, “Well, I can only speak for the serious authors among us, but missing your target audience is a sign of immaturity and failure.” He sniffed, adjusted his cuffs and added, “A dismal failure, Mis-ter Johnson.” He emphasized the “Mis” in Mister and this little bubble of spittle flew from his mouth onto his sleeve.

Then everybody starts opinionating and the conversation turned to shit.

It seems to me that, as a group, we’re one angry statement away from a fistfight, when this little lady sitting across from me starts slapping her hand on the table. “Stop it. Stop it right now!”

Things got real quiet and she says, “Now listen to me, everyone. We had a nice group here before this fiction writer barged in. I know who he is.” Here she looks me dead in the eye and says, “I know you Mooner Johnson. I go to church with your mother and Gram.”

Now, she stands up and points her finger at me. “You are a heathen and a disruptive shit. Go away and leave us alone.”

“And you, Mrs. Ellis, are a right-wing Baptist religious fuckball.”

How’s that for erudite?

That’s when little Mrs. Ellis came across the table at me like she was a rabid raccoon and I was last week’s leftover chicken carcass.

I held my hands up and backed away. “No need to get violent, Mrs. Ellis. I’m thinking that maybe I need to find myself a different group to bond with.”

They clapped, and I left.

But it wasn’t a total waste of time. I got to thinking about this YA business. If seven out of eight writing persons are focusing their works on Young Adults, that sounds like a marketing trend to me. Maybe I can start slanting some of my content their direction and get more readership.

I’m going to call John Egloff and set a meeting. I bet he can help me with this. But answer me this if you will. What, precisely, is the definition of a Young Adult? I’ll twitter tweet that one.

Manana, y’all.

Print Friendly

#colleenlindsay- Hero; Mooner Lied

Wednesday, August 18th, 2010


OK, so I’m a liar. The dealie that was to make me incommunicado has been delayed a week. Of course it wasn’t delayed until after I was already there. Now, I will be incommunicado all of next week because I have to go back. Which gives us time to discuss a few things.

I am still waiting for your entries into the bloggie contest, and I am especially awaiting responses from #colleenlindsay and #americacalling with special bated breath. That pound sign business is my attempt to twitterate Colleen Lindsay and Calling America, and get their attention.

Colleen is a publishing professional with many years experience and who is living the life experience of cancer. She is living cancer in real time and on Twitter. I admire her attitude and frankness and I think we could be buddies. I know who she is, specifically. Her name, her photo is posted to Twitter, and she makes comments about herself. From all of that, I get a feeling that I know her.

And please, don’t start that dog person/cat person crap with me. I don’t have any cats, only a dog. But that isn’t because I don’t like cats. Gram always said that cats are more trouble than dogs, and I bought in to that shit. Dixie is more trouble than any of my ten ex-wives, and cats are so aloof I bet I could ignore my cat and it would be happy.

So, I figure I know Colleen and that we would get along famously.

America Calling is another dealie entirely. What I am certain of, is that they have a Twitter account and that they started following my bloggie and my new Twitter stuff. I know that they, like Colleen, post voluminous numbers of tweets on a daily basis. I know that, contrary to Colleen, their tweets reflect a distinctive anti theme. Anti to Democrats, liberals, President Obama and many of the values I hold sacred.

I don’t know if they actually write anything or express any views. But I do know that they make conservative comments about events, and provide reference to articles and situations they think support/express conservative views. I know that they sound as angry about our President as I am about brain-dead conservative right-wing religious fuckballs. But they don’t have a face to see, like Colleen’s.

I guess what I might be attempting to say is, “I know what they are (probable right-wing religious Republican or Tea Bagger fuckballs), but I don’t have a name or face for Calling America.” Maybe they are a bot. You know- some mindless, soul-less computer program with keywords as triggers. Like a mean spirited HAL 2000.

Like some evil Republican locked a poor computer genius in the basement until he created this content bot. Then, he flew the computer guy back to his native China, or Malaysia or to the Ukraine or wherever, and sicked the bot on Twitter World.

Then, all of that leads me to think that they chose to follow my rantings for some reason other than to support me. Maybe they consider me to be a threat to the American Way, like taxes for education. Or maybe one of them is a closet liberal and he snuck me onto their follow list over to Twitter.

But like my Gram says. She’ll say, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Iffn they follow ya, they’s followers.”

Now, I don’t mean they follow me like lemmings. If that were the case, I’d be leading them to this tall cliff I know out to Lake Travis.

I know it is supposed to be “sneaked” and not snuck. But it should be snuck.

When I read Colleen Lindsay’s tweets, I get lessons to remember if I become afflicted with a malady more significant than infected anal glands. While I am a truly manly man, I’m told that I can be a crybaby. I’ll remember Colleen’s battle and try my best to follow her lead.

Speaking of ass glands, remember I told you I took a cell phone photo of my recently-incised wound? The one that made me faint. Well, my new phone, the one I got after I fell into a swimming pool with the last phone and the same one I used for ass photos, is quite sophisticated and has a great camera.

Sister and her wife Anna took my phone on their trip up to Yellowstone last week because their digital camera was down to the shop, and my cellular takes great photos. Sister is big on taking pictures for nostalgia sakes, and Sister is quite nostalgic.

Anyway, I got my phone back when the ladies returned last Friday, before they could show their vacation pictures to the family. When I returned home early Monday, we set Yellowstone show-and-tell time for after dinner Tuesday night. Sister and Anna, Streaker Jones and Gnat, Dixie and Squirt, Aunt Hilda and Dubbie J, and SAC Ellen all gathered with me to the TV room after dinner to see the photos from the amazing National Park.

Dinner was fried okra, stuffed zucchini squash and cucumber salad- all made from our garden’s crops, and broiled catfish from one of our ponds. And Carta Blanca beer. Wait. The catfish were from our pond, and then I broiled them.

We all get seated and Sister hooks my phone up to the TV with the RSTLNE connector, or whatevertheshit you call those cords, and starts flipping through the pictures. She starts in reverse order since that was quicker than backing all the way through. Sister also knows that she needs to get straight to things or my ADHD is liable to sidetrack events.

So. The first is a picture of the two wives hugging at the airport in Austin when they got back home, followed by a picture of the two of them hugging at the airport up to Wyoming as they were getting on the plane to fly home. Then we had the rest of their trip in reverse order- maybe 200 photos. Roads, deer, bison, bears, birds, trees, campsites, mountains, campers and shit, the two lovebirds that are my sister and Anna, and each over-and-over-and-over again.

This trip was right after that bear attacked those people awhile back, so bears were a central theme. I was starting to lose interest when Sister said, “We’re almost to the end,” and this picture hit the screen.

“What’s that, Sister?” asked Anna. “I don’t remember that.”

“Huh,” Sister replied, “What the hell is that?”

Aunt Hilda said, “Dubbie J thinks that looks like one of those apes from back to Africa.”

Gnat said, “It looks like the dark brown shag carpet on the floor in that rat nest apartment I had in Moscow.”

Then Gram pipes up, “Looks lik sumbody shot one a them black bears inna ass an dumped im onna side of tha road.” Then she added, “I heard they caught that crazy bear. Serves im right, but that’s one ugly wound..”

This is when I woke from my daydream and looked at the picture. “Oh my,” I gasped, and fainted dead out.

I know you are wondering why I didn’t delete that nasty picture of my ass from my phone, so I’ll tell you why. You know that I try to be a better man at every opportunity, and this is one. I’m going to look at that picture every once in a while until I can look at it and not drop like a pair of wet Jocky shorts.

But if I’m going to loan my cell phone to people, I need to remember to warn them.

Anyway, I will try to keep in touch before I head back to incommunicado’ville, and I will fill you in on my trip when I get back. In the meantime, it’s 103 degrees and I’m grabbing a cold sixer of Carta Blanca and heading to Sam’s pool.

Manana, y’all.

Print Friendly

This Picture Is Worth An “Oh My!”

Sunday, August 1st, 2010


So. Did you read about the United Airlines pilot who got himself arrested down to Brazil for mooning airport security. True story.

When Michael Slynn, 49, was asked to remove his belt and shoes at Sao Paulo airport, with a laugh and a smile, he dropped his drawers to his ankles and gave security a peeky-poo.

He was briefly detained, but released after promising to visit the judge when he returns to Brazil. Like United Airlines is going to schedule Mikey back to Brazil anytime soon.

Besides, they asked him to remove his belt, right? They didn’t say, “Sir, will you please unbuckle your belt at its clasp and pull it out of your pants’ belt loops, and be sure that you keep your pants fully in their upright, and locked, position?”

Nope. I’ve been to Brazil and I know their drill. It goes like this, “Por favor, Senor, por favor. Remover tu cinto, Senor………… I said take off belt, Sir.”

Then it’s, “Senor, Senor!- only the belt, por favor……….. Is that an iguana on your ass Senor?”

I was required to visit the Judge before I left Brazil.

That was when I was married to Ingrid, my waxologist and owner of Ingrid’s Hot Wax Emporium. She got me out of trouble with the Judge when she explained how she was able to create such sharp images when plucking and dying my ass hair in the shape of a lizard. She’s a true hot wax artist, my Ingrid. Haven’t been back to Brazil, but I do want to return someday.

I’ve had to cancel plans for my Labor Day butt show due to the state of ill repair back there. Dr. Ashworth advised that my bottom needed rest and relaxation, not attention. Streaker Jones and I were planning to go down to Houston and provide some entertainment to an Astros game. Not sure what we’ll do for the holiday now.

Another unanticipated side effect of my butt problems is the deal I worked with Dana, my Arbonne Cosmetics buddy. She gave me this big thing of RE9 Post-Shave Balm to try. She handed over the large bottle to try because she knows I will write about it here. I keep trying to tell her that I don’t know if I’m a good source of access to her potential market, but she is OK with the risk.

I also told her that I might not like the product, and that I definitely had access to the market to make problems for her if I gave a bad review. Again, she felt the risk level was acceptable.

Actually, she says to me, she said, “Look Mooner. You’ll like it. Just please don’t use curse words to describe your experience. I’ll want to quote you as a third-party source.”

I think she really wants me to curse, so I’m not going to. But here’s the deal. I haven’t been shaving my face every day for several years, plus, with this butt problem I have not been shaving and plucking my ass either.

But I do have this to say. First, I have used this shave balm product each time I have shaved my face since I got it, and that is maybe a good dozen shaves. This shave balm has a good feel and non-greasy texture, a scent that is amazingly pleasant, and my skin was left soft and chafe free. The scent is this mild, citrus-tinted spice island rum, with a hint of menthol.

I like it and will buy some as soon as I use up the free bottle.

Second, I want to talk about my newly-discovered secondary use for this product. My week-plus of living with a Kotex stuffed up the crack of my ass has left me with chaffed and sore “brown skin”. Brown skin is that special skin that covers your entire taint region.

Brown skin is different than the rest of our skin. It’s soft as a chamois and just as tough. But brown skin needs to be constantly treated to an oil bath by your anal gland jobbies. My anal gland jobbies are out of order, so my feminine products are chaffing me.

Careful to avoid application to the scalpel wounds, since Monday I have had SAC Ellen apply a thin coating of Arbonne shave balm to my brown skin after my sitz bath. SAC Ellen is very cute in her hospital scrubs, rubber gloves and gas mask.

I think I might be a genius with this one.

The results are remarkable- no more chafe, Dr. Ashburn thinks I’m taking excellent care back there, and the previously-mentioned balm scent blends perfectly with my developing natural musk. I believe Arbonne needs a new label to address this important application.

Why isn’t a woman buddy called your buddie?

Anyway, SAC Ellen applies my shave balm because I can’t see what’s going on back there. In fact when she came to install my after-lunch application this afternoon, I asked the SACster to take a photograph of my surgical site so I could see what I’ve been dealing with.

“Bad idea, Mooner. Really bad idea.”

“Oh come on sweetie, I want to see what it looks like.” This I said forcefully.

“You sound like a little boy whining for ice cream,” her reply. “No. It’s a really bad idea.”

“Oh, please,” I started. “It’s just a little cut for shitsakes, and I wanna see it.”

“Mooner, you don’t have the stomach for this. Trust me. And I don’t have the time to babysit you today.”

“Fine, I’ll just do it myself.”

SAC Ellen gave me that look that always makes me feel stupid, and shamed. What in my past makes me respond to this look in that way? I think the origins are from the look Leticia Browningwell gave me back to Junior High School. She was our teacher and the wife of Pastor Browningwell from over to Gram and Mother’s Baptist church.

Dr. Sam I. Am is on this big kick about shame right now. I think she’s trying to tell me something in therapy without telling me the something. She says that’s the best way to teach in psycho therapy. I think that’s just how she takes a twenty-dollar lesson and turns it into a three-thousand-dollars worth of therapy sessions.

“All right, but be sure to look at the pictures while lying on your bed,” SAC Ellen advised. “Your brain can’t handle another drop on your head.”

We kissed goodbye, and I got my camera. I propped my ass up on a pillow and spent like the next hour attempting to get a photo of my sore spot where I could see the incision. I then tried every position I could, including standing on my head. Finally, while I sat like a doggy, I wedged my camera behind my scrotum and snapped off the winning photo.

I rolled over onto my back and shuffled through the shots to find the new one. I missed what I was looking for during my first fifteen seconds of viewing the money shot. Then I got the zoom focused correctly, and said to myself, I said, “Oh my! This was a really bad idea.”

I woke up a while later, still dizzy and nauseous. I couldn’t keep anything down but cold Carta Blanca beer for several hours. But I did eat some chicken broth just before I started writing this and it remains parked in my stomach.

And I’m so tired I could sleep standing up. But I’m afraid to go to sleep, afraid I’ll see that picture if I close my eyes.

I don’t know why the sight of that cut got to me like that; I’m usually pretty good with that kind of thing. Squirt has been laying in bed with me, singing this Swahili lullaby. She is so fucking cute.

I talked Dr. Sam I. Am into coming over to the ranch to pick up the Squirtster and give us a little therapy. We’re going to do a group session with Rush Limbaugh the pig and the ostrich Rick Perry. We’re going to work on their self confidence issues and how to overcome their fear of Gram. Maybe we’ll have time for a few of my problems.

Rush and little Ricky have got to come out of the closet. I need my closet back.

Anyway, it’s Friday, but not a date night because SAC Ellen has a meeting, so I’m going to grill up something for diner. If I can figure how to do it, I’ll post the picture of my surgery site here to the webber.

Dr. Sam I. Am keeps telling me me to be more open- to give more of myself. This photo might shut her up.

Manana, ya’ll.

Print Friendly

Feminine Hygeine Product Exposes Mooner

Thursday, July 29th, 2010


So. I’m feeling better with all of my butt problems and will go in to see Dr. Ashworth in the morning for a checkup. That will make it a week since he carved on me, and hopefully he’ll see good progress. I have learned my lesson, so I won’t talk anymore about that subject.

I got up early this morning and felt well enough to actually go out to Mooners Compost Plant and work at my job. I picked the Squirt up from over to Dr. Sam I. Am’s house on my way so she and I could spend some time together. Dixie is mostly with Streaker Jones anymore, but I don’t take it personally.

Dixie is getting older and it breaks my heart. She has been a loyal and valued friend for a very long time. She’s been grooming the Squirt to take her place and she’s got the little shitbird almost to the kick-out-the-nest stage. Actually, what Dixie said was, “Well Mooner, Squirt needs to learn how to fly blind, so I’m leaving her with you.”

I ignored the blind-leading-the-blind jab from my trusty dog. She deserves to live her last times doing what she wants, and she wants to work with Streaker Jones developing new spoor varieties.

When I walked up to Sammy’s place, Squirt was through the tiny doggie door and at my feet before I could knock.

“Buongiorno, Bwana Mooner, nie ist your day?” This greeting was made with her “sitting pretty”- on her haunches like a bunny rabbit, a smile on her face and tail going at 90 MPH. This is the pose Dixie has Squirt use during proper, polite conversation.

“I’m hunky dory Miss Squirt, how about you?”

She got a quizzical look to her face and asked, “Que significo eso ‘hunky dory”, Monsieur Mooner? Est ist Snufft Oink Pflushott, ode es inner Suahili?”

I had to think about all of this before I answered. Squirt had just asked a question in Spanish, German, Polish, Italian, common barnyard porcine, French and I think, Swahili.

“Well,” I began. “It’s not piggy talk nor Swahili either one. Hunky dory is an American slang term used to mean “OK”, or “all right”. You asked how my day was, and I told you it is OK, I’m doing all right.” I thought to add, “And before you get too deep into quizzing me about the origins of the phrase, ask Dixie because I don’t know.”

She wasn’t happy, but she walked to the car with me and let me buckle her in without too many more questions. The ride out to the plant was cheerful, and funny, as Squirt entertained me by reciting the Gettysburg Address. She can give the entire speech where she speaks every three words in a different language, changes languages with each three words, and she doesn’t use any language twice.

When I get more time, I’ll write it down for you. But for now, take my word that you’ll laugh your asses off with this one.

I drove the Squirt around the plant when we first got there so she could see everyone and spend some time watching the big machines. Squirt is fascinated with all the big yellow iron. We professionals call the loaders and other big machines yellow iron. I parked in my slot in front of the office, and Gnat got real pissy at me when I walked through the door.

“Can I help you sir?” she asked. And then, “Mr. Johnson only sees visitors with an appointment, and we don’t expect to be seeing him around here for a few more months.”

I guess it had been awhile since I was sitting to my desk.

“Un-wad your panties and tell me what you got for me this morning, Gnat. I feel like getting something done.”

“Well,” she started, “I’ve got quite a bit to do myself and I wasn’t planning on babysitting your whiny ass all day.”

My trusty assistant shuffled some papers around her desk and said, “Why don’t you start by going through the spring catalog for If You Can’t Smoke It, Wear It, LLC. Streaker Jones and Dixie are waiting on your thoughts before going to print. I looked through it and it all looks good, so you can do that in less than an hour.”

She hesitated a second, then added, “But don’t you dare get on the computer and start messing with my financial reports. Steve Midgett is expecting me to send them this afternoon and they’re almost finished.”

That catalog would be the spring line of hemp fabric clothing we make over to New Mexico, and Steve Midgett would be our trusty CPA accountant. The hemp, as a raw material, is a bi-product from one of Streaker Jones’ growing operations. When I get the chance, I’m going to logoize some of our hemp clothing and make it for sale here to the webber and let you buy it. Tee shirts and stuff.

What would you call it when you print your logo on something- logoize or logotize? Logorate maybe.

So, I’m going through the catalog and it is obvious that the clothing guys have done a great job again. I’m still working on the ultra-lightweight protective body armor for the military, my personal contribution to the spring line. We’re using hemp and bamboo fibers in a special weave that is proving to stop the bullets from most street guns.

Anyway, I stopped taking my pain meds since I was driving and I was starting to throb with pain. Now don’t get me wrong about this pain because it was nothing compared to what I had before Dr. Ashworth lanced me. If the pre-lancing pain was a 10, this is maybe a 0.036 on the pain meter.

But I guess that I’m a big baby when it comes to pain because I wishing I wasn’t driving. Speaking of driving, I had a surprise for Squirt. “Hey Squirt, you want to go drive a front end loader with me?”

Squirt had a stunned look on her face and said, “Voglio drive los loader die mich? Are you serious?”

“As serious as the open wound on my ass little lady. Let me change my absorbent pad and we’ll head out.

I already told you I’m using what I have always called a Kotex as both a cushion for my sore tushie, and also to soak up my oozings. Actually, I use an ecologically friendly brand. Cut them in half so I’m not wasteful. They slip and slide some but I’ve gotten used to having a cotton wad stuck up my butt.

The Squirt and I were driving the loader around the plant, she in my lap and me letting her touch controls to lift and dump and stuff. She was having a blast and I managed to do but minimal damage to Javier’s carefully-managed wind rows of compost.

Sammy called as we were finishing and asked if Squirt and I would mow her lawn. We said, “Sure,” and we parked the loader and told Gnat we were leaving.

Once back to Sam’s house, I changed into my gym shorts- loose, short billowy nylon things, and Squirt and I headed out to the garage. I unplugged the heavy duty electric mower and started mowing. Dr. Sam I. Am’s lot is big, maybe 200 feet wide at the street, and her street is very popular with the neighborhood’s walkers. It’s got light traffic and the entire half-mile is tree lined and shaded from the nasty summer sun.

When I mow, I like to make long runs across the lawn parallel with the street and starting at the street. Squirt likes to help by nipping at my ankles and getting in my way. The street was crowded with walkers and as I made the turn at the far end to come back, I spotted two of Sam’s neighbors walking towards me. They were waving their hands and pointing. When I reached the end of my pass, the two nice ladies were at the curb beside me.

One said to me, she says, “Afternoon Mr. Johnson. You dropped something back there and it looks like Squirt is going to retrieve it for you.”

The other nice lady says, “Isn’t Squirt just the sweetest little thing?”

“Yes,” I replied as I turned to see the Squirt prancing my way across the grass, a blood-stained white cotton wad in her mouth.

I thought to myself, I though, “Oh shit.”

Squirt raced the last ten feet and dropped the fallen feminine hygiene product to my feet.

“Oh my,” gasped one lady.

“Why that’s a bloody Kotex,” said the other. “What the hell…”

“I can explain, it’s not what you think,” I tried.

“Oh for God sakes Mooner Johnson. Have you no shame at all?”

I thought about that. “Well,” I started, “I think I might be full of shame, but I’d need to consult with Sammy.”

“Well Dr. Am-Johnson will certainly be consulted about this, Mooner. My God but you are inappropriate.” And she finished with, “For the life of me I don’t know what Samanta ever saw in you.”

And with that they huffed off.

I finished with the lawn and wondered about two things. First, I wondered just how pissed Sam was going to get about me dirty-wadding her neighbor ladies. She thinks I intentionally disrupt her life, but I know most everything is just bad circumstances. Like this particular circumstance.

The other thing I was chewing on was the whole, “Have you no shame?” dealie. What does that really mean? I mean, whatthefuck?

I know I can be ashamed of my actions, I know I can recognize shame in myself and others, I try not to but I know I sometimes shame others. Shame is not one of my goals, and I certainly don’t like it, but where does any of that fit in with the question.

And why isn’t the question, “Do you have shame?” Isn’t that a cleaner way to ask, or am I even getting that part wrong?

“Come on Squirt. Let’s go to the ranch and have some Carta Blanca beer. Let’s finish our day at the BBQ grill.”

“Yo soy love BBQ, Signore Mooner. Vamanos!”

So, I bid you, “Manana, ya’ll.”

Print Friendly

Squirt Kicks Environmental Butt, Polluter Might Live

Friday, July 16th, 2010


So. I think I’m tired of talking about the many things I do wrong here to my webber and bloggie, so we’ll just drop that subject. Like my Gram said to the dinner table last night, she said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Us Johnsons make tha rules, we don’t foller ’em.”

While Gram’s logic is faulty at best, even a blind boar hits on an accurate thought every now and then. When I signed-up with Word Press and Go Daddy to do this nonsense, they didn’t have me sign any promise to obey rules about word count or any of that other nonsense. I’m really starting to wonder if those guys are all Republican.

Republicans are a pain in the ass, by definition.

Anyway, I was late to my dinner last night because I was over to Dr. Sam I. Am’s house to mow her lawn for her. She’s at some big brain doctor conference and I’m watching the Squirt while she’s away. I’m also doing chores like mowing the grass, cleaning the swimming pool and watering her plants.

When I finished with the grass, Squirt asked me to take her on a walk around the usual route she walks with Sammy. She wanted to see if her nemesis was around and available to be chased.

“Maybe Herr Squirrel es in los arboles up by la golf course. Yo es dying to estrangle der squirrelenbastard mit mine own deux hands.”

Squirt thinks that there is only one squirrel in the world and said one squirrel lives in her neighborhood. The tree-climbing rat moves around the neighborhood as Squirt walks her route- popping in and out from different locations to posture. And making the Squirt maniacally nuts. I keep telling her that it’s more than one ratlike varmint that tortures her, but she won’t buy it.

“Same uno, Mooner,” she tells me.

“Not the same one, sweetie,” I try. “It’s just that all squirrels look alike. That’s how you know they’re a squirrel.”

Too bad all Republican right-wing religious shitballs don’t carry the same genetic features. That way you could see them for what they are before they open their big yaps. Give you time to escape.

Anyway, I cleaned the rechargeable electric mower I gave Sammy for her last birthday, and placed it back in its spot in the garage, and off we go. Maybe three doors down from the house, and after Squirt has pulled me to the grass so she can dribble one drop like maybe a dozen times- Mister Squirrel shows for the first time. He runs a few feet into the street ahead of us, stops and turns to look right at us, and does that tail twitch thingie that squirrels do just to piss you off.

“Arf, arf, grrrrrrrr, you varmint die uber pain en la ass!” And then, “Grrrrrrrr, matako volmas!”

Now me, I know exactly what the Squirt just said, she called him an asswipe. Matako is Swahili for ass, and volmas is Lithuanian for wipe. This I know because it is one of Squirt’s favorite expletives. The squirrel obviously misses the threat in Squirt’s outburst and lazily runs and bounds up a tree.

The miniature dog and I have the same, “It’s more than one squirrel,” talk we always do on these walks, and I don’t make any more progress with her than the hundred before this. So, we’re walking along and we can hear the buzz of a landscape crew working a few houses ahead of us. We walk past four houses, and while the noise is louder, we still don’t spot the crew. We get to the corner and turn left, and two houses down is this beehive of activity, an almost deafening level of gas powered lawn equipment noise. And smoke.

Giant billowing clouds of dense, gray two-and-four cylinder lawn equipment smoke.

“Que en la inferno est dies?” Squirt started that full-body vibrating things she does when scared or angry. Trust me, it pays to know which, and the Squirt wasn’t scared.

“Assholes, baby. That hell is assholes,” I told her. “Small minded, air polluting fuckballs.”

OK, let me stop here to provide you with some background information that just might help you to understand what happened next. See, I am a firm believer that our delicate planet is under attack from many directions. Other than if religious terrorists were to get a hold on some nuclear weapons, I believe that the most serious of those threats comes from our consumption of fossil fuels as we burn them for energy.

I’m not stupid enough to think that we can just pull the plug this afternoon and never burn another barrel of oil or ton of coal. But I know with absolute certainty that we can pull the plug on certain fossil fueled devices.

Like lawn equipment.

I am what I guess you would call a madman on this issue. Battery powered lawn equipment is already a proven alternative to old fashioned gasoline varieties and if you still use gas-powered devices at your house, you are an uninformed moron. You are uninformed or you’re Republican, which makes you a moron, once more by definition.

Rechargeable battery technology surpasses the requirements for lawn care, and did so years ago. If you are using gas powered lawn stuff, I think you should be warned once, and then handcuffed to a bed that sits in the jail cell occupied by only you, and my Gram.

Gram is a big role player when, as she puts it, “I’m all randy an sexilated.”

I share my feelings about environmental issues with anybody who will listen. Since Squirt has been with me for a few days straight, she has had a pretty thorough indoctrination. When I start going off about the smoggy, noisy demonstration from this lawn crew, Squirt springs into action.

She yanked free the leash I held loosely in my left hand, and took off. She’s yapping and flashing her mouthful of tiny razor sharp teeth at the workers, actions seen as harmless by the men polluting our world. I’m not at all unhappy by her rants so I just watch to see what happens.

Why do I seem to get into as much trouble for what it is that I don’t do, as for what I do do?

After a minute of them ignoring her, the Squirt has figured a new tactic and she starts getting in front of the workers, putting herself between the men and their work. Me, I’m thinking to myself, I thought, “Mooner, this might require a little personal intervention.”

But, by the time that particular thought fought its way through my ADHD-addled brain- it was too late. This one worker got this pissed-off look on his face and decided to take a kick at the Squirt. I know he didn’t mean it to be a cause-harm kick, but Squirt is still young and misses many of the nuances of body language.

I have told you before that Streaker Jones is a martial arts and self defense guru and that he trains all of our family, blood and extended family both, how to fight.

And kill.

The gas-powered, environmental asshole takes this exaggerated kick at Squirt, and just as his boot reached its apex- she leaped and attached those tiny razor-sharp teeth to his crotch.

Let me say something before I end this already 1,200-word bloggie posting. I now know how to encourage a man to stop polluting. Clamp a rat trap to his nuts.

So, that’s why I was late to dinner. What with the incident report, and the proof of rabies vaccination and trip downtown for booking. Maybe I can get a copy of Squirt’s mug shot and post it to the bloggie. She’s a cute little shit for sure.

Anyway, it’s Friday and all of my full-size tomatoes have burned out in the summer heat. We’ve got an entire pantry crammed full of canned red goodness, but they just don’t cut it at Carta Blanca beer time. It’ll be a few weeks before my system adjusts.

I always get kind of weepy with the last big tomatoes of the season, morose even. I’ll need to call Doctor Sam I. Am for a psycho therapy session tonight.

Manana, ya’ll.

Print Friendly

Go Daddy Intimidates Mooner More Chelsea Handler Camel Toe Fights Sarah Palin

Wednesday, July 14th, 2010

OK. We were discussing the word count police and my recent bloggie evaluations from Go Daddy when I so rudely left you yesterday. They basically told me to see what keywords you guys hit the hardest and design all of my content around that. And a bunch of other nonsense.

So….. that means everything I write must be about: Chelsea Handler, Kathy Griffin, Sarah Palin, Oprah Winfrey, Rush Limbaugh, pig, Rick Perry, ostrich, including their camel toes, sex, sex dreams, coming out parties, Carta Blanca Beer, plus Mooner’s homegrown tomatoes.

Notice I did all of that without putting any stop words in it.

Everything else is a waste, according to those fuckballs at Go Daddy. Actually, I like Go Daddy and have had frequent and quite lurid dreams about Danica Patrick. She reminds me of SAC Ellen in her solid sexual energy. Except the SACster is much taller and lighter in the hair and longer legs.

Then there would be the whole badge and gun thingie.

I had this one dream when we were to West Texas that night after we watched the Marfa Lights. In this dream, I was playing a game like Whack-A-Mole except that it was camel toes and the whacker was my tastefully dressed pecker. Sarah Palin kept cheating- she was grabbing the whacker and trying to make contact. I’m not a cheater at anything, so I kept asking her to let go of my whacker and to please just push her pocket meat to the mole hill assigned to her.

The ladies were all positioned behind the big game board in the manner of that old TV show Hollywood Squares. Each woman stood behind the game board that had a mole hill for her to proudly display her camel toe. I was in a harness and hanging from a bungy cord so I could bounce around and try to whack a toe to the surprise of the women. But like I say, Sarah Palin kept poking her arm through her mole hole to grab the whacker.

I was quite impressed with her hand strength. I guess pulling the trigger of a gun is an isometric hand strength exercise.

Anyway, Kathy and Chelsea get pissed because Kathy likes to win everything, and Chelsea has the hots for me. I’m older than Chelsea and I’m crazy to boot, so that makes me precisely her cup of tea. So, Kathy is bitching at Sarah Palin and Chelsea is seething at her and the next thing I know, it’s a cat fight. Chelsea attacks Sarah and Kathy somehow gets in the middle and the three of them are all rolling around and pulling hair and shit.

Reminded me of that cartoon character the Tasmanian Devil from back on the Bugs Bunny Show. There’d be this frenzy of fighting and it was like they were spinning in a big featureless ball, with dust and hair flying. Then it seemed they would all tucker out at the same time and just come to a dead stop- each of the three of them heaving and sweating. They’d catch their breath and then Kathy would get pissed again and Sarah would say something stupid and the spinning ball would start again.

Have I told you that I think a sweaty woman is sexy? In particular, I am enamored with beads of sweat in the soft hollow of a hot neck. But my ADHD is getting control of me and now I’m digressing something fierce.

As the other three go spinning around for maybe the fifth time, Danica Patrick says to Oprah, she says, “Why don’t you and I go interview Mooner. I’ve got a stun gun and Mooner’s got his whacker.”

Oprah said, “Let me zap him, Danny, I’ve always wanted to pop a man with one of these.”

Now me, I was hanging there from a bungy cord and I’m thinking to myself, I thought, “Danny? Is that her nickname?” And before I could process any additional information- “ZZZAAAAPPPP!!!”

I didn’t get into any real dream trouble because that’s when I woke up, and with quite the boner. It seems that I can just dream about tazer guns and get the desired erectile effects. Hell, just thinking about it in a daydream can do it too.

See, I was to the Sprouts Farmers Market there to the Arboretum the other day and they were stocking the shelves with a truckload of brand-fresh produce from down in the Valley. The Valley is our big commercial produce part of Texas. This time of year is when all the melons start to ripen along with the red peppers and zucchini and okra and stuff.

I was waiting for them to get everything out before making my selections, hanging out near the cantaloupes. The only thing that was a must get from my list was the okra. Everything else I just get what I need to supplement what we grow to home. Since Rush Limbaugh the pig rooted-up all of Gram’s okra patch out to the ranch, I have to buy it. And massive quantities today because Gram wants to can some with the jalapeños that just got really hot.

“Git me an tha P-cubed some okree, Mooner. It’s cannin day,” was my Gram’s instructions.

My Gram is a great canner. OK, actually it’s P-cubed, Gram’s best bud, who’s the head canner, and Gram is the canner’s head bitcher.

And lookie here- we just hit 850 words. Fucking word police.

I’ll stop right here with my first icy cold Carta Blanca beer of the day and conclude by telling you that Katelyn checked me out at Sprouts and told me she was sorry but, “I don’t have a computer so I haven’t read your blog yet.” Then she added, “I’m a little behind the computer age.”

Now me, I’m behind the computer age myownself, so I won’t take advantage of Katelyn and say stuff behind her back. But it’s too bad that she won’t read that I think she is a number-one Cracker Jack check outer guy for Sprouts, and one of my favorites. Maybe Santiago will let her use his computer.

I’m not happy with this stop-before-you-get-an-entire-thought-out bloggerating business. It feels unethical. Why don’t you guys tell me what you want and maybe I can make some adjustments. And click onto and ask them to leave me alone.

Manana, ya’ll.

Print Friendly

Tag My Keywords, Fuck Your Word Count, Drink Carta Blanca Beer

Monday, July 12th, 2010

So. Like I have been trying to tell you guys, the bloggie police are after me. I keep getting these warnings that I am making a complete mess of my webber and bloggie. The Blog Word Count Police have issued a warrant for my arrest and I think Go Daddy has hired a hit man to get me off their overloaded servers.

In my latest “Search Engine Visibility Notifications”, Go Daddy gave me failing marks on all ten of the top ten Search Engine Visibility check points. I think maybe that’s not a perfect score but I am having trouble determining why I want to fix my problems.

Let’s evaluate this report together, OK?

  1. They say, “All pages have title tag issues. Use the main keyword, less than 65 characters, only alpha-numeric, but no stop words like a, if, the, then, and, an, to, etc.” I say, “Hunh- WTF is that supposed to mean? The title is supposed to be an accurate description of what the title’s stuff is, so bite me.”
  2. They say, “Your pages have tag issues. Good tags have 25-35 words.” Again, I say, “Hunh- WTF? Speak English, por favor.”
  3. They say, “Your pages have keyword meta tag issues.” I say, “I went through all of that keyword shit when I thought they were keystones. I fixed this jobbie already.”
  4. They say, “You have heading tag issues. “ Again, “WTF, and who gives a shit?”
  5. They say, “You have content issues. Pages should have at least 200 words and never more than 700 words.” I say, “Who voted you king of word count? It takes me 300 words to determine my subject matter, and just so that you get things from my perspective- this writing right here just exceeded 300 words. If I start ending things at 700 words, I’ll never get anything said.”
  6. They say, “You have navigation issues. Spiders have difficulty getting around your site.” I say, “I think what Dustin has done should fix that.”
  7. They say, “You have a bad site map.” I say, “Please see response to number 6., above.”
  8. They say, “You have robot.txt file issues.” I say, “Fuck you and your right-wing Republican robots.”
  9. They say, “We want to repeat that you have significant word count and keyword density issues.” I say, “Leave me alone with the word count criticism for shitsakes. I have ADHD!”
  10. They say, “You are inappropriate, too inappropriate for the the vast majority of users.” I say, “Bite me. You must be Baptist or one of their puppets, a Republican. Please go away.”

Now, I don’t claim to be any kind of an expert on anything related to the I-net, so I likewise won’t claim to have any true idea of what to do with my latest evaluation. But it sounds like they want me to manipulate all of my stuff to attract their evil spiders and robots by performing misleading advertising. And also by selling you short on content.

Look, I’m a businessman and I want to be successful. I’m also a human being, so I want you to like what I’m doing here. But it sounds like they think that you guys are dumb shits and have no greater attention span than me. Hell, even I can pay attention for 300 words. And once I get started, I can read a 400-page book in about five hours.

Can’t tell you shit about what I read, but I can read every word.

Which is a major problem for me- the read-fast-can’t-remember-shit thingie, that is. See, I am all the time buying a book that I have already read. Usually the Publisher catches me by changing something on the book’s cover. I seem to be able to tell more about a book from its cover than reading the synopsis on the back, or even the first few chapters.

I mean, I’ll be down to the Barnes and Nobles looking for a few books and reading synopsises or synopsisissi or whateverthehell the plural of synopsis is (are?), and I pick up a book by a favorite author, like say JD Robb. The new book is an Eve Dallas story and I love Eve Dallas stories so I read the synopsis and maybe five chapters. I need to read quite a bit with JD Robb because her books are the ones I buy most.

“Nope,” I say to myself. “This one’s new.” And I buy it, take it home out to the ranch, and place it on one of the tables next to my several reading stations.

Then, a few weeks later, I sit with a cold Carta Blanca beer and open my new Evie Dallas book to the first page. I take a big swallow of beer and read the first three words and say to myself, I’ll say, “Shitballs, I’ve already read this one.”

Why is that? What is going on in my brain where I can’t remember I’ve read a book by reading 2,500 words, but three will hit my memory button after I buy the book a second time? Or even the fifth time.

Now, before you answer that, you need to realize that I’m at 895 words- felonious assault with overly-dense content. That could get me five-to-ten in the Internet slammer. So I say to you-


Print Friendly

A Small Town Parade; A Bigtime Blunder

Saturday, July 10th, 2010

So. I wanted to tell you about the good time we had out to West Texas. The hurricane was blowing big bands of rain across the state, so it rained every day and most of each day. Not heavy downpours but enough to keep things cool and wet. I was the only one of our group who liked all that rain.

SAC Ellen kept complaining about her hair and her shoes and the damp linens in our room. The Squirt was unhappy because she loves the rain but doesn’t like when it splashes all over her cute little puppy titties. Her eight miniature boobies are her favorite feature but she’s built low to the ground. So I was required to carry a hand towel with me and my job was to wipe the wet crud off her belly and girl stuff to keep everything fresh and polished for her.

Actually, Squirt can be quite embarrassing when she shows-off her little naked belly with its eight miniature nipples. She rolls over onto her back and pushes her tummy out to expose her goodies. I know she doesn’t do it just to embarrass me and now that I’m talking about my embarrassment, I realize I need to schedule more psycho therapy.

How can I wave my bare ass around like it’s a flag on the Fourth of July and be embarrassed when a puppy shows her doggy stuff like doggies do?

Dixie bitched about everything but mostly she was unhappy about the unruliness of West Texas dogs. “No manners, Mooner. No manners at all,” she said, and often. The Dixter is getting a little long in the tooth and I think she is spending too much time with my Gram. The two of them are so cranky they could turn an old fashioned ice cream maker with nothing but their bad moods.

But I am willing to humor Dixie regardless of her crankiness. She has done so much for me that I will take anything she dishes out. I did tell her that if she was on her period that these unruly West Texas hounds would be her cup of tea, she told me, “My cup of tea- you are delusional.”

Which reminds me to tell you about the big parade in Fort Davis on the Fourth. It was everything a small town parade should be except for the right wing Republican Baptist Tea Party-supporting small mindedness of so many of the people. The biggest cheers were for any float that had anti-Obama slogans, or NRA Signs or Tea Party posters on them.

Which is the root cause for my comment in the last postie about how I’m glad to be dating a Special Agent in Charge for a major United States government crime enforcement agency. That would be SAC Ellen.

See, one of the things that you do in a small town parade is throw candy and toys and stuff to the kids on the parade route. We had adorned the big wagon I’ve had since I was a boy and dressed it up with red, white and blue bunting and a bunch of American flags. I decided to cut the seat out of a pair of old shorts and make a hole that exposed only my furry, “Happy Birthday America,” tribute. That way children would only see brightly painted hair and not any adult body parts.

Then, since the parade was full of horses and livestock, I couldn’t use the sparklers and Roman candles I had planned to hold along the route, so my hands were free. Sparkly fires and loud noises spook livestock. So, I decided to get some candy to throw to the kids but all they had left at the store was big bags of Almond Joy and Mounds. Full-sized packages. I bought all they had but if I threw a full pack to each kid- no way I had enough.

This made me wonder why it’s Mounds but not Almonds Joys.

Squirt came to the rescue and advised me to open the packs of two candy parts and I would double the count, a number of candy parts Dixie felt would cover us. Then SAC Ellen reminded us that we would be pitching naked candy to kids lining a dusty, dirty paved Ranch Road and in the rain. So we needed a solution to this new problem.

I quickly solved this problem because I’ve been getting one of my products ready for sale here to the webber and bloggie and I had an entire case of printed plastic baggies in my car. So, Thursday night we unwrapped and bagged maybe 500 Mounds and Almond Joys and put them in a box to carry on the wagon. SAC Ellen wouldn’t have anything to do with the whole candy deal saying, “Mooner, this is a very bad idea.” Each time I asked her why she just looked at me in that way women look at me when they think I’ve lost my mind.

“We’re wearing plastic gloves for shitsakes,” I told her. “Nobody’s touching the candy and the bags are all new-in-the-box.”

“Mooner, you don’t have a clue,” and off she went to shop in one of the cute stores.

The next morning early, we loaded everything into the trunk and headed down to park near the parade route next to the new Whole Foods Store where they have great food and coffee. This is not the same as the conglomerated Whole Foods headquartered up to Austin but rather a local bunch with a good idea.

The coffee they price by-the-cup at whatever the temperature is, so that morning a cup of coffee, good coffee, was $.69 plus tax. We sat on the front porch of the store from about 7 am until a half hour before the parade’s 10 am start- drinking good cheap coffee, eating pastries and reading.

When we unloaded the box of bagged candy to start the parade, I noticed that the trunk must have heated a bit in the sun so the candy had warmed to that stage where it hasn’t melted but it’s really soft and malleable. I opened one to see if they were OK and it was a little squishy, and it left a chocolate smear on my fingers, but it was fresh and tasty.

“We’re good to go girls,” I told my team. SAC Ellen helped me get the cute harnesses on the dogs and she drove the car to the end of the parade route to watch. I hitched the dogs to my wagon and took my place in line.

I should have known that things were headed South in West Texas when the first comment I heard was, “Shudda painted Obammie’s ugly mug on yer ass podner. That’s always good fer a laff round here.”

Now look, like I said before. Not everyone was a right wing fuckball. They were just the most vocal.

So. I’m settled onto my display perch in the wagon and the parade gets started. The two girls are doing their best to pull me steadily, but the two feet in height difference made things a little wobbly. I was throwing bags of candy with each hand and maybe squeezing them a little tight as I threw, so I knew I was adding a little distortion.

Have I told you about the first product I hope to have available? It’s called Republican of Texas Compost and the sample bags we used for the candy were for that product. I make this variety of compost as a semi-gag gift. The compost is made from nothing but organic chicken manure and it is actually a great product.

But for marketing purposes I label it, “Ingredients: 100 percent chicken shit. Uses: Like all good Texas Republicans it’s not good for anything.”

Turns out I should have taken SAC Ellen’s sage advice about the whole candy dealie. What I was doing, basically, was throwing bags of melted and deformed candy that looked like little milk and dark chocolate turds, the labels to said bags printed with a message deemed to be highly inappropriate, nay offensive, to the parents of the child recipients.

I’m just glad it was a short parade because I was unharnessing the girls and putting our stuff up before my latest act of stupidity caught up with me.

Drew quite a crowd though. Unhappy crowd and unruly to boot if you ask me.

So, this is why I love SAC Ellen. After letting me twist in the heated breeze made by a few hundred angry West Texas Republicans, she stepped in to save me. “Step back everyone, step back now.” Then she flashes her badge and says, “I’m a federal agent and I’m arresting this man.” And then, “Put you hands up sir or I’ll need to use force.”

That sounded like some serious foreplay to me so I said to SAC Ellen, I say, “Oh who elected you queen of me. I’m not doing anything but having a good time,” and I walked to the car with my back to her. I leaned into the back seat to strap the Squirt into her seat and, “ZZZZZAAAAAPPPP!”

She tazed me right between the “M” and the “E” in AMERICA.

Since it started raining and rained the rest of the day, it was OK that we spent it all in bed. The girls studied languages and later came to get us for dinner. We went to Alpine to eat at Riata, a solid eating establishment. As we waited in the bar, I had an interesting conversation with Martin Lujan, a graduate from High School in Alpine who was back for somebody’s graduation.

If I had any computer skills, I could type Martin’s real name, but you say it Mar-teen. He said that his family goes way back in West Texas and he gave me some interesting information about the area.

Martin is a former US Navy man and now a law student at The University of Texas. I told him that I usually do not like lawyers and I hope he wouldn’t become what most of them become- a giant flaming asshole.

He assured me he would not become an asshole, and the very attractive blond woman, who joined him after my group was seated for dinner, seemed to agree.

I don’t remember what everyone else had for dinner, but I had grilled pork chop, potatoes, a nice iceberg wedge with a tangy blue cheese vinaigrette, and of course, icy cold Carta Blanca beer.

Speaking of which, it’s CB Time! Manana ya’ll.

Print Friendly

Kinky Endorses Woodrow the Dog; Mooner’s Feelings Hurt

Wednesday, July 7th, 2010

Welcome back guys. I enjoyed my visit to west Texas but I am glad to get back home. I want to tell you all about my time we spent in Tea Party-ville, but first I want to inform you about something that has developed outside of my sphere of influence. I am discouraged that I didn’t know about any of this but like Gram says, she said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Now ya know so quit yer yappin.”

What sticks in my craw is that Dixie has known for quite awhile and with everything I have done for Kinky over the last few years, I at least should have been e-mailed or something. I know Kinky is a big deal and he’s busy, but I have stuck my neck out for the Kinkster on several occasions. Maybe I sticked my neck out because it was more than once, or maybe I sticks my neck outs.

How would you say it if you had multiple necks?

Whatever, I was surprised to get back and read my e-mails this afternoon and find that Kinky is endorsing a local dog for Governor in a big write-in campaign for this fall’s election. A local attorney saved a pooch from the gallows and turns out the dog is far smarter than Rick Perry and has a better stage presence than my current voting choice, Democratic Candidate Bill White. I would vote for my favorite pair of old socks before I’d cast a ballot for that Republican shitball religious-right Baptist puppet, Rick Perry.

Wouldn’t wash the smelly old socks first either, and they’d still make a better leader than Rick Perry. At least when they stand up they stand up on their own.

And speaking to that, the Governor’s namesake three-hundred pound African bird has gotten himself in deep trouble out to the ranch. Seems that while I was gone the ostrich Rick Perry got frisky and tried to get sexy with Aunt Hilda’s shrunken head-in-a-box, Woodrow. Aunt Hilda has been laid-up to bed since it happened late Sunday night and Gram put a $10,000 reward on Ricky’s poofy-feathered ass.

What that means to me is that the giant bird and that fat pig Rush Limbaugh will remain in the closet until this all blows over. But I am digressing the shit out of us. My ADHD went all fritzy in the car on the way back from Fort Davis and I’m still not right yet. As soon as we got home I grabbed a six pack of cold Carta Blanca beer and headed out to the tomato patch before I even unloaded the car. I’m sitting here now, five beers later, and still I’ve got the brain fritz.

The fritzing is the result of playing Password with SAC Ellen, Dixie and the Squirt all the way from Fort Davis to Johnson City- more than 400 miles for you non-Texans. And, “No,” we aren’t related to those Johnsons. Since the dogs won’t talk to anyone but me, I was serving like I guess what you would call a guest moderator/participant-interpreter. Not only was I someone’s partner for each word, I also had to translate every clue and each guess for the entire game.

As if that isn’t enough to induce serial murder after 450 miles, the Squirt mixes her speech with a full dozen languages, some of which I don’t comprehend. Like we had this one word, “STING”. Did you know that Squirt can say, “Sting,” in forty different languages already? I didn’t, do now and still don’t give a shit.

But I did kind of like the Swahili way to say it- “Kuumwa.” Swahili is one of those sexy, musical languages that make me want to get married.

I wonder if the word “koombaya” is Swahili.

Anyway, that stupid Rick Perry grabbed Woodrow’s mahogany box- snatched from the ample lap of a surprised Aunt Hilda, and took off for the barn. By the time he was chased away the box was all scratched and dented and Aunt Hilda was a mess.

Have you ever seen an ostrich run full-out?

Gram wants to kill him but I think that the ostrich Rick Perry fell in love with Woodrow because Woodie’s dried-out, 150-year-old shrunken brain is larger, by far, than anything that bird has ever known. Ostriches, like Rick Perry, have very small brains.

I always try to date up in the brain power department myself, so I understand his going for Woodrow and his larger brain.

Now you might be thinking that I am digressing your distractions to sub-distractions of their own, but you would be wrong. You are wrong because the dog’s name, the one running against Rick Perry for Governor, his name is Woodrow as well.

Small world, but I am still pissed at Kinky for dropping out of the race himself. He has royally screwed with the plot of my first book and made me look like I fabricated a bunch of shit for artistic purposes. Since my book was written as a real-time dialog just like the bloggie here, the book was in post production when Kinky retired from the race, and that was after I made a bunch of publicity for him.

OK, I’m not mad at him, just disappointed.

So. Go to and for a $20.00 donation you can help Austin Pets Alive and even get a free tee shirt if you want. Your donations will help abandoned pets find a good home and avoid the needle.

Maybe Austin Pets Alive would like to linker-up with me here to the webber and bloggie for a little cross pollination.

I’ll tell you more about all of this but I’m too tired to focus. I keep thinking about how I almost got in trouble out to west Texas and about how I am really glad I’m dating a Special Agent from Homeland Security and now I’m thinking about how she looks when she gets all sexed up and I need another beer.

I’m pooped- manana.

Print Friendly

Is That Jury Hung, Or What (Part 4)

Monday, June 28th, 2010

When Oprah talks about ,“A-ha moments,” I am now required to wonder precisely what she means. When I told you in the last posting that I had one of those moments, I meant that I had an “A…HA!!!” moment, sort of a “Shazam!!!” jobbie. Or even more like, “A-ha, I caught you, you rotten bastard!” You know, like it’s a big deal. I thought those moments were really big mental awakenings with at least one stunning aspect.

Then last night when I got home to the ranch, and Streaker Jones and my Gram were watching a Tivo’d episode of the Oprah Show, the lady on the show was talking about her, “aaaaaa-haaaaa,” moment. This woman’s A-ha moment was more like a, “Hmmm maybe I’m starting to have an inkling of an idea of what’s what.” If I was to write down in English what she said and then I wanted to punctuate her emotions, the last thing I would choose to use is an explanation point, like this- !.

I wonder why the English language has no punctuation mark that equals the opposite of the explanation point. If I was to design one it would be like this- ~ , you know the little squiggle dealie that you put over a senor to make it a Spanish Seen-your.

My efforts to design this mark would be to mimic the sound that a deflated balloon makes as the last little bit of air escapes when you let one fly through the air. The first escaping air would be an ! , and that last little bit would be the ~ . The definition of my new mark would be: “Punctuation from Mooner Johnson, who stole it from the Spanish: 1. Indicating dullness, flatness or disappointment; 2. The most mild surprise possible; 3. The opposite of an exclamation point.”

What I think I’m actually trying to say is that this lady’s idea of an A-ha moment was something quite different from mine. Hers was akin to how it feels when one raindrop splatters on your windshield and you say, “A-ha, I think it might rain.”

My A-ha moment was more like that time Streaker Jones and I went skiing up to Colorado and I tripped and fell into the icy lake. An “Ah-fucking-ha!!!” moment. My God the water was cold and the A-ha part was knowing I would drown.

When I asked Gram what she thought about this A-ha situation she said to me, she says, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Eye-has is as Eye-has does. I cain’t see a differnce one.”

Efforts to correct my Gram’s grammar are always futile. But is she funny, or what?

Anyway, so here is what my A-ha moment was. I was in the courtroom for jury duty last week, admonished simply for being me, and sitting in the witness stand that served as my dunce’s chair so his Honor could keep a watchful eye on me. What with my ADHD getting all fritzy on me, my head was spinning with dozens of thoughts. I had talked my way out of getting jailed because everyone was so hungry. (Read the last several bloggie postings if you are lost.)

“Look everyone, just give me thirty more minutes and I’ll let you go home.” This was almost a plea from the Judge.

I was listening to the Prosecutor and defense attorney spin the truths of the process to suit their needs and I heard the prospective jurors answer questions, and question back. Now, it was 2:30 in the afternoon after an 8:30 am start, and we had been given only two each twenty-minute breaks. But no food time.

Some of the additional thoughts swirling through my brain at the moment were: several different two Sarah Palin questions and lines of thought; trying to memorize the sequence to replace the battery to my cell phone; how many freckles were on the cumulative faces in the room- I counted sixty-three on this one woman’s face before she stared me down and I lost count; who was the dead body in this murder trial; did Gram catch this one particular squirrel that has been terrorizing my tomato plants; if Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry will ever come out of the closet; various and assorted other thoughts.

My brain was fighting with itself in vain effort to keep the activities in the courtroom to a sharper focus than all the other thoughts. I kept struggling with all of these thoughts but lost focus on the courtroom drama, and my brain started swirling.

Then everything came into sharp focus and my A-ha moment came.

“A-ha!!” I exclaimed. “I am innocent by reason of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, your Honor.” I thought another second and followed with, “IRADHD, Billy. I’m gonna be famous.”

Jeff, my attorney, had me bailed out of jail by 9:30 but he was so pissed that he made me take the bus back to my car. The bus schedule features far fewer buses late at night, so when I finally got to my last stop it was 11:15. I walked across the street to my car, which wasn’t there.

Towed it was, and mightily pissed was I.

Luckily it’s summer and I had my portable tomato kitchen with me. Since I wasn’t going to be driving, I popped the top on my chilly Carta Blanca beer and sat down on the concrete base of the big light to where my car had been parked. As a karmic reminder of my idiocy, when sitting I banged my head on the sharp edge of the metal sign attached to the light post.


Blinking with banged-head pain I looked up to read the sign. “Towing Strictly Enforced- Illegally Parked Cars WILL BE TOWED!

Fucking sign.

This is when I think to call home to get a ride, so I reach into my hemp cloth tote and retrieve my cell phone. When it won’t power-up I start getting pissed about that and then remember that the battery is out of it. So now I’m searching through all the stuff in my tote for the battery when I feel something warm and sticky run into my eyes.

I’ve got the cell phone in my one hand with the other buried deep in the bowels of my tote. I’m sitting directly under my big light source so I have to turn in a contorted kind of twist to keep the tote out of the deep shadows so I can see inside, and now I have blood running into my eyes and it’s starting to drip off my nose and onto the tote, my legs and even the ground.

You know how head wounds can bleed. Fucking sign.

I’m starting to get pissed because I can’t find the fucking battery and cars are driving through the parking lot and I don’t pay any attention to anything because I’m focused on getting my cell phone operative. Maybe a few frustrating minutes pass and I say to my self, I say, “What the fuck, I haven’t eaten since breakfast, I’m gonna have myself a tomato and finish my beer.”

So. I put the phone away and grab a big purple heirloom tomato, sea salt and pepper, and my big carving knife from my bag and prepare to chow down. I slice a fat slab the tasty homegrown heirloom, get it seasoned and pop it into my mouth. As I swallow the last bits of finely-chewed skin, I wipe the blood from my face with the back of my knife holding hand and then I raise the bottle for another long pull of Carta Blanca.

“Don’t move, Sir. Put down your weapon and stick your hands up.” Instructions from a bull-horned voice and now a spotlight in my eyes.

“Oh leave me the fuck alone, Deputy. I’m just having a little lunch and minding my own business.”

Have you ever noticed just how conflicting the instructions given by peace officers can be? “Don’t move,” are always the first words out of their mouth and they are always followed by some instruction that specifically requires motion.

“Besides,” I instructed. “You have given me impossible rules to follow, so I choose to not play your childish game.”

I slug some more beer and begin operating on my tomato for another slice of that tastiness.

“I said drop the weapon, Sir!”

“When I’m finished and not a second before,” I told him.

I’m starting to think to myself that maybe my bloody face might be a mitigating circumstance in this interchange, and that’s when I hear that electronic whirring sound, noise that is deeply imprinted on my very senses- the sound of a tazer checking its charge in preparation for a discharge.

“Oh for shit sakes don’t tazer me,” was all I got out.


Print Friendly

More Jury Woes; Squirt Helps Mooner (Part 3)

Sunday, June 27th, 2010

So. Before I attempt to finish telling you about my jury duty dealie I want to discuss this thing that happened to me this afternoon. I was over to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s house babysitting Squirt for a few hours and working with her on her English.

Dixie is teaching her to talk using this system that teaches multiple languages at the same time. When immersed into a pool of five human, three barnyard animal, four plant and the basic spoor languages, a student learns to sink, or swim, quickly. Since the Squirt seems to have grasped the basic ideology of verbal communication and has not drown in her teacher’s word pool, Dixie wanted me to work with her on speaking English exclusively.

Me, I think that the best way to learn the nuance of any language is through its pop music. To help Squirt catch on to English, we watched HBO on TV. HBO is running and re-running this special called the Thirtieth Anniversary of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Now I want to be the first to say that the name is way too long, but the show was appropriately named. The list of acts performing read like a who’s who from popular music.

I won’t go into all of it because that isn’t the subject of this bloggie posting, but I must tell you about this deja-vu dealie that happened to me. Simon and Garfunkel walked out on stage and started singing, and I flashed to this time I lived with my buddy Lloyd up to Lubbock. It was 1968 and the summer after the big tornado ripped through Lubbock and lay waste to big patches of town.

Lloyd, who wants to be called Curtis now- his actual first name, had a nifty new stereo and all of the Simon and Garfunkel records. I could hear the music from his room through two closed doors as I lay in my bed at night.

When S&G sang, “Hello Darkness my old friend,” on the HBO special, my mind flashed to that summer and tears welled in my eyes by the bucket full. I didn’t actually cry, like boo-hoo, but I silently cried through the rest of their set in the same fashion I do when I hear Andrea Bocelli sing Time To Say Goodbye.

When the Italian tenor sings that song, I cry over the loss of my father and Dr. Sam I. Am’s mother, Marie- the two people I most miss from my life. I think of them often and wish I had spent more time with them before they died. The tears and dense sense of loss hits me two notes into that song and those emotions crescendo with the music and then fade just as quickly with the song’s finish. It wasn’t that way in the early aftermath of their deaths as I would be morose for days at a time. Now I go from OK to bucket-of-tears-and-emotions and back to OK in the time it takes to sing a song.

I don’t get morose anymore, in part because my remembrances are as much the joy of my memories as the deep losses. When the song ends, I always take a deep breath and feel as if I was visited by those two favored spirits. I have learned to embrace these emotion-filled happenstances when before I dreaded them.

For shit sakes I’m tearing up now.

Anyway, as for the tears shed today for Bridge Over Troubled Water and the other S&G hits, I can only guess at the root cause for my emotions and tell you that I fear I am spending too much time looking back at my life with regrets. Or maybe guilts. In my entire life I have never intentionally tried to harm anybody, except when they fully deserved it, but I have caused considerable harm none the less. Sometimes I hurt people when my intentions are to bring them joy.

I have these moments more and more often now and Dr. Sam I. Am tells me that it is a sign of my impending maturity. “When you truly accept the responsibility for your actions, which can only happen after you realize the impact those actions had on others, you can then actually feel the pain that you have caused. Once you can actually feel the other’s pain, that experience Mooner, is the hard evidence of growth.” A Pause, and, “Maturity will come when you can manage to discontinue hurting by accident.”

She looked right into my eyes and said, “You have left quite a swath of destruction in your path Mooner, but always in an almost childlike innocence. You are the most responsible man I have ever met and I think you are making remarkable progress. But you remain mostly clueless.”

Then she finished with a kiss to my cheek and said, “Did I tell you I have increased my hourly rate to $175.00 per hour?”

Maybe that exchange can help you understand my love/hate relationship with my psycho therapy.

Squirt has that sixth sense that good dogs have and felt whatever it was that bothered me as Paul and Art sang. She jumped into my lap with her front paws on my chest as I sat in front of Sammy’s big TV. She looked right into my teary hazel eyes with her little brown ones, and she teared-up as well. Then she snuggled onto my chest, pushed her head under my chin and nuzzled my neck.

Silently the two of us soaked the front of my shirt as the music played. Her itty bitty puppy breath was like a salve on my neck as we listened to the sounds of my youth.

As quickly as this moment began, it ended when the next act took the stage. Aretha Franklin is a special lady but for whatever reason her finger doesn’t grip the trigger to my emotions. I took a deep breath, kissed Squirt on the top of her adorable head and told her, “OK you little shitbird, tell me what you want for dinner using only the English language.”

She backed up to where she was sitting in my lap, cocked her head sideways and thought. She brought her now dry eyes to mine and said, “I do like lechuga e your homegrown tomatoes, Monsieur Mooner. Me gusta roasted goat as well.”

“Good job Squirt! That’s only three languages and all are homo sapiens,” I praised.

Which reminds me of something else. I have finally found someone who loves their homegrown tomatoes with the same lustiness as do I. Her name is Renee Studebaker and she is the garden writer for the Austin American Statesman. You can read about her at where you can see what she writes about the local gardening scene.

However, since there was not a single reference to either sea salt or Carta Blanca beer in any of Renee’s writings, it is obvious that her obsession remains second tier to the lunacy that is me. At one time I was on the group that got the newspaper to start focusing on local gardening issues rather than reprinting stuff from Atlanta’s paper. But that is very old news and a bigger story than this space allows.

OK, where did we leave off with the jury dealie? I think I was daydreaming this debate over whom I would choose to have sex with, if I was forced to choose between the Sarah Palin lookalike or the actual Sarah Palin. The Judge awakened me with his question of, “What did you just say Mister Johnson?” to which I replied, “I said don’t fight over me girls, there’s plenty Mooner to go around.”

The entire courtroom found this funny and now people started turning their phones on and snapping pictures of the festivities for Facebook and Twitter.

“Oh for the sake of Mother Justice Mooner, do you even know how to behave yourself?”

I figured this might have been one of those rhetorical dealies so I just sat there wondering if I was spending the night with my rosy red ass in his jail.

“Answer me Mooner. Are you always so inappropriate?”

“Must be, your Honor. According to US News and World Report, the most inappropriate in the entire world. They did a poll and I won. Got the certificate to prove it.” It hangs in a place of honor out to Mooners Compost Plant right next to my Environmental Excellence Award- another story I might tell you guys, just not here.

“Alright Mooner, you come up here and sit in the witness chair so I can keep an eye on you.”

I told him, “Wow Billy, this will be just like when we were back to grade school.”

“That’s right Mooner. Except that Mrs. Browningwell didn’t have the power to put you on death row and I do. Now sit still and do not open your mouth until I ask you a question.”

His Honor turned the festivities back into the hands of the lawyers and I did fine for what seemed like an hour, until I looked at my watch. “Holy shit, it’s 2:30. I must be starved.”

“Mooner, that’s it. I am remanding you into custody. Bailiff, find a cozy cell and pitch Mister Johnson’s rosy red ass right on in it.”

“But look at the time, Billy,” I admonished him, “You are starving these poor people to death.”

And this would be where I had one of those “A-ha!” moments that Oprah Winfrey talks about so much. But I have hit the bloggie word count wall one more once with this jury story.

Look and listen because I am going to impart some real wisdom to you guys. As soon as you get a chance, perform the following sequence of events:

  1. Pop the top on a frosty cold bottle of Carta Blanca beer and take a slug.
  2. Cut two 3/8ths-inch thick slabs of the best tomato you can find; season it with sea salt and black pepper, both coarsely ground; cut those into quarters and arrange them on a small, chilled plate.
  3. While still in the kitchen, eat one of the little quarter-slices slowly enjoying the many flavors that burst into your mouth at first, and then savor the flavor of the skin as you chew on those skeletal remains.
  4. Take another slug of your beer, again savored, then head to whatever room houses your music system.
  5. Decide who you miss in your life the most- living or dead, and play the music you most associate with that person.
  6. Cry, feel sorry for your loss and then grateful for what you did have when that person was still around.
  7. Cancel your next psycho therapy session and send me a check for 10% of whatever your therapist charges for a visit.

I am told that the act of paying for therapy is a large determinant of that therapy’s success. If you won’t pay me, at least make a comment to display your appreciation and enhance your therapy.

Bon appetit!

Print Friendly

Are Two Sarah Palins Too Many?- Jury Still Out (Part 2)

Friday, June 25th, 2010

OK, let’s continue our discussion of my jury duty experiences. When we left off, I had avoided potential conflict at the X-ray stand, the numbered paddle problem had been exposed and I had already been admonished by the Judge simply for being there.

And that would be when my phone started ringing. “Oh for crap sakes Mooner, turn your phone off.”

“Sorry, your honor,” I muttered. “It’s a new one and I can’t quite figure it out.”

“I told him at least twice your Honor.” This fussily said by the jury rustling fuss budget.

I fumbled with the off button and put the offending electronics back into my pocket. This phone distraction got me off the hook and the Judge says, “Next.”

Number 26 stands with his raised number 25 paddle and says, “I’m number 26, your honor and my name is…”

“Oh for shit sakes Mooner, will you trade paddles with that man so I can get on with this?”

“Objection your Honor,” this from the Prosecutor. “This man, number 25, has intentionally disrupted the record. He held a number 26 paddle while representing himself to be number 25. I move to strike his testimony and arrest Mister Johnson for mal intent.”

I’m thinking to myself, I thought, “Mal intent. What the fuck is mal intent?”

Maybe I should try to stop thinking to myself because the judge says, “Mooner, stop cursing in my courtroom and let me handle this or I’ll pitch your rosy red ass into my jail. I have experience with that, don’t I Mister Johnson.” That last part was statement not question.

Then he said, “Objection overruled Mister Prosecutor- irrelevant. He means well but trouble sticks to Mooner like ticks on a deer’s belly.” He added, “Now let’s move on.”

We traded paddles and the judge went all the way through the rest of the numbers without incident. The judge starts back in on his speech about how jury duty requires you to be honest and answer questions under oath and that he can pitch your rosy red ass into his jail if you tell lies. I know that this threat lacks any actual teeth because so many people tell so many obvious lies and their rosy red asses do not go to jail.

Me, it’s not my lies that get me locked up. It’s always the circumstance. And circumstantial evidence.

Anyway, the Judge is about five minutes into his speech again when my fucking phone goes off. Again. “I am so sorry Billy- I mean your Honor. It’s a new phone and I can’t figure it out yet.”

“Bailiff, would you please remove the battery from Mooner’s phone for him?”

He did, but under my watchful eye to insure I could figure how to put it back later. And we get back to the silliness that the judge has to go through as part of the voir dire jury selection process. Those silly words basically mean “truth telling” in French, and it is used to see if potential jurors might be prejudiced either for, or against, a particular party in a legal action.

Why are most French words so silly sounding? I think if I was French I would feel compelled to wear frilly dresses and speak my French with a snotty nose and phlegm-clogged throat.

Again, prejudice has no place in a courtroom. Except, of course, for the attorneys on both sides of the isle- prosecution and defense alike. With the exception of my guy Jeff, I think I might hate all lawyers. I say might only because I haven’t met all the lawyers.

I bring the bias part up now because bias raised its ugly head right at this point. “Your Honor, I wish to approach the bench.” That would be the Prosecutor.

“OK,” from the Judge.

A snippy announcement, “I would like to call number 25 to the bench for a conference.”

The judge says to me, he says, “It’s show time Mooner but I am warning you. If you drop your pants and wave your ass in my courtroom I’m authorizing the Sheriff Deputies to shoot it.” He then turned to the two armed men watching over things and told them, “If this man waves his bare ass at me, I want you to shoot to kill.”

Everyone laughed but me as I walked to the podium known as the bench. The prosecutor starts in on me right away, “Allow me to cut to the chase Mister Johnson. You have been arrested and charged with murder more than once, right?”

What the fuck is this all about?

“What the fuck is this all about?” I waited a beat and he replied, “Just answer the question.”

Now me, I have already been sworn in and promised to tell the truth, which does not require a promise from me, but I know I need to be careful what I say and sometimes the truth can hurt.

“I plead the Fifth.” Take that asswipe.

“Your Honor, will you instruct him to answer.”

“Answer him Mooner.”

From me, “The Fifth.”

“Did you know that this is a murder case?” The Prosecutor.

From me, “I do now- hell everybody knows now. Did he kill anybody I know?”

“Lower your voice, sir. Now, can you tell me why you should be allowed to participate in a murder trial when you hold the District Attorney, my boss, in such low regards?” He says this and folds his arms in that “got you” posture small-minded men use.

“Just because your boss is a brain dead Republican right wing religious fuckwad doesn’t mean I can’t render fair judgment for another man who is assumed to be innocent.”

He was looking at me with this stupid look on his weaselly face so I added, “Maybe I mean presumed innocent.”

Then my ADHD started this fritz dealie it does when I get angry and I had dozens of thoughts spinning in my head all at once. “Hold on just a minute and let me sort out my thoughts,” I told them.

After some short period of time the snotty Prosecutor blinked and said, “Come on Mister Johnson you are giving the wheels of justice a flat tire.” And then he turned and snickered for the audience.

“I have an idea Mister Assistant District Attorney,” I said.

“And that would be?” he inquired.

“You go fuck yourself because I plead the Fifth.”

Normally, this is where I would lower my pants to half mast and display my tastefully-coiffed butt hair, currently plucked and dyed to say, “Happy Birthday USA,” in red, white and blue. Like I told you the other week, SAC Ellen and I are taking the dogs, Dixie and Squirt, and meeting some folks out to Marfa for July Fourth. I’m going to march in their parade and the dogs are going to pull me in a wagon. This particular parade route is too long for me to waddle backwards with my head between my knees, so I’ll be pulled in the wagon this time.

I love parades.

I left SAC Ellen in charge of our accommodations for this trip and you would think we were planing a trip around the world. I have never heard so much conversation and cogitation required to book three rooms for three nights in west Texas.

“It’s Marfa and Fort Davis for shit sakes,” I said this one time after she had spent several hours on the phone with various hospitality people. “You grill those poor people like you think they smuggled a weapon of mass destruction into your territory.”

I think maybe my attitude cost me a sexless night but I always stand up for the little guy.

And I am digressing. Basically, the Prosecutor did not want me on this jury but the defense did. So this Assistant District Attorney is trying to grill my ass in front a courtroom full of nice people and the defense attorney is doing nothing to stop him. The Judge, of course, takes a neutral stand because that is his job and he harbors at least a slight bias towards me hisownself.

I won’t bore you with all the details of the discussion, but the Prosecutor’s argument was basically this. “How can you, Mister Johnson, provide an unbiased ruling in this case when you have been accused and acquitted of so many crimes, including murder?”

My answer, “I can do that by setting my bias aside and factoring your case against the accused tempered with the defense presented by this other lawyer. And since I have a very clear understanding of what, ‘beyond a reasonable doubt means,’ I will, thereunder, render fair and impartial judgment.”

“But you are biased by your experience, Sir,” was all he managed to get out.

“Well fucking duh. Of course I am,” my clever response. “Is it not that lifelong experience coupled with my promise to be fair and just that qualifies me to be a juror?”

Now the Judge is paying attention. “Stop preaching and go sit down Mooner. The Prosecution deserves you for poking his stick in your cage.”

When I took a deep breath to continue my sermon, the Judge stopped me cold. “I said sit!”

I sat. I got several pats on the back and “Atta boys” from my fellow prospective jurors- rewards for a job well done. I started thinking about things not courtroom related and the next thing I know, I’m debating that, if I absolutely had to choose, whether I would rather have sex with the Sarah Palin lookalike from down to the security station or would I choose the actual Sarah Palin.

Would I prefer a 300 pound-plus local girl with a cartoon of the Alamo and my autograph on her ass and who looks like the politician, or would I instead be more desirous of the actual lunatic right-wing religious fuckball with nice skin and who seems to maybe have a dirty side?

See this is a debate because I would have sex with either of them if I liked them because I do not judge books by their covers. Which reminds me that I need to get the cover designed for my book. I have been letting that slip and need to get it on schedule.

Anyway, it seems that my not paying attention to the live action and thinking about having sex with the two Sarah Palins had turned into a dream in which the two Sarahs were fighting over who got to have sex with me. I was at the point in my dream where I say to the girls, “You don’t need to fight over me girls, there’s plenty of Mooner to go around.”

I hear a voice that says, “What did you just say?” to which I repeated the part about not fighting over me.

That’s when everything unraveled on me. But I better stop right here before I offend the blog word count police again.

Let’s all have a cold Carta Blanca beer and a slab of homegrown tomato. More later.

Print Friendly

Mooner Signs Sarah Palin’s Ass; Lookalike’s Husband Angry (Part 1)

Wednesday, June 23rd, 2010

Sometimes I think my life is this fictional story whose author is this lunatic fuckball who’s got no boundaries, has multiple personalities and a deep-fried brain. I called Dr. Sam I. Am for a little phone psycho therapy last night and when I told her this theory she said to me, she says, “That is remarkable insight for a lunatic fuckball whose deep-fried brain knows no limits and is void of appropriate thought from any of his aspects. You are showing progress and I am a psychotherapy miracle worker.”


She also went on to say, “Look Mooner. You are crazy and that’s OK in my book. Just be grateful that you remain, for the most part, functional.” And then she started laughing.

When I asked her what was so funny she says, “The functional part.”

See what I mean- bitch.

If you keep up here to bloggie central you know I was scheduled to jury duty starting yesterday morning. You also know that I am the most unlikely candidate for the title “Juror” as you are likely to find. Think about it.

Ten ex-wives will keep me out of any domestic dispute; I have never been convicted of a single felony yet I have been arrested and incarcerated more than a few times. Wait, yet is a bad choice of words in my case and I don’t mean I have yet to be convicted, like they just haven’t been able to pin a murder on me that I was guilty of committing. I was using yet to mean however.

As for civil cases, I have been involved in so many of those nasty things and involving so many issues, it is nearly impossible to find a civil issue that I have not had as part of a lawsuit of my own. You can’t chose a civil issue that is outside my courtroom experience. In fact, my attorney Jeff has won the “Texas Most Diversified Lawyer Award” nineteen years straight.

Streaker Jones, my family and I are Jeff’s only clients.

Now look, I would love to serve on a jury because I think that I reason better and clearer than 99% of the total pool of prospective jurors who want to serve on a jury, plus I have seen what can happen when all the decent folks opt out. The litigants, the criminally accused and we the People all deserve the best minds you can find and the least biased as well. Jury bias can cause terrible trial outcomes.

Think OJ Simpson, and I rest my case your Honor.

Many, if not most, qualified prospects simply do not feel that jury service is important enough to endure the time and effort to serve. And anybody with an IQ of like 67 or higher can get out of jury duty if they choose. In fact, most of those brighter people seem to do just that.

To each of those people I say this. Imagine yourself on trial for murdering a man that you accidentally killed in self defense. Imagine that this dead guy was a Deacon to his Baptist Church and a State Delegate to the Republican Convention.

Now, imagine that the only people from your jury pool pull who can’t weasel out from serving are Baptist conservative Republicans with an average IQ of maybe 58 quotient points.


Then if you think about the simple fact that you have spent maybe forty years of your wasted life bitching about the Baptists and their hand puppets the Republicans, maybe you can start to formulate my argument that you should embrace jury duty and try to get others to do the same.

Like yesterday, for example. I got up at 4:30 am to get dressed and ready and I drove over to the shopping center there to US 183 and Anderson Mill. That’s the one the Capitol Metro website told me to go to if I wanted to start from my place way out to the boonies and arrive to the courthouse in time. Ignoring the “We Enforce Towing” sign because the bus stop is located on the grounds of the center, I parked and got out. My bus arrived within a minute of its scheduled time and got me to my transfer stop just in front of my express bus to downtown. I want to state here that the buses were clean, the drivers helpful and the timing good.

After a short walk from where I debarked the bus, I got to the courthouse in time to have a party at the security checkpoint. Because I have several metal objects embedded in my skin, I am the party at the x-ray booth. Many people recognized me and I even gave an autograph to this woman who looked just like Sarah Palin except maybe for the extra 200 pounds she was packing.

This is going to be a two-part story, I can tell right now. And remember that I rode the bus because they have no available parking spaces for potential jurors, only actual chosen jurors, and the City tows overdrawn parking meters.

When I signed the nice woman’s Lilly-white left butt cheek I noticed that there was no evidence of underwear and of course, I commented. Her little toothless redneck husband, who had been quite supportive of me having my hands all over her giant ass to draw a picture of the Alamo and sign my name with a Sharpie, became a surly little toothless redneck shitwad when I asked about was I just not seeing the underwear, or was there no underwear to see. Since this woman’s ass was big enough to conceal a meth lab, I thought my question appropriate.

Actually, it was her answer maybe that sparked the Mister’s surliness. In answer to my question the nice lady said to me, she says, “Here Mr. Johnson, take a peeky-poo fur yer-sef.” And she sprightly yanked her jeans to her knees.

Now me, I’m thinking to myself that it has taken some jean lowering practice for this nice lady to get the 12 yards of tightly-packed denim that skins her ass to her knees before I can blink. Her husband, and again this is just what I think, is not blaming me for this particular jeans lowering event. Instead, I think he is blaming me for her already acquired expertise at lowering said jeans.

“So yer tha one ain’t cha Mooner,” he said with tobacco stained spittle spritzing from the gaps between his remaining teeth. “Don’t know iffn I want ta shoot ya er kiss ya.”

Luckily we were scheduled on different floors or I maybe would have had a problem there. Then I get to my floor and endure the seventh grade spring dance that is getting 70 prospective jurors identified and into their appropriately numbered seats. We were all getting identified and assigned numbers by the fussy man in charge.

“Single file Indian Style,” said this guy in charge of jury rustling. “And make sure your phones are turned off.” And then, “O-f-f,” he spelled for us.

Now me, as a quarter American Indian blood owner, I turned my new phone off and took no offense to the Indian style dealie because I think political correctness is oppressive. Never understood why that phrase has such common usage anyway, but I’m not offended. However, the man with the tomahawk nose and long braids two doors down from me held a differing view.

“I’m not moving until you take that back,” he said. It was taken back, with political correctness, so we moved into the courtroom to take our places.

I was number 25, and my day started going to shit as I reached my assigned middle isle seat, expecting to find my plastic paddle marked with a number 25. “This has number 26 on it and I’m number 25. This is out of order.” I’m quick to point out problems because I think the earlier you identify a problem- the easier the solution.

“If you are number 25, sit where the plastic paddle number 25 is located, it is not that difficult.” Not quite a scold from the rustler.

“Fine,” I said as I sat on the opposite isle seat number 26 with plastic paddle number 25.

“I thought I said for you to sit at your number Mister 25. Are you going to be a problem here Mister 25?” A few seconds of agitated jury rustler foot tapping and then, “Move it Mister 25 or you’ll be in contempt of court. I asked are you going to be a problem, now answer me.”

Calmly I answered. “Not so long as you pull your head out of your ass and decide where you want me to sit.”

That’s when I get this “Harumph” noise that my first grade teacher used to get her students all in our seats for an assembly to the auditorium. He grabs me by my arm, gently but firmly, and says as he points to each seat, “22, 23, 24, and then 25, Mister 25. It doesn’t go 22, 23, 24,” now he swings his hand dramatically to point across the isle, “and then 26, now does it?”

And I said, “Not when I count sir. I usually get to eleven and need to start over.”

I am a funny guy.

So he glares and places me in my correct seat next to number 24 but my little plastic paddle still says 26. Now, after this three minute distraction Mister 26 takes his seat, the one that is his correct seat, and he raises the number 25 paddle in the air in front of his face. I decided I liked him right away because he says nothing- he just sits with this big grin on his face.

Now, the Judge starts his speech and part of his introduction to the jury process is to introduce yourselves starting with number one. “Stand up, hold up your paddle for the Court Reporter to see,” starts Judgie Poo, “And say your number and state your name.”

Of course all goes well from numbers one through 24 when I stand with my paddle held high and say, “I’m number 25 your honor, and as you know, I’m Butcher Einstein, known as Mooner, Johnson.”

“Oh for Christ sakes Mooner,” his honor almost swears. “Whose campfire did I piss in to deserve having you in my courtroom?”

OK, let’s stop here and have a cold Carta Blanca beer. This jury thingie is a long story.


Print Friendly

Rush Limbaugh To Remain Closeted- Pig Cries Like A Baby But Won’t Come Out

Tuesday, June 15th, 2010

This dealie yesterday was the last coming out party I will ever throw for anybody. I had invited a full house of accepting guests and laid out quite a spread of Rush Limbaugh’s favorite foods in an effort to make his exit from the closet as memorable an experience as I could.

As for the food, when they say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, cube that sentiment and they would be talking about a pig. My particular pig favors pork link sausages smoked and grilled on a hot fire, fat slabs of ribs, and baked beans full of bacon and jalapeños.

When it was time for his big announcement, Dixie and Squirt went back to the big closet in my master suite to get Rushie. A few minutes later Squirt comes waggling back and gets all prostrate at my feet, looking up into my hazel eyes with her soft brown ones.

I acknowledged her by saying, “What’s up Squirt? I don’t see Rush Limbaugh.”

Squirt sits up like a bunny rabbit, her speaking pose as taught by Dixie, and answers, “Es muy mal nin einer news Mooner.” Then she paused and thought for a few seconds, and went on with, “Snork oink crying muchacha el Rush Limbaugh en la closet e no la come out to la fiesta.”

“What? No news is bad news? Rush Limbaugh is on the floor of the closet crying like a little girl?” I thought to my self.

“See Monsieur Mooner. Essen like el bambina paquita.” Squirt’s unexpected reply.

I must have been thinking out loud.

“What the fuck, Squirt. You get in there and tell that pig to get his ass out here and right now!”

Of course, Squirt starts crying now and Sam I. Am comes over to us and gives me that look like I’ve done something wrong, and now she’s eating my ass out at 100 decibels.

Which reminds me. I was out to the Barnes and Nobles bookstore on US 71, which is the Galleria store, and one which has not yet banned me from their premises. I was there to meet my fancy pants Editorator and go over a few things so I can finally get my book to print. This entire publishment thingie is a giant pain in my ass. At the coming out party yesterday she made the appointment.

Anyway, she’s late and I’m just looking around and listening in on all the conversations in the store. Across the room are two young guys sitting to a table for two, appropriately, and talking- a laptop open between them. They are talking computers and tattoos and such and I hear one of them say, “Dripping Springs,” and since the Johnson Family Enterprises are headquartered to Dripping Springs, I decided to have a chat with them.

I also thought this would be a good time to pick some young adult brains about I-net and webber and bloggie stuff. Turns out these were two bright, articulate and helpful guys and I like them both. John Egloff, it was his laptop opened between them, and Sam Barnes. Sam had a ball cap worn backwards and slightly askew like younger men do, and John was hatless but had horn rimmed glasses. I wore horn rimmed glasses when I was his age and he looked as dashing as I back then.

Actually, he likely looks more dashing than did I back then because wire rims were all the glasses rage in the sixties but wire rims pissed me off. I was that hippie guy with horn rimmed glasses and his bared ass hair shaved into a peace sign and dyed purple. If you went to UT in the sixties you at least know my ass.

So. I introduced myself and made sure that neither they, nor their families, work for us because I was looking for unbiased input. Once we got that out of the way, I told them what I was doing. My first question was, “What kinds of things would attract you to a new bloggie dealie?”

See me, I like to make my questions simple and to the point. Sam and John look at each other likely, I think, using their eyes to ask each other, “Is this crazy old fart for real?” Apparently the answers were “Yes’s,” because they started talking to me.

Is that the plural of one yes? If not, what the fuck is?

Now this was two men so you need to understand that their answers were likewise biased, but here is some of what I heard from them:

  1. Funny stories.
  2. Outrageous stories.
  3. Stories where people do stupid things.
  4. Stories where guys are always doing the right thing but get in trouble anyway.

Let me stop here because I said, “Let me stop you here. Have you guys been reading my life stories to my bloggie?”

They said, “No,” and then told me that they really like to read about older people talking shit about young people. “You know,” John said, “Like when they say we are lazy and have no ambitions.”

“Yea,” Sam added. “Old people seem to think that we feel entitled and that we don’t have to work hard.”

Then John continued, “We love reading about how they think we are worthless and make fun of us.”

“What did you mean when you said you like stories about guys who get into trouble when they haven’t done anything wrong?” I asked.

“Well,” he told me, “I had just moved out and into my first apartment with these guys and hadn’t been there but a few days when the cops bust the door down and want to arrest everybody because one of the guys was allegedly selling herb.”

He finished with, “I get all balled up in this cop-u-drama and I didn’t do anything except choose bad roommates. Funny now, but not then.”

God do I know that feeling. Then I told them about recently getting booted out of the Barnes and Nobles and a few of the times I’ve been arrested for just being a nice guy. I tried to explain to them that not all old people are shitbrained Baptist Republican fuckwads and maybe they bought just a little of that.

I was fritzing like crazy with my ADHD and I was starting to feel like a meth addict. That’s when Missy Editorator came up from behind me to say, “Hey Mooner, who are these two attractive men?”

John and Sam didn’t exactly melt at the sight of her but they did get that glassy-eyed hound dog look a man gets with the sight of a woman of remarkable looks. “Sam and John,” I told her. “Two helpful and interesting guys.”

They were really nice men and had interesting things to say and said them interestingly. I told them I would be happy to introduce them to some young women that work for our companies but they told me they can handle themselves in that department.

So I promised to try to get old farts to be sensible with their ideas about young adults and that seemed to be thanks enough for their help. Now, however, I feel like a total fuckball for calling them young adults because that sounds like political correctness to me. John, Sam- if you guys read this could you send me a comment or something to discuss what it is that your aged persons like to be called?

Like for me, I am an old fart, I’m proud to have lived long enough to be an old fart and an old fart it is. Me- call me an old fart.

Of course, then Jerri Brown comes over to speak with my already Editorator and she’s a former big wig Editorator herownself and maybe she can assist me with some last-minute stuff on my book as well. So, we’re talking about all of that and who should walk in but Laura “Dildo” Barton.

Laura is also known as the world’s first female streaker. I said to her when she introduced herself, I said, “Holy fucking shit! Laura Barton the streaker!” I felt tears start to stain my eyes but I manned up and put them down.

“Don’t cry Mr. Johnson, that was a long time ago,” Laura said.

Then we spent some time telling naked-in-public stories and she did most of the talking because she had interesting things to say. I need to ruminate about what she said and maybe I’ll tell you more of her story at a later date.

How big are her balls to have been the first female streaker? I mean really. Streaker Jones is the first male I know of who ever streaked and that was as a first grader back to the fifties. Of course, his balls hadn’t even dropped back then but they are now large and quite steely.

Oh yea. The Dildo Diaries is a feature-length documentary of the old law Texas had about how sex toys are illegal. Same kind of ridiculous right wing Baptist religious conservative Rick Perry Republican bullshit as always. Award winning film.

OK, my ADHD is seriously fritzed. What I meant to say is that when I went to give Rush Limbaugh a chunk of my mind he was actually in the fetal position on the floor to my closet and crying like a baby. There’s all of this snoinking and moinking and snotty-nosed snunkling oinking noises from the pig and this giant puddle of pig snot has pooled on the hand woven Navajo rug on the floor.

I warned everybody that talking pig makes your nose run.

“He says he’s not coming out of the closet Mooner.” This from my trusty Golden Retriever, Dixie.

“You tell him that if he doesn’t want to be the little piggie that goes to market, he’ll get his ass out of my closet and go face the music.” I amaze myself at how I can stay calm in stressful situations.

“Don’t yell Mooner, you are going to make things worse.” Admonished by the dog. Now my dog is telling me what to do and talking down to me as well. Then she adds, “He says he is not strong enough to face the truth, Mooner. He says he wishes he was as strong as you but he just isn’t.”

I am strong, aren’t I.

Now what do I say? I thought a minute and sat on the floor an rubbed the boar bristles that form a little tuft on his chinny chin chin. “Look Rush Limbaugh. There is nothing you should be ashamed of here, it’s just facing the truth about yourself. So what if you have developed an overdeveloped taste for Gram’s magic mushroom potions. You don’t really need to quit snorting them in the all together, just don’t overdose yourself and get all nutso.”

I cogitated a bit more and continued. “I’ve been taking gram’s potions from a tincture bottle my whole entire life and look at me, right?”

That didn’t get the change in mood I’d expected so I changed tactics. “OK, how about this. Lots of people can’t help themselves and stick their noses in other people’s business. You just poke your nose up their asses and furt them. It’s what a pig does for shit sakes. And your sexual preferences are of little concern to us as well. We don’t care if you want to fuck a buffalo so long as the buffalo is OK with it.”

“Of course, you need to know that Stanly is a Bison and not a buffalo, and I think you need to take the hint that he is not weirdo-sexual. He told Dixie he likes pigs just not in that way.”

Wait a minute, I’m at 1,981 words at that last at. Not the actual last at but the last at before 1,981. Almost five full bloggie postings.


Thank God for Carta Blanca beer.

Print Friendly

Rush Limbaugh the Pig Remains Closeted; Wiccans and Witches Show Support

Monday, June 14th, 2010

I’m waiting for the rain to stop so I can crank up the big grill and prepare the food for our big coming out party for Rush Limbaugh the pig. We have quite a crowd, what with all the immediate and extended family, an even half dozen of my ex-wives including Roshandra and her new beau, and Harry from over to Sprouts with his fiancée, Patty Pritchitt, and the Sheriff and his wife.

Roshandra brought this local politician as her date and I am reserving judgment until the end of the night. I can say in advance that I like his politics but I remain unsure as to his motive to date my ex. Patty is the camel toe lady out to Sprouts from awhile back and I really like her. She and Harry are a strange but fun couple what with him devout Catholic and her Wiccan.

Streaker Jones brought Sunny, the TV reporter and my ex-lover, who has the honorable distinction of being a person whose distinction I can’t distinguish for you. The reason I can’t tell you about what distinguishes Sunny from the rest of the women gathered here to the ranch is because my fancy pants Editorator, the one for my soon-to-be-published book, is also here.

When I told her I was going to bloggerate until the rain stopped she said to me, she says, “Look here Mooner Einstein Johnson. If you spoil one more secret from the book by writing in your blog I’m going to have Dr. Sam I. Am commit you again. You need to extinguish your distinguishments and establish some dignities.”

Then before I could snappily retort, she snapped, “Einstein my rosy red ass. Your Gram is right about that one. And establish some priorities as well. Nobody is reading your blog anyway, otherwise you would be getting more comments.”

“Bullshit,” my first snappy retort of the day. “I know with absolute certainty that I have many daily readers to the bloggie.” Then, when she looked at me like I’m crazy I gave her a sloppy raspberry, “Pfflluughhbbttt!” An appropriate second snappy retort to follow the first.

“Mooner,” she told me with not just a little scorn in her voice, “You are fucking clueless, you giant moronic shit-for-brains asshole.”

Now she’s got that “searching for words” look that intelligent people get when they are frustrated. I saw the opening and took it. “Ooo, listen to the fancy-assed professional word smith using all of those nasty words when there are so many better words to use for proper communication. How can you tell me to clean up my act with that trash-filled maw glued on your face.” Snappy retort number three, and one of my best.

She’s always telling me that I cuss too much in my writing and that curse words are the tools of lazy writers and only belong in quality prose strictly for emphasis. When she first told me this I said to her, I said, “No shit little Missy Edito-fucking-rator. I only fucking use fucking cuss words for fucking emphasis!”

Of course, later I realized that I also use cuss words to portray an act, like shitting, and as an endearment like when I say that Squirt is a cute little shitbird. Speaking of the Squirt, she is here with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and has offered to help Dixie interpolate for Rush Limbaugh the pig.

Squirt wiggled up to me and did this adorable thing she does whenever she first sees me. She comes right to my feet and then throws herself flat to the ground with her head resting on her front paws. Then she’ll watch me with expectant eyes, whipping her little tail in a happy wag. She won’t speak a word until I address her, but she literally vibrates with excitement until I do.

“Well if it isn’t my favorite little shitbird. Besides your entire carcass, what’s shaking Squirt?”

Taking her cue, Squirt sits up like a bunny rabbit onto her back haunches and almost exclaims, “Gooten morgan Senor Mooner. Ein essen here to assist Hier Limbaugh mitten der oink snurt snuffloosh die gruber from el closet.”

She is so fucking cute when she mixes her syntax and scrambles my synapses. “Thanks for coming Squirt. I know that the Rushster will appreciate your support. Just remember that he only speaks piggie and a limited dialect at that.”

Then I thought to add, “And be sure you blow your nose before speaking too much Porcine. That’s why pigs’ noses are always snotty.”

Did you guys know that’s why a pig always has a snotty nose? Their entire language is snorted and squealed through their noses. Makes me wonder about anteaters.

Patty and Gram are sitting to a corner of the kitchen talking about magic spells and stuff. Since Patty is a Wiccan and Gram’s an old witch, they seem to be getting along. Gram seems to think she can charge more for her potions if she can give them a little boost by casting a spell on each bottle.

I heard her tell Patty, Gram says, “How do I tell tha differnce a tween a good spell anna bad un?”

“Well Gram,” Patty patiently replied, “You know what the spell is used for when you learn the spell. Good spells may be used for evil purposes and bad spells might be used for a good reason.”

Uh oh, Houston we have a problem. Now me- I knew what my Gram was going to say back to Patty without even thinking, but Patty is just newly exposed to the 90-pound vial of nitroglycerin that is my Gram.

Gram says, “Who gives a shit Patty. Spells is as spells does. Now answer my fuckin question an spill tha beans.”

I’m just glad that Patty is kind of heart and long of fuse. The last person to put a hex on my Gram cast this spell that my Gram would have sex with all the criminals down to the jail. Actually the hex word was “rape” and not sex, but you get my drift.

The Sunday after this lady put the hex on Gram I got a call from Sheriff Wozniac. “Mooner get down here right now and I mean pronto. Your Gram has managed to lock herself into the west wing of my jail and she’s abducted a full dozen inmates and got them handcuffed to their cots.”

Then he said, “I’ve never heard so many grown men crying Mooner. And these are hard men.”

Maybe that’s what Patty meant about knowing your spells. Is it a bad spell if you hex some old gasbag into doing what she most wants to do?

Wait a minute. Did I tell you about the ostrich yet? You know how city-dwelling assholes like to drive to the country and dump their unwanted pets out the car. Well, some country-dwellers do the same except they drive from their place already out in the country to a country place in another county.

Because our ranch is located near to multiple intersections of various major county arterial roads, we get more than our share of dumped animals. We get dumped people as well, but that’s another whole can of worms.

Maybe I could have saved word count by simply saying the ranch is on a busy street. Bottom line is that somebody got tired of feeding and caring for their six-foot tall, 300-pound can’t fly, but can run like a greyhound, bird. Cute shitbird except for the beady eyes and maybe a too surly attitude.

Anyway, last week Gram is out to the big garden and encounters this ostrich and she named him/she/it Rick Perry on account that it hides its head from the truth and then uses the same thick skull like a mace, you know that studded metal ball on the end of a chain that knights swing to slug things. That’s how an ostrich attacks- with his thick, numbed skull. Swings it like a mace.

We learned about the thick skull macing bit when Gram tried to sex the ostrich. Wait now, I don’t mean Gram tried to have sex with it, but rather tried to determine if it was male or female.

“I was partin tha tail feathers on that rascal to see iffn it had any danglies and next thing I know I’m flat on my back and ol Rick Perry was swingin its head like one of them bozo dealies like them Lithuanian cowboys do down ta South America.”

Have to love my Gram, but I am digressing like a sumbitch. My ADHD has been a touch fritzie today so maybe I need a beer.

Oh look, it’s stopped raining so I better get along. But don’t start bitching at me because you’re still getting 1,530 words by the time I stop. That’s almost five quality bloggie postings.

Now, go crack your own frosty cold Carta Blanca beer and toast to Rush Limbaugh for coming out of the closet.

Print Friendly

Will Rush Limbaugh (The Pig) Come Out of the Closet?; Mooner Tells All

Saturday, June 12th, 2010

It’s Friday folks and time to clean-up a few loose ends. I’ll start by finishing the part about when I was over to the Barnes and Nobles and this one woman started a big scene. I know I broke my promise to finish yesterday but you just need to get over that. I’m doing the best I can with limited time and resources.

Besides, I’m not charging you yet and I think I have the right to disappoint you until you’re paying customers. If you are a Republican or a Baptist and that’s not acceptable to you, go fuck yourself.

As you recall, I was researching for Dixie in the kids section and the kids all started misbehaving and this one severely obsessive/compulsive woman had this book with the mug shots and criminal histories of all child molesters reported to be living in the area.

I think the woman is bi-polar, like Bi-polar Bob over to Shoal Creek loonie bin. It’s all ups and downs with Bob and I was sensing some of the same from this lady. Mental health professionals call the two extremes Manic, the upsies part, and Depressive, which is definitely the downers. These extreme mood swings typically last days and longer as the pendulum swings back and forth.

Not for this lady though, no siree Bob. This gal could go from sweet neighbor lady to the Devil’s right hand man in what seemed to me to be two seconds. Maybe less.

When she comes up to Bert Massey, he’s the head of security for the Arboretum, and holds a picture of Clovis Williams up to my face, the lady was all triumphant smiles and confidence. However, when Bert points out that said Clovis is nearly a foot shorter than me, and that I show no evidence of ever having a Popeye tattoo on my forearm, she went ballistic.

“He only looks six feet four inches tall,” she yells angrily. “It says right on the bulletin that he uses disguises.” Then she starts stabbing at me with the pen she’s holding. “Gotta be body putty or something stretching him out.”

Body putty?

After maybe a dozen pokes I took the pen away from her.

“Don’t you dare touch me mister. I know your not you, you’re Clovis Williams.” Now spittle is flying from her mouth so I know she’s off her medications. Bi-polar medications give you the dry mouth something fierce.

It would take seventeen properly medicated bi-polar patients to lick a stamp.

This I know to be a fact from this one time when I was locked up over to Shoal Creek. But, my ADHD is digressing us. Let me just say this about that. The new no-licky sticky stamps are one of those, “Why didn’t I think of that?” kind of dealies.

So. She’s being restrained by mall cops now and she starts staring at my shoes with her just arrived crazy eyes almost spinning in circles. If you know a bi-polar person you know those eyes. She says, “Check his shoes for elevators,” and then she starts snapping with her teeth and kicking and writhing around trying to get at me.

Now, let me take a breath here and explain something to you. I’m not that crazy, like this lady, but I am crazy. Having spent many months locked away to the loonie bin myself, I have a unique and experienced perspective on crazy folks. I always try to err to the side of compassion anytime I encounter one of what Dr. Sam I. Am calls, “Your people, Mooner.”

So I tell Bert, I say, “It’s OK Bert. You can let her go. She just wants you to listen to her. Crazy people don’t often feel well heard. I can handle this.” This is something I am sure about.

“OK Mooner, if you’re sure about this.”

I said, “I’m sure,” and he said, “OK,” and his guys let her loose.

She just stood there crazy-eying me for a minute, looking me up and down at the same time. It was like she had lizard eyes- you know where they kind of pop out and can move independently? Then both eyes latch on to the hemp tote bag that serves as my portable tomato kitchen and she says, “What’s in the bag buster?”

“Just my stuff,” I told her. “Not your business.”

I mean really, this was not her business.

Her eyes started that lizard dealie again, and then she says, “Make him open that tote bag Sheriff. He’s got kiddie porn inside.”

Now with her eyes doing that independent action she was looking at Bert and me at the same time, he and I answer at the same time. “I’ve/he’s got no warrant,” the I’ve from Bert and the he’s from me.

And then, again together, “And I’m/he’s not the Sheriff.”

“I don’t care whose who’s or what’s your problem, I’m looking inside that tote bag.” And with that, she grabs my tote by a strap and gives it a yank.

She was stronger than she looked so as I defended myself and the integrity of my private property, I yanked back and maybe just a little too hard. I pulled her clean off her feet, her still latched to my bag, and she smashed into me with my tomato-filled tote between us. I felt my precious reds get squished from the impact and felt a few squirt as vine ripened tomatoes will do when exposed to significant pressure.

When the lady pulled away from me still trying to steal my tote, her pretty white blouse was covered in deep red goo. Blood colored goo because of the mini plum bias to the varieties I was carrying that day.

The woman felt the wet through her blouse and when she wiped her hand across her chest and looked at the gatherings on her fingers, she screamed and said, “He stabbed me, somebody call 911!” and promptly fainted like an empty flour sack to the carpeted floor.

I opened my mouth to say, “It’s OK, it’s just tomato goo,” but all I got out was the “It’s.”


I love the smell of ozone and fried synapses in the morning.

One of the silly mall cops got excited and blasted me with his tazer. I came to in the back office area of the store with Bert looking over me as I lay on the floor with my head in the lady’s lap. Bert’s just shaking his head as I open my eyes and says, “Can you focus Mooner?”

“Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow,” is all I can muster. “Oh wow,” is all I can ever muster when I first come to after getting tazed. “Take my cell phone and hit #1 on the speed dial. Tell the woman who answers that I’ve been hit with a stun gun and I’ll meet her to the La Quinta near her office in thirty minutes.” That would be the SAC Ellen. She won’t pass on this opportunity.

Now the lady speaks up. “I’m so sorry Mr. Johnson, I had no idea it was you.” Then she eyed the boner that is the major attraction in the aftermath of all of my stunnings. “Would you like me to take you home and fix you a drink?” And then she whispered in my ear, “I’m not wearing any underwear- want a little peak?”

What a nice offer. “That is a very nice offer, Miss, but I’m spoken for.”

The crazy eyes came back and she started getting surly again when the manager walked in.

He surveyed the scene for a bit and then said, “OK Bert. I’ll take this nice lady out the front way and you take Mooner out the back and put him directly into his car. You, Mooner, will drive away and stay away.”

He helped the lady to her feet and as he walked her out he said to me, he says, “You are one disruptive asshole Mooner. Please stay away from my store.” And then after a beat he pleaded, “Please.”

“Stop whimpering Stanley, I got what I need for now. Just call me when my Jeff Hwang poker book comes in.”

“Someone will meet you at Sprouts to deliver it to you. I’ll let Harry know when it gets here.”

Harry is the manager over to Sprouts and my buddy. And I just checked the word counter and we’re at 1,600-plus words.


The 400-word limit is basically one double-spaced page with 12 point type. I guess I do four or more pages with each posting so I’m giving you an entire week’s worth of postings for the price of one.

What a bargain. But I do need to get back to the ranch and spend some time with Rush Limbaugh the pig. He’s been in the closet and I’m trying to talk him into coming out. Hiding in the closet is never a good idea especially when everyone knows that you are in there and why.

I asked Dixie to translate for me and she says that Rushie said, “Tell Mooner that Gram will kill me if I come out of the closet. Gram just doesn’t understand me.” Dixie speaks pig.

Actually, Dixie speaks the Southern United States Porcine dialect, which is our version of the original Chinese piggy speak. But like Gram says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit Mooner. I’m gonna Louie Louie that fuckin pig if he furts my ass agin.”

I hope Gram means she’ll Hawaiian luau Rush Limbaugh if he sticks his snout up her butt- you know roast him in a hot rock BBQ pit.

I told Dixie to tell Rush that Gram will be hurt and maybe angry at first but she will eventually get over it. Then I said to her, I said, “Dixie, tell him I’ll gather a support group and grill some ribs and sausage and make it a coming out of the closet party for him.” That hog does love his pork ribs and links.

Streaker Jones said he’ll come and SAC Ellen has said that she’ll introduce him and make a nice speech in support of his decision to come out of the closet.

It is a terrible waste of your life to live it cowering in the closet. I just hope that Rush Limbaugh can muster the strength to come all the way out.

Just hit 1,750 words and I need a Carta Blanca.

Print Friendly

Rush Limbaugh Hides In Mooner’s Closet; Santiago and Katelyn Serve Sprouts Proudly

Thursday, June 10th, 2010

You can stop writing me and e-mailing me and calling me about the entire Barnes and Nobles Bookstore dealie because I promise I’m going to finish it right here, and now. I mean shitsicles folks, don’t you understand how complicated my life is even if I didn’t have ADHD?

I mean really. How can I stay true to my promise to write everything in real time as it happens in my head and only tell you stories from the past tense after they become past tense?

That has got to make sense.

Anyway, the exceptional layer of additional bullshit on this bowl of seven-layer dip is from when I went to that bloggie class from the Writer’s League a few months ago. They said that the absolute, written-in-stone, take-it-to-the-bank, bottom line maximum number of words in any blogger posting is 400 words. Anything more than 400 words is a blogging disaster.

400 words? I can’t blow my nose with 400 words. Take yesterday’s posting as an example. That puppy clocked-in at 1,900 words and I never got around to telling you about who I saw over to Sprouts and neither did I finish with the bookstore stuff. Like Gram says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit Mooner. It still fuck-strates the crap outta me.”

It is frustrating.

But really, who does give a shit? I mean really. Who wrote the silly 400-word rule? And what about this- if I write “400”- one word count, wherein the speller checkie job to Microsoft Word calls “four-hundred” two words, so I’d be breaking the blogger rules if I had 401 words writing it four-hundred, but I’d break Roberts Rules for English if I wrote it 400.

Are you getting a sense of my problems?

Therefore, since I have found it impossible to live by all of the different and differing rules set by others, I simply choose to live by my own, carefully-planned and well thought-out rulers.

Which reminds me. Do you think I use too many hyphens- that would be these things (-), the little dash thingie I placed between the parenthesis- those are these things- (( ))? And why don’t we spell it paranthisisses. That makes more sense and would make a great Spelling Bee word. I’d write a song like the one for spelling Mississippi.

Anyway, fuck the rules and let me get back to my story. So, this morning I went to my usual Sprouts store to get some kale and a bag of those edamame beans because Mother had a hankering for greens and beans. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson got Mother hooked on that particular Sicilian dish way back to when we were still married. Gram, however, has never acquired a taste.

“Git that damned Eddies momma’s beans outta my face Mooner. Them damn things taste like sweetened laundry starch.” Then she’ll say, “Ruins a good batch a farm greens iffn ya ask me.”

Anyway, I was actually looking for Lima beans but Sprouts was out so I substituted the Chinese variety. Or maybe they’re Japanese. I got some other stuff to make the trip worth making and went to check out. Santiago was my register man and Katelyn was my smiler and bagger woman. Santiago was smiling as well because that’s just what the people at Sprouts do. It’s just that I’m more susceptible to the smile on an attractive lady’s face than an attractive man’s toothy grin.

OK, look. That doesn’t mean I want all you men to stop smiling at me. I just mean that a woman’s smile melts a little deeper.

Anyway, they were telling me that they were afraid to talk to me because they are concerned that I might embarrass them here to the bloggie. I was careful to not promise anything except that I would entertain and inform. They also were afraid that I was saying bad things about the store.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I said, startled by the question. “I love Sprouts Farmers Market.”

I love Sprouts. Which brings us back to the bookstore dealie. Let me summarize thusly:

  1. Dixie is writing a kids book, and asked me to research formats of kids books.
  2. I went on Friday morning awhile back, early and in shabby shorts and UT tee shirt, a greasy ball cap and without shaving.
  3. I looked for a poker book and didn’t find it, went to the info stand and waited in line behind this Baptist shitbird who was difficult to help.
  4. I had, as always in season, my portable tomato kitchen and shared a slab of red wonderment with my fellow line standers, but not the Baptist.
  5. When I cracked and shared the required cold bottle of Carta Blanca beer, I was chastised for drinking in the bookstore. So, I guzzled the bottle and put the empty back into my tote.
  6. When I finally got to the head of the line….

I asked the information lady about which children’s books are most popular and she asks me, “What age children,” and I say, “I’m not certain,” and then she says, “I know who you are Mr. Johnson and you are just as difficult as I have been told.”

I’m thinking to myself, I thought, “What the fuck is this all about?” So, I asked her.

“What the fuck is this all about?”

And she says, “Mr. Johnson, I am in your Gram’s prayer group at the church and your rotten soul is number two on our standard agenda. It was number three but then we seemed to lose interest in Tiger Woods soul. Pastor Browningwell says he’s not sure Buddhists have one.”

I’m thinking that maybe I’m proud to be moving my way to the top of this list so I ask, “Who sits at number one?” You’d want to know who sits at one if you were two, right?

She looked me square in the eye and said, “That’s easy, Mr. Johnson. Your sweet grandmother and mother, God bless their souls and give them strength.” Then she added, “Now go look at whatever you want but don’t bother anybody.”

“Fine,” I said. “But if you knew how things really are you’d put me to number one.”

Now, this Barnes and Nobles is the one there to the Arboretum and the kids section is pretty cool. Located deep to the back of the store, it’s kind of like a little store of its own. With short benches, chairs and tables spread about and these little play areas, it’s what I’d design my kids section to be if I had a bookstore.

So. It’s pretty crowded with moms and their kids or maybe nanny’s with other folks kids, but many women and children whichever. I start perusing the stacks looking for what look like popular books and after maybe an hour I have at least glanced at every title in the entire section. And I’m totally lost.

I get a brain storm and figure, “Who best knows what a kid likes better than the puller of the purse strings that hold the cash that buys the books?” So, I gather maybe an armload of what looks good to me, and I’m stopping at each group and asking the kids opinions.

“Do you like this book, little girl?” and, “What do you think about puppy books Willy?” I knew he was Willy because his name was on his shirt pocket.

By the way, remember that I told you I guzzled the beer so I wouldn’t waste it? I did and I had been belching the yeasty beer gas during my perusals.

I was finally getting a feel for things and was stooped to talk to these adorable twin girls about The Little Engine That Could, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I figured it to be one of the kids with a small ball bat but was wrong. As I stood to address my tapper I came to realize that the entire Arboretum Security staff was there to back up the head of Security, Bert Massey, the tapper and using his night stick.

“Hey, Mooner, can you come quietly with us?”

I answered, “Sure Bert. You need my help with another snake escape?” Bert and I are well acquainted from several previous incidents here to the mall. Well, it isn’t really a mall but I think of it the same way. The last time I saw him was when this stripper from Las Vegas left the car window rolled down too far and her python escaped.

“Na,” he said. “Different problem today.” Then he shuffled his feet around and said, “Look Mooner. I’m sorry to do this to you, but will you mind stepping outside with us?”

“Sure,” I told him. “Just let me get a final opinion on the Little Engine and Little Lucy Songbook.” I turned back to the twins.

“Mooner!” It was almost a shout. “Now. Please, now.”

“OK, Bert, keep your knickers on. What’s the big rush?”

That would be about the time the first little kid started crying and then Willy took the plastic hammer away from this other kid and whacked him on the nose and then things got a little chaotic. Now, everybody in the store has gathered to see what was up, and this one lady came over to me and said, “I know you. You’re that child molester from Florida. The one that was stealing little kids from the bookstore.” Then she added, “Look- same ratty shorts and greasy cap as from the picture.”

She held up this three-ring binder with a bunch of mug shots that were in those plastic sleeves. When she held this one photo up to my face she said, “See?”

“Let me see that,” and I grabbed the book from her. “Look here Bert. This is a picture of some asshole named Clovis Williams. Says here he’s 5 feet 7 inches and has a Popeye tattoo on his forearm.”

I rolled my sleeve up for inspection and said, “See here- only thing I’ve got inked on me is my Salvador Dali droopy clock tattoo. Not a Popeye in sight!”

OK, now stop the presses. My little tool bar word counter daealie says I already hit 1,682 words at the end of that last paragraph. And I think it’s time for me to have a little tomato snack and a cold Carta Blanca beer. This morning I plucked the first of the little miniature plum variety, the one that looks like little tear drops. These get a deep ruby red, almost purple color when they ripen.

These little guys are the bird’s favorites right now. And the acid is way up in everything after the great rains we had the last several days. By this time next week we’ll be harvesting everything we planted this year excepting for the okra. We salvaged as many okra plants as we could and replanted them back in rows after Rush Limbaugh the pig tore them all to hell and back.

I’ve been hiding him in my master suite to keep him out of Gram’s sights.

Fuckballs. Now I’m at 1,840 words.

Manana ya’ll.

Print Friendly

Will Rush Limbaugh the Pig Break His Addiction to Hallucinogenic Drugs?

Wednesday, June 9th, 2010

So. Yesterday when we left off I was attempting to tell you the story of when I went to the Barnes and Nobles Bookstore to do research for Dixie’s children’s book. I was deep into it when Dr. Sam I. Am killed the time on me.

My own time was killed because my watch quit, and since Scott the watch guy is in Colorado fishing, time continues to stand still for me. I like to know precisely what time it is and that need has no specific origins. I know it’s kind of silly, but knowing the time to-the-second is important to me.

Anyway, by the time I got back to Dr. Mean Britches’ office for my afternoon therapy session, I had bigger problems than hashing over events that are now ten days old. It seems that Rush Limbaugh the pig had figured how to open the combination lock on Grams potion pantry out to the ranch and overdosed himself on Gram’s hallucinogenic concoctions.

The pantry is in the barn and sits over the top of Gram’s main mushroom cellar. She grows the mushrooms that serve as the foundation of all her potions down below and then she brews the finished products in the pantry. It seems that Rush Limbaugh has developed quite a sweet tooth for sour cherry juice, one of the many carriers and flavorings Gram uses in her blends.

Dixie tells me that Rush told her he blacked out standing at the back door to the kitchen while he waited for Beetle Bob to throw him some scraps from breakfast. Next thing he knew Gram was firing at him with her double-barreled twelve gage as he ran from the big garden. Beetle Bob is one of Mother’s charges and a paranoid schizophrenic of serious proportions.

“Iffn I ever catch him I’m gonna shoot yur fuckin hog Mooner Einstein Johnson. I walk inta my pantry ta git some bottles a my new church lady potion ta take over ta tha sociable an yur pig has gone an tore tha whole place to hell an back,” this from an irate Gram.

And then, “Einstein my rosy red ass. Only a mormon ud be dumb enuff ta let a pig run loose to a working ranch.”

“That would be moron Gram,” I told her. “Mormons are religious folks like the Baptists.”

“Who gives a shit Mooner. Morons is as Mormons does.”

Maybe I could have said that better but I’m unsure.

“Lemme say it this way Mooner. Don’t mind yur snot nosed hog havin a little cherry water. He just needs ta ask,” she instructed me.” And then, “But he got all halli-juicinated and rooted up my en-tire okree patch.”

“You got tha name a that pig right onna furst try Mooner. Ignorant fat pig what’s addictolated ta high quality medications and cain’t keep is snotty fuckin nose outta a lady’s bidness has gotta be named Rush Limbaugh.”

Then she finished with, “An if he furts my ass agin, I’m shootin you!”

“Look Gram,” I tried to say, “For starters I tried to tell you not to even start dosing that hog. Every time he gets a snoot full he gets to be a hand full of trouble. And he only sticks his nose up your ass because he likes you.”

To maybe end the conversation I said, “If he didn’t like you he’d eat your clothes hanging off the line like he was doing when he first got here.” My Gram still hangs her clothes on a line to dry in the sun.

Wait a minute, my ADHD is fritzing the bejesus right out of me. I was meaning to tell you what happened over to the Barnes and Nobles and I keep getting side tracked. But have you ever seen a 650 pound pig when he’s got a couple gallons of magic mushroom tea under his belt?

I wonder what his hallucinations are about. Does he envision pens full of pretty little piggies in frilly dresses that melt into pink puddles with frilly dresses or does he maybe hallucinate to the meaner side of things.

I don’t think I actually hallucinate any more since I’ve been on my Gram’s potions since my first breath. But even if I did, how could I differentiate my imaginations from my drug-fueled imaginings? Think about it.

I’ve been married and divorced ten times; my grandmother drives a 550-horse power Ferrari around town like she owns the roads; I have been arrested at least a hundred times for everything from jay-walking out to California to murder here to home. I have been incarcerated against my will at least a dozen times over to the Shoal Creek Loonie Bin and have by now spent almost two years time over there. My dog talks to and back-at me and now she is teaching the Squirt to do the same, and I have a significant case of the ADHD. The ADHD puts multiple thoughts in my head at the same time- some real and some imagined, and that is very confusing.

OK, wait again. All of my thoughts are real but some of the thoughts are of imaginary things rather than real ones. What I’m talking about is sort of like how some of your dreams are about things that happen in your real, awake life and some are not.

Which reminds me. I had this dream last night and it was from the celebrity camel toe series of dreams I was having with some regularity. The stimulus for this dream must have been having watched the Kathy Griffin special there to Bravo TV. Kathy talks about this Oprah TV show where Oprah is wearing these real tight jeans that give her a camel toe that, as Kathy put it, “You could saddle-up and ride.”

She was also saying, “Shitballs and fuckballs,” often, and Gram wanted to put a hit out on her for stealing from me. “I lik Kathy Mooner, but she shouldn’t be stealin yur words thatta way. Maybe I should call tha man up ta Dallas and send him a tainer.”

Maybe I should interpolate for you. Gram thinks Kathy, or Kathy’s people, have been reading my blogger dealie and using some of my stuff in her act and that would be a terrible enough offense to call the hit man up to Dallas and give him a retainer in case Kathy doesn’t stop. That would be the same hit man who is holding a $250,000 retainer to insure that I don’t marry Gnat. The whole family likes Gnat too much for her to fall prey to my matrimonial machinations.

Me, I’d be happy just to meet Miss Griffin. Ive seen her numerous times when she comes to town for her shows and I like her. Watch her reality TV show and specials as well. Which is what led to me having this new dream.

So. In this dream I’m stranded at the border between Mexico and Arizona. I’m stranded because I don’t have my passport and I’m stuck straddling the big new fence they built- one leg dangling over each country with my shorts stuck in the bob wire that caps the fence.

On the Mexican side below me stands Oprah and Kathy Griffin and on the other side stands Sarah Palin and Renee Zellweger. Each woman is enticing me to jump to her side of the fence by wagging her camel toe at me. They somehow seem to know that I am both a major admirer of and an experienced judge of, camel toes. Especially those of the celebrity varieties.

Now look, I am not proud of the bulk of this dream but I feel compelled to tell you, so here goes. On the Mexican side, Oprah shows me the camel toe that Kathy mentioned in her TV special and I am mightily impressed. Kathy is impressed as well because she tells me, she says, “Look Mooner, I withdraw from this competition because Miss Winfrey’s far out classes mine.

This is when I realize that Chelsea Handler is straddling the fence with me and she is attempting to distract me from my task. She’s in this leotard and tights and she’s tugging the fabric to emphasize her toe and I must admit, it is massively impressive. I reached out and ran my index finger along the raised fabric edges and Chelsea squirmed and giggled.

But I am a man of honor and I run a fair contest so I removed my finger from Chelsea’s ridges and began my inspection of the American crotch meats on the Arizona side of the border. I examined Renee first and I swear to you I couldn’t see a thing. That poor girl was so skinny she couldn’t have mustered a visible camel toe with a vice and a pair of needle nosed pliers.

“I’m sorry Renee,” I told her. “You need to go eat something before I can even rate you.”

Renee starts crying and snuffle-snotting like women with hurt feelings do, and Chelsea is laughing. “Don’t worry Mooner, I’m not laughing at her,” she informed me. “I’m laughing at the look of disappointment on your face.”

Then she said, “Just like a man. You get four Class A camel toes to choose and it’s the fifth one that gets away with your heart.”

“Not true, Chelse,” I replied. I call her Chelse in my dreams. “I’m just feeling sorry for her.”

And that’s when Sarah pipes up and says, “I haven’t got all day Mooner so look at what I made for you. I call it “You can see Russia from the porch on my coochie.” With that Sarah Palin whipped her cute little skirt from her waist with a flourish.

I woke up this morning with the taste of down feathers in my mouth and was craving borscht soup. I had chewed a hole in my pillow, which explains the feathers, and Sarah let me rock in the chair on her porch- speaking to the cold beet soup.

I’m not apologizing to you for my sexual dreams about Mrs. Palin anymore. They’re dreams for shit sakes.

But, as I sit here writing about this to you I am thinking the following things all at the same time:

  1. Will Rush Limbaugh the pig kick his drug habit?
  2. Have I convinced Gram to leave Kathy Griffin alone?
  3. Will I ever be allowed back into a Barnes and Nobles Bookstore?
  4. Is Chelsea Handler as tender in person as in my dream?
  5. Am I communicating with my audience?
  6. Does anybody give a shit if not?
  7. Will the Carta Blanca Beer folks ever send me a case of beer for my being their biggest fan?
  8. Did I remember to take the bag of groceries with the whole Sockeye salmon I got on sale from Sprouts out of the trunk of my car?
  9. Would I have actual sex with Sarah Palin and would it be as good as in my dreams?
  10. Other stuff and things.

See what I mean about the whole hallucinations dealie? Which one of those thoughts is not normal to you?

Print Friendly

Juli, I’m Sorry; Don’t Drink Beer At Barnes and Nobles; Psycho Therapy Is Frustrating

Monday, June 7th, 2010

I just got finished with my morning psycho therapy session and the topic of discussion reminded me that I still haven’t told you guys about what happened when I went to the Barnes and Nobles Bookstore over to the Arboretum.

I was doing some research for Dixie because she wants to write a children’s book and needs formatting advice. I guess she wants me to do it for her because I’m already a successful author and I have kids.

Anyway, I was in therapy this morning and Dr. Sam I. Am asks me, she says, “OK, Mooner, let’s talk about your latest fuck-up. It’s been more than a week and you haven’t spoken a word about it.”

I just sort of stared at her like she was the moron because I truly didn’t know what she was talking about. Then I remembered and I said, “Oh yea. I was up to the Sprouts yesterday to get some organic lettuce. It’s been so hot that all the lettuce burned out and the big ranch garden has only summer crops. Sprouts has the best price on a three-pack of organic romaine anywhere to town.”

The good doctor is just staring at me so I continued. “I got my lettuce, some apple cider vinegar for salad dressing, and a big bag of turbinado sugar. Then I saw that they were selling berries for $.99 per half pint and I loaded up on those. When I checked out, Juli, one of my favorites, was my register person and she was sort of pissed at me.
Doctor pain in the ass is still just staring at me so I say, “OK, look Sammy. I know I told Juli I wouldn’t name her by her real name to the bloggie in that posting last week but I forgot. She was hurt that I mentioned her name and was obviously embarrassed by what I had written.”

Now the bitch doctor’s steely gaze is getting under my skin. “Oh for shit sakes Sammy, I told her I was sorry and would never do it again.”

I decided to return the cold shoulder and not talk to her so I started looking around the office with my lips zipped tightly shut. I grew tired of counting the little holes in the ceiling tiles when I got to 13,188 and glanced at my watch to see how much more silence I had to endure until my time expired.

“Fuckballs!” I said. “My watch has stopped.”

And after I spoke, “Oh fuckballs twice. I was gonna make you talk first.”

“You will never learn Mooner.” said Dr. Am-Johnson. “I am strong of heart and will and you Mooner are, simply put, still you.”

I keep telling you guys she’s a bitch.

“I need to call Scotty and get him scheduled to fix my watch,” I said with manly concern.

“Stop whining about your watch Mooner. You’ve got bigger problems than knowing the time to the exact second. Now, tell me about the incident at the bookstore.”

Have I told you guys about my buddy Scott? He retired from the TCEQ awhile back and now he does a little consulting but mostly he does retiring and watch/clock repairs. He is one of the few good men I know from my entanglements with government officialdom and he has become a friend. Maybe he does retirementing.

Anyway, he is a watch and clock collector/seller and a terrific repairer of timepieces. He can fix anything and he is honest and trustworthy. He has a large collection of military watches and he is quite active in that market, I understand. If you need a repair or you want to buy an interesting timepiece, contact him at . He might not get right back to you because he is after all, retired. But you will be glad you waited.

Have I ever told you guys that I like my watch to provide me with the exact time? I don’t know why and I can’t place a single event in my life that was crucial in a to-the-second sort of way. Except for a few fireworks dealies and maybe the one time Streaker Jones and I decided to see who could hold his breath the longest.

But I should have known that Streaker Jones could beat me in a breath-holding contest. He beats me at everything except wifing and the whole ex-wifing thing. Maybe that might need to be wivesing and ex-wivesing thing. And it would be things, plural.

Oh for shit sakes. They would be things.

“Mooner!” Dr. Sam I. Am yelled at me. “De-glaze your eyes and look at me.”

I snapped out of my watch thoughts and looked at her. “What, Sammy? What, what, what?

“Lower your voice buster, and tell me about your problem at the bookstore. Tell me now or I’m calling for the ambulance to haul you to Shoal Creek Mental Hospital where I’ll book you a three-week engagement.”

And then she added, “Maybe that will improve your focus.”

“OK, fine. First of all, it wasn’t my fault. I just want to get that straight from the start,” I began. “Well you know that Dixie wanted me to do some research for her and it was Friday a week ago. Not last Friday three days past, but the one before that. It was the Friday before Memorial Day, whatever day that was, maybe the 28th of May, I think.

“So, since I was going to Sprouts anyway I decided to stop at the B&N books to look around since it’s so close and they have a big kids section.” Now I took a big breath and continued, “It was early and I didn’t shave and I had dressed myself so my outfit wasn’t fully coordinated, and I was wearing a greasy auto parts cap because I forgot to take it off.”

Maybe I was providing too much detail because Sammy says to me, she said, “Mooner, get to the point.

“OK, the point was this. I walk into the store and spy the kiddies section straight to the back of the store. I was headed back and remembered that Jeff Hwang has a new book out on Pot Limit Omaha and I’m trying to learn to play that game better to broaden my poker horizons. I walk over and they don’t have it on the shelf. There’s this guy standing beside me at the Poker Section and he’s holding the last copy.

He says to me, he says, “Look here,” and he shows me the inside of the book. “You can order right from Jeff at .”

“Thanks, man,” I told him. “But I wanted to get started right away. I’ll just see if another store has one.”

“So. I go to the information desk and have to wait in line behind this shitwad who’s asking about do they have the new inspirational book by that TV evangelist Tupac Shamir or whateverthefuck his name is. You know, the Indian guy from India except that he sounds like a Harvard law graduate and dresses like a TV talk show host.”

Maybe that guy’s name is Shupok Darfur.

I took another big breath and continued to Sam. “I had my portable tomato kitchen with me and since this was looking like an endurance kinda conversation ahead of me, I sliced off a couple slabs of Early Girl and passed them to the folks now crowded in line behind me. I didn’t give one to the guy in front so’s to not disturb his already trackless train of thought.”

Now I’m getting into my story when Sam interrupts me. “Get to the point before I kill myself, Mooner. You are driving me to distraction!”

“The point is, you can’t drink alcoholic beverages at the bookstore. When I popped the lid off the frosty Carta Blanca beer from my little kitchen and passed that around, the information lady working with the brain dead questioner ahead of me got snippy.”

“ ‘Put that beer away, sir.’ This was loud whispered like a teacher telling you to stop pulling on Susie Ashburn’s pigtails back to first grade. The teacher is whispering because you are supposed to be taking the spelling test that all the other students seem to be managing without distraction.”

“Anyway,” I continued, “I just downed the rest of the beer myself, stashed the bottle back in my hemp tote bag, and headed to the children’s section to begin my research. When I got back there…”

“Oops, sorry Mooner,” Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson interrupted again. “Your time’s up. We’ll continue in this afternoon’s session.”

I really think psycho therapy helps. I really think psycho therapy helps. I really think psycho therapy helps.

Gram says that if you can say something three times in a row real fast it will become true.

I love my life. I love my life. I love my life.


Print Friendly