Archive for the ‘Humor’ Category

Suicide Prevention Technique; Mooner Saves Jumpers

Saturday, June 5th, 2010

Hoo-Yaa!!! I just met with my web expert, Dustin Sparks, and I am major league pumped. He is going to fix my many I-net problems and help me get things designed and pretty as well.

He’s the man who told me about 99designs to do the logo contest. If you have been to the contest site the winner is Number 211 and the designer is SteveO. The contest drew logos from almost 40 designers and I looked at like 250 different designs.

Several friends in advertising have chewed my ass out for going to 99designs because it bastardizes the process and you can’t get the highest quality. “All you will get are amateurs and stoners giving you designs,” was how one put it.

But after the success of my 99designs logo adventure, I agree with Gram on this one. As she would say, “Who gives a shit Mooner. They’re all locos ta me!” And then she added, “Crazy artists ever one of em.”

Every time I’m ready to choke the life out of that old bat she saves herself by lighting up my life with the same mouth that has brought me most of my miseries.

I am very excited about the logo decision as well as all of the stuff that Dustin is doing here to the webber and bloggie. He’s doing layouts and sliders and clickies and all of that technical shit that would drive me to drink if I was responsible for them. Fact is the thinking about it has caused me to crack open the first icy Carta Blanca of the day.

If I was one of those suicide intervention officers for the police, I would always carry a cooler filled with Carta Blanca beer on ice along with some fresh homegrown tomatoes. If the tomatoes are out of season, I’d substitute a bowl of fresh smashed guacamole, fiery-hot salsa and a bag of good corn chips- like the store branded ones from Sprouts.

Then when I perched myself on the window ledge with the potential leaper, I’d give him a thin slice of vine-ripened heirloom with just a touch too much salt and pepper. Let him sit with that for maybe two minutes and get his salivary glands into action. Then I would pull a Carta Blanca from the cooler and make a big deal out of stripping the ice and icy water from the bottle, and I’d wipe the moisture from my hand on my shorts.

Of course the police would require me to wear a uniform or slacks, but they will work as a coaster as well as shorts. Then I’d say to the guy, I’d say, “Man this is thirsty work.” I’d make another big production out of opening the bottle.

Grampa, that would be my Gram’s long suffering and glad to be dead husband, gave me my first bottle key when I turned eighteen. Made of thick stainless steel, it bears the deep, obviously hand-stamped logo and catch phrase of my Grampa’s second favorite beer.

“Hamms- From The Land Of Sky Blue Waters, Hamms The Beer Refreshes!” are the words and the picture logo is of a happy, dancing bear. The sharp end used for punching the nifty triangular-shaped hole to the top of a metal beer can has long since seen use for its original purpose, but the flip top cap popper end is still going strong after thousands of uses.

The etchings show the polished and worn evidence of my many uses, and all of my pants have small worn spots or even holes to prove that I carry this treasure with me at all times.

So, after letting my charge sit with a mouth-full of over-salted tomato slobber, I would fumble with the antique church key and miss opening the bottle on the first few tries. Then, when I do get the cap pried off, I’ll let it flip off and over the side of the building.

“Holy shit,” I’d tell my jumper. “That’s a long way down!”

Then, I’d raise the bottle to my lips, but stop just short of my mouth and say, “Oh man, have I got terrible manners. Would you like to have this one?”

Of course he would and he reaches for the frosty bottle. I’d let him enjoy that first amazing swallow and when he shuts his eyes in pleasure, I’d zap him with the stun gun I have hidden in the waist band of my shorts and pull him backward into the building to safety. I’d sit on his chest and finish his beer while waiting for backup.

Maybe I should trademark this move and sell it to the police. I would do training seminars and get the police to volunteer to play the part of the jumper. I’d get to taze their shaggy asses and get them to pay me to do it. Major win/win kinda dealie.

As for my I-net improvements, Dustin hopes to have some stuff to look at soon. And I need to give him a plug because anyone who can work with me and my ADHD and still provide quality output needs to be plugged. You can get Dustin at

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Rethinking Memorial Day; Katlyn at VIVOS Gives Good Advice

Tuesday, June 1st, 2010

So, we were all celebrating Memorial Day, which in the USA is the day we pay homage to those brave men and women who risked their life for our country. I’ve got the big grill fired up and we have a goat, a full rack of beef ribs and a few dozen links of sausage smoking away. I use a blend of oak and hickory for most smoking but today I’m going to pop in a little bit of mesquite for the last half hour. It’s about noon and the day is heating up as I start this story.

All of the men got an early start- that would be Harry, from over to Sprouts, Streaker Jones, Woozie who would be Sheriff Wozniac, Gnat’s Special Agent in Charge who is her beau, chief Ruffled Feathers who is Streaker Jones’ uncle from New Mexico and an unnamed musician. We cracked the cold Carta Blanca beers at 7:15 am, Harry started pouring Hornitos shots maybe at 8:05 and Gram gave us a little pick-me-up at 9:00 sharp with a new BBQ potion she wanted us to test drive for her.

To her magic mushroom tea base she added liquid smoke, squid ink and some other stuff she wouldn’t name. When I asked her what else was in the little bottle she said, “Girl’s gotta have her a touch a mis-tree bout her, Mooner.” That’s how she put it.

When I asked her what she was going to name the new brew, she said to me, she says, “Cain’t decide. Gonna be Burn my meat an I’ll kill ya, or maybe it’ll be Smoke my meat not my grass.

I suggested Burned meat will smoke your ass, and she whacked me with the big wooden spoon in her hand and said, “Mooner, who told you to stick yur pointy snoot inna my bidness?”

Anyway, like I said, it was noon and the men folk were gently buzzed and enjoying the day off. Since we also had a touch of the munchies, I fast-grilled a few sausage links and cut them into big chunks. Placed them on a long oval platter with a mound of the cold-pickled veggies I like to make. Wait, it was a pile of chilled cold-pickled veggies. I make the pickled veggies without cooking them in the brine.

Think rings of onion, jalapeños sliced in quarters, cucumbers, carrot, celery, eggplant (yes eggplant and from our garden), radishes, and some other stuff. This batch was heavily dilled with dill plucked from our garden. Ask and I’ll give you my formula.

Beside the platter was our fresh picked cherry tomatoes, all Sweet 100’s, which I halved and marinaded with coarse sea salt and black pepper, basil from the garden and chunks of Maytag blue cheese. The marinade was lemon juice and this Greek olive oil I like.

So, we’re standing around and eating from the platter and bowl of food using toothpicks to spear bites. I’ve got a work counter built by the grills and the platter sits in the middle with the men standing around it. We each have a frosty bottle of Carta Blanca and they make those nifty water rings on the tile surface of the counter when we set them down. I always sit my beers down in spots to where the water rings resemble butt cheeks.

Streaker Jones says that’s me doing some brand marketing.

I like to stab a chunk of onion, meat, tomato and cheese onto a toothpick with my right hand and hold a spear of jalapeño in my left. Two-fisted eating is a manly endeavor and common practice at these events.

Then what Streaker Jones said next is the reason for the moral of this blog posting. He said to the group, “Fellas, don’t cha rekkin tha Germans anna Japanese anna Iraquis an even tha Taliban has gotta right ta have a Memorial Day?”

“What the fuck, Streaker Jones!” This in unison from the rest of us.

“Think about it an git back wi me,” Streaker Jones said to halt further discussions.

I started to say, “But…”, when he cut me off with, “Mooner, I said ta think furse.”

Which reminded me that last Friday we went to the VIVOS Mexican place over to RR 620 near US 183. I took SAC Ellen there for happy hour so we could sit outside and enjoy one more afternoon before it gets hot. She wears a bullet-proof vest and professional suit to work and it just gets too hot for her to sit out after the first of June right after work.

Our server was Katlyn who closely resembled the SACster except younger and with nifty tattoos. I love tattoos. Katlyn made numerous suggestions and we had a nice chat with her. We got Eastside margarita’s because they don’t serve Carta Blanca beer, an oversight which must be corrected. We got a small cup of queso- especially good here at VIVOS, and something called California Nachos. The nachos had avocado and alfalfa sprouts on them.

“Alfalfa sprouts,” I barked. “I’m not eating my nachos with a fucking hay bale on top.” And with that I downed my drink in one gulp.

I motioned Katlyn over and ordered another with two shots of Hornitos and told the SACster, “OK, I’ll eat your damned rabbit food. But now you’re the designated driver. No more drinks for you!”

I’m thinking, “Take that!” to myself. I liked the thought so I said to her, “Take that!”

I might have said it a touch loud.

SAC Ellen said to me, she says, “Mooner, after you lower your voice you think about why you feel the sprouts are a bad idea. But shut up about them because you can always take them off if you please.”

God I love a woman with clarity of thought.

I really had no good reason to be sprout prejudiced and I ended up picking some sprouts from SAC Ellen’s nachos to bolster the roughage on mine. The added flavor made the nachos taste clean and rich. And I almost forgot to mention VIVO’s salsa. It is unique and I think it is flavored with onion juice.

Their salsa is rich and sharp flavored. Oh yea, and their chips are top three in town.

Anyway, having recently been required to think before sticking my feet in my mouth over the nacho dealie, I was able to apply that lesson to Streaker Jones’ comment.

I guess what he was saying is this. The virtue of heroes lies in the eyes of their beholders. Or said another way, can a man be a terrorist to me and a hero to you? Did you also win exclusive rights to honorarium when you win a war? Is it our might or our viewpoint that makes us right? If I ask you to honor my heroes should I honor yours? Can I honor your fallen heroes without showing support for your cause? Are brave acts less brave if you fight for a bad cause?


This discussion put me in a terrible place because I truly believe that every man has the right to have his own values and to think whatever he chooses. And as long as he doesn’t infringe on others he can practice his preachings in safe harbor from me. But I think you lose your right to breathe clean air if you want to force others to think and act as you do.

And I really don’t like you if your forcing is based upon religious beliefs. See, that’s when I can’t distinguish a Muslim extremist, who wants to shoot me dead, from a Baptist asswipe Republican who wants to poison my brain with his religious Kool-Aid or kill doctors for performing elective surgeries.

My grandfather fought in WWI and Daddy was in WWII, the Korean War and some other stuff. Sam I. Am’s father was a WWII pilot and her mom was a WASP- one of those amazing women service pilots in WWII. My appreciation for all of them is not lessened because they didn’t die in service and I honored them yesterday as well.

You don’t need to be killed in a war to suffer a death in your heart from the fighting. Every person I have known who fought in a war saw no glory there. But every one saw the necessity to fight.

Now that I think this through, I also realize that many of my American heroes were fighting for their religious beliefs and not just for Freedom. They fought for God and Country. So, if I was to prejudice my thoughts against one religious-based hero I would need to adjust my support for those I was honoring yesterday.

Which reminds me. I am sure that somebody else has already thought of this, but I want to rename the Religious Right and call them the Religious Wrong. It scorches my butt when they represent themselves to be all for personal freedoms while they kill our true rights at every turn.

I need a beer.

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Rainforest Partnership Might Be OK; Matt Damon Is Not Corporate

Sunday, May 30th, 2010

OK. Now that I’ve got you guys helping me with my logo design contest over to 99designs, we can start to deal with my other problems. I know that you know that Dixie is writing a children’s book and asked me to do her research on what layout would be best for her book. I don’t know why she won’t do it herself and just go talk to some kids, but she’s like most all of the women in my life. Pushy, ornery, stubborn and ultimately- lovable.

Women and me (I?) are an interesting puzzle that neither has seemed to solve. And don’t try to tell me that the me/I question I just asked has a simple answer.

Anyway, I told you about going to the B&N bookstore that’s near my favorite Sprouts store and spending some time doing research yesterday. On my visit to Sprouts early this morning, I picked-up some lamb ribs and beef liver that I’m going to serve at tonight’s Johnson Family BBQ. I got my food and packed it on ice because I had an appointment down to the Moonshine Grill- you know there to Red River near the Convention Center.

I was meeting Maia for lunch to talk about her new internship at the Rainforest Partnership. I was also meeting Maia to meet Maia since I had never met her before. Maia is the daughter of my buddy up to Dallas and I’m glad that I’m firmly settled into my relationship with SAC Ellen, because Maia has all of the charms I hold sacred in a woman.

She’s smart, cares about the environment, is a hard worker, she’s interested and interesting, knows how to laugh and she has the extra benefit of being cute as a button. The reason I’m glad that I’m with SAC Ellen is that I have already ruined enough friendships with my passes at somebody’s daughter. Daughters. There was this one time with my auto mechanic who has twin daughters, and he is now my ex auto mechanic.

Then there’s the other whole thing about me being quite happy with the SACster and unwilling to do anything to screw that up. On purpose.

But I’m already digressing. The ADHD is on the fritz so I might wander a touch. On my way to meet Maia for lunch I started thinking about how to cook the liver. The lamb ribs are easy- rub with olive oil, season with chunky-ground salt and pepper and grill. But the liver is another whole dealie- should I braise it first and then grill it for a little smoke and char, or should I just marinate it and then fire it up. I missed my turn and was halfway to Dripping Springs before my brain latched to the hinges of here and now.

Have you ever thought of how many different marinades you can use on fresh liver?

Anyway, Maia is a student at Texas State University down to San Marcos, the same place where one of my boys graduated. She wants to be involved in environmental issues as a life career, as well as her life choices, and that makes her OK in my book. She called me for some strange reason to see if I could help her with some ideas.

I agreed to meet her because her daddy asked me to and because she is an environmentalist and interning at an organization about which I am clueless. And also because I am still looking for a good cause who is not too embarrassed by me to want to link-up together with me for a share of my profits.

Wait, that’s not entirely true. I know much about rain forests but little about Rainforest Partnership. And what about this- am I looking for a cause who wants to link with me, a cause that wants to link, or a cause which wants to link? I can run that train over each of the three grammatical rules tracks and find my destination.

When you have ADHD like the variety that infects my brain, you can find reasons to apply any and all rules.

So. Maia is going to be doing corporate sponsorship stuff for the RP and she thought that maybe I could help. I told her that most of my experiences with the corporate types usually end in a lawsuit or a visit to jail. Or a stay to the loonie bin. But I am a good poker player so I thought I might have some good corporate guy tells for her.

“Look,” I told her. “Your corporate sponsor types will only get involved on two conditions. The first would be if one of the high muck-d-mucks in a company favors your cause as a human person in his/her personal life. You know, like Matt Damon and the clean water issue, except that Matt Damon isn’t corporate in any way.” I then went on to tell her that since many corporate types are Baptist Republican shitballs and not real humans, she might want to concentrate on the second condition.

Now that’s not to say that America is not populated with some corporate types who managed to climb the ladder with their souls intact. It’s just that the ones of that breed who have made it to the top have likely been previously snatched away by already established causes. Like Matt Damon.

Going strictly on my personal experience, many of those other guys sold their souls to climb the ladder to the top. That or they didn’t use the ladder, and instead made their way to the top by building the tallest pile of co-worker corpses so they could stand on top and grab the brass ring.

I don’t like companies that build their success on the burned-out bodies of their current, and former, employees. Back to the seventies that was the very definition of a Fast Track Homebuilder.

Again, I’m certain that many of those corporate guys have good hearts and an unsold soul that still remains mostly outside the Devil’s reach.

Please tell me that all made sense.

So, assuming condition one goes unmet, condition number two is that you need to find a way to make your charity and/or cause interesting to the corporate types. When I asked Maia how you can make your cause interesting to a corporate type she said, “Find a way to show them a benefit they can gain if they work with us.”

Told you she was smart.

Then we brainstormed some ideas, an endeavor my ADHD-addled mind can handle with ease. When I can get each of my many thoughts focused upon one central theme, I’m a one-man stormed brain. My only problems with brainstorming are getting my hundreds of ideas verbalized and giving the other stormers a chance to speak in a 15-minute session.

Oh yea, and there would be the problem of my digressions.

When I asked Maia if the Rainforest Partnership would be interested in cross-pollinating with my webber and bloggie by linking-up, she got this weird look on her face that I am most familiar with.

I hate that look. It means, “Mooner Johnson is crazy and I am unsure how to tell him No.”

My only hope to get cross-linking from the Rainforest Partnership guys is if Maia gets desperate for sponsorship options and I get what I want as someone’s last option. That doesn’t bother me at all. I mean I don’t wish her to be frustrated but I will rush in to fill the gap.

It’s like my Gram always says. She’ll say, “Who gives a shit, Mooner, long as ya git what-cha was wantin.”

Anyway, I had quite the experience over to the Barnes and Noble store. I’ll tell you later after I review and comment on the 20 new design submittals I have for my logo contest over to 99designs. Please log on to 99designs and help me judge this contest.

Pretty please.

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Rush Limbaugh is a Pig Who Likes Mooner’s Homegrown Tomatoes

Thursday, May 27th, 2010

Remember me telling you guys that Dixie wants to write a children’s book, and I told you that I was going to visit some bookstores to research a book format for her? Yesterday it was, I think. She does and I did agree so I spent the morning at the Barnes and Noble over to the Arboretum. I chose that book store because they seem to have a large children’s section and also because it is close to my favorite Sprouts store.

They had a special on sea scallops and organic lettuce and celery. I only buy organic celery and lettuce because the inorganic selections have unconscionable levels of chemical residues left from bad farming practices. I would like to tell you that I only buy organic everything but that would be a lie. Certain things must always be organic, like celery, and my others choices are subject to my pride and prejudices.

Like, I’m proud to pay extra costs to local farmers for their organic produce and meats. The price almost can’t get too high if those guys need it to flourish. But I will not pay six dollars for one organic artichoke grown down to Florida. I mean first of all, where in Florida do they have weather cool enough to grow my beloved chokies?

Remember Fire Sign Theater- “I’m Artie Choke and we’re just a joke?”

First time I heard that album I had never seen an artichoke and though it was maybe a cool martial arts move. Now, of course, I am a fan of and an expert cooker with chokies. Gram named them chokies after my first attempt at cooking them. Didn’t have any directions so I failed to make the connections between the name of the veggie and the effect that requires the Heimlich Maneuver.

Of course it had to be Mother to eat the damned choke part and almost die choking. She turned all blue and fell from her chair to the floor. We were all sitting there to the dinner table and enjoying most of the first plate of artichokes I cooked. Everyone but Mother seemed to know how to avoid the choke part and was either pulling it off or discretely spitting it into their napkins.

Well except for Gram. She was storing the chokes from hers in her cheek like a chipmunk. When she finished with her servings she left the table and went to the kitchen. I heard her drag the garbage can from the pantry and then, “Pfluggsht!” and then a spit, a cough and Gram yells, “Fer cripes sakes, Mooner. Take tha gills outta yer chokies next time.”

It seems like Mother is always the one with a fish bone or a mouthful of choke stuck in her throat. Drowning them in garlic and tarragon seasoned lemon butter won’t help the choke go down as our entire family can testify.

But if you want something really tasty, try this:

  1. Cut the stickers from the leaf tips and a half-inch end off the stem from the artichokes. Then cut them into quarters lengthwise. That will mean that each cut piece has top, middle and bottom to the stem. I actually cut each of mine into six parts- halve it and then thirds, but some people have trouble with that entire square root of Pi thingie. Leave the choke in for now but don’t forget it later. The choke will help hold the cut parts together while cooking.
  2. Place the parts in a lidded pan that is large enough to fit all parts in one layer. Make more batches if need be, but don’t stack them in your pot. Once placed, salt with sea salt, black pepper and cayenne to suit you. Then put water to a half-inch depth and then a quarter-inch of dry white wine. Cook over medium heat until almost tender- still firm. Remove from the pan to cool and drain.
  3. Make the butter dipping sauce in a very small saucepan. I place my small one-cup Revere Ware pot on the lid of my artichoke pot to cook. Use enough butter for how ever many chokies you have and then peel, crush and coarse chop a big garlic clove for each choke and place both in your little pan. You want to slow-cook the garlic to release its wonderment and sweeten it up. Like I say, I put mine over direct heat a few times to get it up to heat, and while the chokies cook the little pot sits atop the lid of the bigger pot the rest of the time. Don’t burn the garlic.
  4. Grill the chokies on a hot grill for just long enough to heat and grill-mark each of the three sides. I sometimes pre-cook big batches that I freeze for later grilling. Make sure that whatever you grill has come to room temperature before grilling.
  5. Just before serving, add sea salt, black and cayenne pepper to the butter to taste. Add fresh fine-chopped tarragon to suit your taste, if you like the taste, and then just a squeeze of lemon. Start with a quarter teaspoon and add more if you wish. You can’t de-lemon butter any better than you can re-virgin a pregnant woman.
  6. Remove the choke from each piece, get out the cold Carta Blanca beer and some homegrown tomatoes, and serve those puppies.

Hoo-yaa! Goes with steaks or chicken or goat- anything else you grill.

Rush Limbaugh, our pet pig, eats all the cooked parts we leave including the chokes. He’s a pretty picky eater for a pig but that’s maybe because we eat so well ourselves and don’t feed him many table scraps. For some reason he won’t eat raw fish, and I find that peculiar.

Rushie’s favorite food is my homegrown tomatoes so I grow a half-acre patch just for him. His second favorite food is greens- any kind of greens. We plant greens as row filler around the tomato plants. Dixie taught him how to discern the differences between weeds and his feed plants so he roots around and does his own cultivations.

He does get a tad short of patience waiting for his tomatoes to ripen.

Holy shit, my ADHD and I have digressed my shorts off. I’ll tell you about my bookstore adventure later.

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Water Wise Sprinkler Hints; Dixie Writes a Book

Wednesday, May 26th, 2010

So. I’m driving to Dr. Sam I. Am’s house to pick up Squirt and take her out to the compost plant. Dixie has her classroom set up out there and I need to ferry the little rat dog back and forth. I’ve got my portable tomato kitchen with me and it is full of tomatoes picked last night. They still aren’t as wonderful as they will be, but they are really good.

Did I tell you that Dixie wants to write a children’s book? I have been assigned the job to research book formats so I’ll be spending time in bookstores doing discovery.

It was early, like 6:30 am, and the sun was just lighting everything up on the drive to get the dog. Sammy lives in a nifty neighborhood called Spicewood/Balcones Country Club over off US 183 and Anderson Mill. I think it’s a diamond in the rough kind of location with 35-year old houses and stuff. The City of Austin annexed the whole shebang a couple years ago so the neighborhood is on the City’s outside watering schedule. Today being a Tuesday means the odd numbered addresses can water their landscapes.

Which is the root cause of my consternations.

I’m entering the first residential street and of course every house has its sprinkler system going full blast. Very few houses have taken the time to install the proper sprinkler heads for the right job, and most every system is watering big patches of street.

But the worst of all is the seven busted sprinkler heads I counted as I drove to Sam’s house. Three in one stretch of six houses were sending a full-gutter’s worth of water racing an eighth of a mile downstream into the storm drain. There was enough water getting wasted to water my big 20-acre veggie garden out to the ranch for the summer.

Guys, please! Spend the time and effort needed to protect our water resources. There is only so much clean water and we are wasting most of it. Fix your fucking automatic sprinkler systems.


Broken sprinkler head number 7 was three doors down from Sam’s place, so I sent Dixie to the door to fetch the Squirt and give Dr. Sam I. Am her bag of tomatoes, and I headed down the block to explain Water Wise principles to the neighbor. I’m halfway there when I hear Squirt’s yapping and as I turn to look, here she comes.

She stops at my feet with a skid, looks up at me with this lopsided gin of hers and says, “Mox nix, Mooner. Mi mamacita no est under der neighbor gruben, capice?”

“I wasn’t gonna gruben the neighbor, Squirt, I was simply going to explain that if I came by later this week and he’s running his system with that broken head spewing water into the street that I’ll drown him in the wasted water.”

Squirt just sat there making this silly snickering noise she makes, shaking her head.

“You’re right,” I relented after a few seconds of thought. “I’ll let Sam handle it.”

Anyway, so we walk back to my car, today we’re in my old GTO Tri-Power mean-ass goat, and before I can get my canine troops boarded, Sam hollers from her door for me to come look at her swimming pool. “It’s got some green stuff growing and the sweeper dealie looks sick,” she informs me.

When I get to the back yard for a look-see, sure enough Sam’s got some algae on the sides and the sweeper is immobile. “I’ll take the sweeper to the shop and get it fixed and brush the sides of the pool free of the green. Once the sweeper is back there shouldn’t be any more trouble.”

So now I’m brushing the sides of the pool with the nifty brush on a long pole and getting into the rhythm of pushing it down the side from top to bottom, lifting the pole, stepping 18-inches to the left, and then repeating. Repeating often.

Dixie and Squirt are under foot, Squirt all full of herself and her newest learnings and Dixie full of a teacher’s pride. Squirt is conjugating verbs in all the romantic languages and counting in what I think was conifer. It sounded like conifer to me- all whispery and full of the “shushy” sounds big fur trees make in a breeze.

I’m brushing and lifting and stepping a foot-and-a-half to the left and listening to the chattering of Squirt, and Dixie’s hinting and cues, and my mind starts wandering to this dream I had last night where Sandra Bullock and Chelsea Handler were fighting over me again. It was a vivid dream now vividly remembered.

Next thing I know I’m tumbling ass-over-tea-kettle into the deep end of the pool. When I surfaced, angry at falling in, I looked at the two dogs with my best steely stare. Dixie says to me, she says, “Don’t even think of blaming us Mooner. You got one of those dreamy looks on your face and stepped square into the pool. So do not try to blame us.”

“You’re right, Dix,” I admitted. “I can be pretty dumb sometimes.”

What I’m actually thinking is that the mornings after I have celebrity sex dreams I should avoid sharp objects, computer keyboards and power tools. I’m distracted enough with the ADHD and don’t need to daydream in risky situations.

It was actually refreshing as we have hit summer and even the mornings are warm and I didn’t have on so many clothes that it was hard to swim to the side and get out. As I’m stepping out of the cool water, I think, “Oh shit- my wallet!” I grabbed my wallet from my soggy pocket and checked it. All was OK there.

Next, “Oh shit- my new phone!” It, of course, was ruined. No problem, I’ll just get Gnat, my assistant, to get a new one. “Don’t worry guys,” I told the dogs. “I’ll call Gnat from the car.”

Sam gave me a towel to dry myself as best I could and another to sit on to protect my leather seats. The GTO is a total frame-off redo by a famous car restorer/remodeler who doesn’t want me to name him here to the bloggie. Everything was restored and updated and he did a terrific job that will never be credited to him. All of the electronics are modern and I have this nifty computerized security system with the Formula One computerized starting system like Gram’s Ferrari has.

I got the dogs loaded, Dixie belted in and Squirt in a small traveling cage. I took my key from my pocket and inserted it into its slot and pushed the Start button. Of course nothing happened because, like my phone, the electronics in the key system fried in pool water.

“Fuckballs!” What else says it better? Luckily I had a spare, but those things are expensive.

Now I had a point to all of this jabbering but I don’t remember what it was. Maybe I was going to tell you to be sure and keep spares if you have electronic car keys. Maybe it was empty your pockets before cleaning a pool.

No wait. Please everybody- fix your automatic sprinkler systems and stop wasting water.

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Dental Hygienists Sue Gram; Sprouts Has The Answer

Saturday, May 22nd, 2010

Gram is on the war path. I told you she has this new potion for curing gum disease she calls Ginger I’m Invitin Ya Ta Go Away, right? Well, it seems that the American Dental Hygiene Association got wind of the trials she was doing over to the research lab that Streaker Jones and I own, and they filed a lawsuit and got restraining orders to stop her clinical testing.

Lawsuit says that my Gram is, “Conducting illegal research and creating a Public Nuisance.”

Well fucking duh!

You ever meet Gram? That old leather saddle bag is a Public Nuisance. Half of Central Texas heads for the hills when they see her coming and the other half simply isn’t smart enough to know to run. Or maybe they’re new to town and just don’t know any better.

I mean really. Remember Granny from The Beverly Hillbillies back to the earlier days of TV? If you guys were to see a wrinkled old woman, that looked like Granny except extra well-worn, driving a bright red Ferrari downtown at 100 miles per hour- banging and pinging off everything in sight, wouldn’t you run?

But you would be astounded at how the men and boys, a few women too, are attracted by that damned car. Streaker Jones got it for her when she didn’t kill me this one time. She had to go an entire year without inflicting any serious damage to my person, which almost killed her.

Anyway, Dr. Kelly Keith is our dentist and Melissa is our hygienist and we love them both. They office in a nifty old house over to Red River near the University. We had to talk Gram down from going over to Red River with her shotgun.

When I asked her why she was planning to shoot my favorite hygienist, and hers, she said, “Hynie-geeners is as hynie-geeners does, Mooner. I cain’t be a playin fav-rits.”

That was the point when Mother fainted.

“Look Gram,” I tried to intervene, “Let’s make sure that Melissa favors this lawsuit before you start shooting.” Then I thought to add, “Jeff is pretty good at getting us Johnsons acquitted of murder charges but he keeps reminding me that we need to have justification.”

“Don’t you double talk me Mooner Einstein Johnson, I’m a lookin fer justice. I ain’t gonna shoot her, Mooner, just scare sum sense into her.” And then she added, “Einstein my rosy-red ass. I shoudda shot you when I had tha chance.”

Have I told you that Mother feints often? Well she does. Gram says she’s, “Got tha deli-cat sensor billies.”

That just cracks me up.

When I asked Gram how Mother can be so sensitive with Gram for a mother she says to me, she said, “Lookit, Mooner. Yer Granpa an me furgot yur mother up to Amarillo this one time when we came back from vacating. We stopped at the Pala Dura Cannon ta have a look-see and just left her. She always was a quiet one but she was a’feart a rattlesnakes and they was ever’where up there in them rocks.

“Back then it wuzza two day drive each way. Yur Muther was all alone fer five days inna cannon with them snakes.”

“I taught her ta play dead when she was ta see a snake and I guess her faintin is just her a playin dead. She got enuf practatin that one time to git good at it.”

Is it any wonder I’m so fucking crazy?

Explains Mother’s feinting as well.

Anyway, I was making my Saturday visit to Sprouts to get some fresh wild salmon, Carta Blanca and other fixings because the salmon was on special and you can never have too much Carta Blanca. OK, you can drink too much at one sitting but you know what I mean.

When I checked out I got Juli as my cashier, and she is one of my favorites. She’s got an ear ache from her allergies, poor thing, but she had some good advice when I asked how I could keep Gram out of jail.

Juli told me, she said, “Why don’t you get her distracted- you know, get her attention focused on something else.”

See why I like to go to Sprouts?

When I asked her how I might distract Gram, she said, “Tell her about the big fraternity party at UT. All of the frat houses are having their end of school party on the same night. Tonight. Everyone at UT knows your grandmother likes to hang with frat boys.”

I wanted to kiss her.

“I guess it would be inappropriate to kiss you, Juli.”

“Mr. Johnson, Harry has told all of us to keep our distance. You can thank me by not writing about me in your blog.”

And then she added, “I have my reputation to protect.”

Wait a minute. You guys all know that Gram didn’t mean Pala Dura Cannon, right? Gram was talking about Palo Duro Canyon, the half sized replica of the Grand Canyon up near Amarillo.

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I Get That A Lot, or, When Your ADHD Is Not Obsessively Compulsed

Friday, May 21st, 2010

I was over to the Sprouts Farmers Market store this morning and Harry called me back to his office for a chat. I spend so much time there I am often mistaken for an employee. When I say that I spend so much time, I am speaking both from frequency and duration of the visits.

If we were evaluating me as a porn star based upon the frequency and duration of my Sprouts visits I’d be a star.

I go often- almost daily and sometimes more than once a day when I forget things from my list. Always armed with my Postie Notes list as I enter the store, my ADHD interferes with my list checking and digresses me into activities and purchases not on the list, at the expense of listed necessities.

Like yesterday when Gram insisted I get her 40 pounds of fresh ginger for some new potion she concocted and Sister asked me to get some of the fajita meat that was on special. When Sprouts puts something on special it is usually a big deal so Sister invited a bunch of her lesbian buddies out to the ranch for the Johnson Family Friday Night BBQ.

Gram’s new potion is to prevent gum disease and she calls it Ginger I’m Invitin Ya Ta Go Away. When I tried to tell her it’s gingivitis and not ginger-invite-us, she said to me, she said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. People need pink gums.”

OK, but 40 pounds of fresh ginger?

As I was choosing the zucchini that was on my Postie list yesterday, I started admiring the legs and eyes and bottom of this lady, none of which appeared on my Posties.

So, I’m kind of googling at this nice lady’s long, tan and silky smooth legs and she says to me, she says, “You look just like that asshole Mooner Johnson. Has anyone ever told you that before?”

“Why yes, as a matter of fact they have- I get that a lot.” I am always quick with a clever retort.

And she added, “Well if I was you, I’d fix that problem. Have you considered cosmetic surgery?”

“Well,” I said to her, “I did have a little work done recently. Let me show you the results.” At which time I dropped my shorts to my sneakered ankles and waggled my butt in her direction.

Did I tell you guys about the stains on my skin I got from not bathing recently? Streaker Jones figured out this concoction that works but it stings so bad I can only do little patches at a time. Ingrid applies the liquid fixer a with fine paint brush and just for kicks, she’s writing something in fine lines on my butt areas to work into a show as she de-stains me. So far, she’s got “Eat At,” and nothing more.

Maybe that should be un-stains.

Streaker Jones’ stain remover does two things. First it clears my skin of the stain and restores my color to its pretty one-fourth Native American luster. Second, it bleaches my hair into these dense, almost white curls. Great contrast to my natural black-black butt hair.

So, I drop my shorts and waggle for this nice lady and she screams and pepper sprays my face.

“You inappropriate asshole!” the woman shouts. And then, “Somebody get the Manager.”

“I’m OK, I don’t need any help from the Manager,” I tell the gathering crowd. “I’m used to pepper juice except on my crotch. I’ll be OK.”

“No you won’t,” the now not so nice lady quipped. And with that said, she pepper sprayed my balls.

Have you ever been cutting fresh hot peppers and gotten a little of the capsaicin oil on some delicate skin? Capsaicin oil is what makes peppers hot and that is the ingredient in pepper sprays.

Wait, I’m digressing you while I tell you about digressions. All of this stuff was yesterday’s visit to Sprouts and this bloggie post is about today’s visit. Let me just wrap up yesterday’s discussions by saying that I was glad to not be driving Gram’s Ferrari because I always have a cooler of Carta Blanca beer iced-up in my pick-up.

I stuffed a six pack in my shorts to cool my balls as I headed home.

Anyway, I go often to Sprouts and I tend to dawdle while I’m there. I dawdle because my ADHD causes my mind to wander me into predicaments. I also dawdle because, as a defense mechanism to help control the AD part of my ADHD, I am a touch obsessive-compulsive. But only a touch.

One of my compulsions involves the choosing of things, like produce. First I must choose which varieties of produce I desire, like is tonight’s dinner side dish stuffed zucchini or shall I make green beans? When Sprouts has specials this can be perplexing.

The second compulsion over which I obsess is choosing the very best of my previously chosen variety. Like today, when I went back to get the fajita meat for Sister, ginger for Gram, and zucchini for stuffing to go with the fajitas.

When choosing squash which are special priced at Sprouts, you get two or three big displays to look through, each with many examples. This morning’s choices were maybe a few hundred in each of three displays. So I’m required to inspect maybe 800 squashes to obtain the dozen needed for tonight’s dinner.

Each person gets a half squash filled with my special stuffing except for Anna the Amazon. Anna is my ex-wife and Sister’s current spouse, also a wife. Anna likes my stuffed zucchini and eats a full squash worth.

So that explains the width and breadth part of my frequency/duration discussion from earlier.

Anyway, I’m choosing my squashes this morning when I hear my name over the speakers. “Mr. Johnson, will you please report to the Manager’s office?”

I’m still squeezing and smelling squash when I hear the speakers, “That would be you Mooner. Now!”

“I didn’t recognize your voice on the speaker Harry,” I told my buddy the Manager as I entered his office and took a chair.

Harry handed me the ever-present pint bottle of Hornitos tequila he keeps in his desk for my visits. “Here, have a pull of this. I need a drink.”

“Please don’t tell me that Regional Director McCoy is banning me from the store Harry. I’m running out of places to shop.”

“Stop crying Mooner. This is about me.”

Harry had a weird look on his face- like half happy and half facing a firing squad. “I took Patty to meet mama for dinner last night and now I’ve got a big problem.”

“Oh just give your mom a chance Harry. Patty’s a great Wiccan woman and your mom will come around,” I counseled. I can be a thoughtful counselor. “Maybe I can get the Pope to bless something for your mother.”

The Pope owes me a favor.

“That’s not the problem Mooner. They like each other and that has become a problem.”

Wait a second, I just remembered something. I need to go back to Sprouts to get three more squash- I was on number nine when Harry summoned me to his office.

Fuckballs. I’ll see you guys later.

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Home Grown Tomato Hints; Unique Sea Salts of the World

Wednesday, May 19th, 2010

Summer has officially arrived to Austin, Texas. I just plucked the first fully-ripened tomatoes from our garden out to the ranch! Four heirloom purple jobbies, a bucket of grape size and another bucket of Sweet 100 cherries.


I love tomatoes, homegrown tomatoes, in a way I have difficulty explaining. Homegrown tomatoes are a different species from nearly all commercial choices and my homegrown jobs are unusually good even compared to other home growners.

“Why is that, Mooner,” you might inquire.

Well, I will tell you. The why answer that is the root cause for me growing great tomatoes is my unnatural love and desires for the best that tomatoes can be. Since I love good tomatoes so much, I have endeavored to grow the finest.

The how answer to the why question is simple. We grow all possible varieties in copious quantities; we use organic methods only; I make special compost and compost teas designed for tomato plant needs; I have vast experience; I am water conscious and use mulch; I monitor constantly and I care.

Oh yea. And Streaker Jones is my best buddy and Streaker Jones can grow the best of anything. Streaker Jones has a doctorate of plant sciences from Texas A&M and from The University of Texas he has doctorates in chemistry and botany. Streaker Jones knows all there is to know about plants and how to best grow the best plant specimens.

With his faithful sidekick, Dixie, they make a plant growing machine. Dixie can talk many plant languages so she interprets for Streaker Jones.

Actually, if you ask Streaker Jones why I grow such great tomatoes out to the ranch he will say, “Cuz I don’t allow Mooner to fuck with um.”

That is true at the micro level so I won’t try to argue about it. But at the macro level, it’s all about me. Like when I was doing this interview with Rolling Stone Magazine after Dixie was nominated for a European Grammy Award last year.

The little interview guy asked me, he said, “Mr. Johnson, to what does Dixie owe her great success?” and I told him, I said, “Well, I guess since I paid for her vocal lessons and never got her spayed, I can take most of the credit.”

I was going to spay her but her voice coach felt it might ruin her upper register and maybe kill-off some of her emotional range. I had to agree with him because when Dixie is in heat, she sings in this screachie high voice and sounds like what I imagine the Sirens must have sounded like back to mythology days. You can hear her wailing for a man in the neighboring counties as evidenced by the collection of horn-dogs that accumulates to the ranch when she freshens.

Freshens is the same thing as having her period except it sounds a little more sociable. And is animal talk.

Every year when I harvest the first fully ripened orbs from the garden I prepare my portable tomato prep kitchen. That is: a special hemp tote bag with tomato scenes stitched into the cover; a seven-inch Japanese chef’s knife with those crenelated indentions in the sides that keep the slices from sticking to the blade; knife stones, oil and chamois for sharpening; small cherry wood cutting board; two china plates for serving; three pepper mills with different pepper varieties; six dropper bottles of my favorite olive oils; my special cooler holding one Carta Blanca beer; and my antique silver snuff box filled with sea salt.

The only thing that might change from one season to the next would be the kind of sea salt I carry. Everything else is set in stone unless it breaks or wears out. But the salt is an evolving pursuit to find the perfect salt for tomatoes.

The last twenty years has seen my trips to salt mines and factories around the world. France and Italy and Korea and Africa and so on. This year is special because I got a chunk of that pink, so pink it’s almost ruby red hued, Himalayan salt. You see it on the cooking shows in big slabs that they use to both salt and serve the food like it was a plate.

It has a great flavor and I think it is showing great promise as a tomato salt. As always, my first pluckings from the vines are less acidic and not as sweet as they will be and the salt overpowered their flavors. But I am almost certain that when things hit full summer heat I might create me some magic.

Wine snobs say, “Mooner, beer is a remote second choice to a fine wine to support the sweet acidity of a perfect slice of tomato.”

To which I say, “Fuck you, shitball. Try this.” At which time the wine snob discovers the joy that is a thin slice of late summer Celebrity with Indonesian black pepper, gray French sea salt and two drops of Tuscan olive oil- which is folded in half and placed on the tongue for the thirty seconds it takes the salt to bring the juices out.

After thirty seconds chew slowly and then swallow. Wait ten seconds and then drink two-to-three ounces of icy cold Carta Blanca beer.

Call my name, Gabriel, cause I’m ready to go!

And don’t try to sell me another brand of beer because I already know better through personal experimentations.

I think my ADHD is almost under control and I am not even digressing at all. You guys think I can back off my psycho therapy to one session a day? Normally by this late in the day my ADHD would be digressing my socks off me.

Like yesterday when I got so discombobulated when I discovered that Luigi Fulks gave me an erroneous e-mail address.

Don’t you just love that word? And why don’t you spell it discomboobulated?

Would anybody buy my portable tomato prep kitchen if I put them for sale here to the bloggie?


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Luigi Fulk To Review Mooner Johnson’s Blog

Sunday, May 16th, 2010

Holy shit guys, Luigi Fulk wants to review my bloggie! The world famous, renowned and eloquent Internet commentator wants to review our dealie here. As Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson would say, “Mooner, Luigi has good brain filters.”

That would mean that Luigi knows and can distinguish what is important from what is not, can say why the differences are so, and then Luigi can tell the rest of us what he thinks. Another way she would say it, she would say, “Luigi has a firm grasp on reality and can behave appropriately.”

Of course she would go on to say, “Unlike you Mooner, you inappropriate crazy redneck fuckball.”

Actually she doesn’t call me a fuckball to my face.

Last night, after I got the news from Luigi, I Googleated “Luigi Fulk” and spent maybe eleven hours reading some of his comments. Do you guys think maybe that Luigi Fulk is the name used by an entire company of commentators? Think about it. When does Luigi have time to sleep? He must spend every hour of the day reading and commenting.

Wait a second, it can’t be commentators can it? Maybe commentorers or in mod-speak it might be commentorz.

Anyway, he somehow managed to trip over one of my keynotes and I snagged him in my tangled website.

Shit, what if I am now offending Luigi because he isn’t a he? He could be a she and just a pretend he for safety sake or maybe he/she is even hiding from the law and not even named Luigi. Could be that Luigi is short for Luigianna or Louigisa or even Louigilamortacella. You know how Italians are with their long names.

Like Michaelangelo.

Shit again. What if Luigi isn’t even Italian and I’m now guilty of profiling because I’m a prejudiced prick?


Look, I don’t care if Luigi is he, she, it, was one and is now another- or Italian, Catholic, Baptist or even Scientologist. That’s a lie because I can’t tolerate anything about Scientology. But you get my drift.

I do care that Luigi is interested in my stuff enough to comment and contact me.

Of course when I told Gram about it she said, “Maybe he’s one a them poison pencil shitballs an he wants ta stab ya inna back.”

Then she added, she says, “I had me a night a good sexin with a Luigi this one time out to Marble Falls, Mooner. Or maybe his name was Joseppi or Ivan or Ricardo or it might was Gunter.”

When I pointed out to my grandmother that her confusion over the man’s name was confusing she said, “Aw, who gives a shit, Mooner, tha man was Eye-tal-yun.”

How do you argue with that?

Which brings up another problem because the e-mail address on Luigi’s comment is not active so I can’t get back to him that I would enjoy his interview and review. Maybe I’ve got a scammer spamming my bloggie with false hope of a Luigi Fulk review.

Or maybe Luigi is suffering from sleep deprivation from all of his commenting and he’s typographically errortizing his e-mail address and I’ll never hear from him again. I need a drink.

Thank God for Carta Blanca beer.

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Am I Bleu?; Cheese Talk with Mooner Johnson (Part 10)

Friday, May 14th, 2010

Does anybody know how to get stains out of your skin? I have now been hosed down with a power washer, soaked in bleach, abraded with a wire brush, had maybe 36 showers, enjoyed an even dozen full body scrubs with that gritty oozie goop I got from Dana at Arbonne, and.

Wait, wait wait. Let me start all over.

First, if you don’t know, I felt disrespected and unappreciated so I went on a protest to get some. Respect and appreciation that is. I did not wash myself or brush my teeth and I ate a diet that consisted of garlic and onions exclusively. After the first day I had a slight ripeness to me, like maybe what you would get from sniffing through the tight plastic wrapping on a little chunk of bleu cheese down to the Sprouts store.

You know what I mean. A person knows what blue cheese smells like so even though it is tightly-wrapped in clear plastic, you can smell it. Maybe you aren’t actually smelling the cheese, like one of those psycho thematic dealies, but your nose catches just a whiff of that incredible, rich smell of my favorite cheese even if it only comes from memory.

I truly do love bleu cheese. I love blue cheese as well- any kind of bleu cheese made anywhere and by anyone. I am non-discriminatory as to a cheese’s country of origin, religious affiliations of the cheese maker and I don’t even care if the cheese maker or animal producing the raw milk product are Republicans.

In my opinion, the only thing that matters is that the cheese was produced without chemicals and that it has good flavor. I mean it.

Wait. Psycho semantics- that memory dealie is psycho semantics. It’s all just a matter of words, right?

I do, however, have preferences as to which variety of bleu cheese to use in particular situations. As an example, in a salad or salad dressing I prefer a cheese that is on either extreme of the flavor spectrum. Either the most mild, like a Maytag, or a really mean French triple-cream aged-in-a dead-goat’s-carcass and costs $50.00 a pound- a real Gram gagger.

Gram hates bleu cheese and I love to pester her with it.

“Iffn you gag me puttin that bleuie cheese shit in my face one more time Mooner, I’m gonna stake ya to a anthill,” my Gram told me this one time. I had a chunk of Limburger, it wasn’t an actual bleu, but my Gram lacks any culinary sophistication. Like she always says, Gram will say, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Iffn it smells lik shit, it’s shit!”

Have you ever been staked to an anthill?

Anyway, to continue the description of my ripening as the days progressed in true allegorical fashion, I began to unwrap the plastic covering as my blue cheese sat in the trunk of the car on 100-degree Texas afternoons.

By the fourth day, as you have unwrapped enough plastic to make a small opened crease that exposes some of the cheese to the air, my body odor would make your eyes water from the next room. By day seven, with the fully unwrapped lump of cheese fermenting in the sweltering trunk getting new infestations of bacteria and fungi, the now blackend bleu cheese has stripped the paint from the entire car and melted the soft rubber gaskets used to seal the trunk lid, windows and doors.

By day eleven- that’s when I had my epiphany and got respect, it is far safer to burn the car than to even consider looking inside the trunk. OK, that would be a bad example because the toxic smoke from the fire would likely defoliate much of Central Texas like Agent Orange. But you get my meaning.

Do you guys know about how the oils and acids and shit in garlic and onions can worm their way through your system and make an oil slick on your skin? All of the odor and flavor of garlic and onions will start layering your skin in this oil slick after you eat enough.

So, after my pressure washing to blast the rest of my clothes off me- that was shirt, undershirt, socks and bandanna, and then all the scrubbing with wire brushes to get the tar off me, I was left with a heavy coating of this oil.

And just so you know, Streaker Jones brought the Haz-Mat team out to the ranch from our research labs to do phases one and two. They bagged and jarred everything they pried loose of me and took it back to the lab for full military testing.

The Army is sending both chemical and biological inspection teams to observe our testing. They know everything that was removed from me is organic but they still can’t figure out what it is.

So. I’m all stripped down to the oil coating and that’s where Dana comes in. Dana, and you don’t say it like Dana Andrews, you say it like Princess Diana except without the “i”.

Jesus, Mooner that was lame. Try this: it isn’t day-nuh, you say her name dan-nah, like it’s got more “n’s” in it than it does.

She’s my beauty expert, so I called Dana to see if she could help me get the oil off my skin and she said to me, she says, “Do I even want to ask why you need such a product Mooner?”

After an hour of my explanation, she interrupted me to say, “Got it Mooner. You need Awaken Sea Salt Scrub from Arbonne.

“Fine,” I said. “Send me a few cases.”

This stuff is so great that as soon as SAC Ellen is talking to me again I’m going to have her pop me with her stun gun and then scrub me down with Awaken. I love this stuff. If you want some, get with Dana at Be sure to tell her that Mooner sent you.

She won’t give me anything if you do, but you don’t want her to think you’re a stalker or some silly religious shitball wanting to get inside her guard.

And I also want to send out a special Thanks to the makers and importers of Carta Blanca beer. I would be dead if it wasn’t for Carta Blanca beer. Carta Blanca beer provided me with all of the essential vitamins and minerals I needed to supplement my restricted diet these last many days. I love Carta Blanca.

And Texas Governor Rick Perry, you small minded little imbecile, you managed to keep me in stitches with your snakes and guns and hollow-point bullet stories. We all know that humor is the best medicine, so Ricky- please keep sharing your innermost thoughts with me. You know, the ones that come from your hollow, pointed head.

OK, the ADHD has digressed me to near hallucinationing.

I’m back, I’m strong and I’m focused.

But if you are the first who can tell me how to remove the stains from my skin, I’ll send you a free copy of my book when it comes out. Bleach, acid washing, and lasers have already been tried.

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Respect Thine Ownself (Part 9)

Tuesday, May 11th, 2010

So, I’m having my therapy session this morning with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and as usual, I’m catching a full load of crap because I am, as Sam put it,“…an inappropriate, childish, crazy old coot.”

And then she added, “And you stink!”

I really hate it when women say something mean to you and then feel that the initial insult left some vital aspect of the insult left unsaid, and then they add-on that specific extra layer. Like when I was a kid and I’d be doing something my Gram thought was foolish and scraped my knee in the dirt and was then actually foolish enough to seek her out for first aid and mothering.

“Sit still while I wipe tha grit outta this cut. I told you not ta be messin with that young bull.” This would be said with each word spit from those leathery old lips in perfect unison with a hard wipe of a dishrag over already abrasioned knee skin.

“Ow, Gram. Ow, ow ow.” I always took my Gram’s ministrations like a man.

“Stop cryin lik a baby, Mooner.” And then she added, “An lemme tell ya this little man. Nex time I ain’t cuttin ya loose.”

Have you ever accidentally strapped yourself to the back of a 1,500 pound bull?

Anyway, so I say back to Sammy, “Bite me you brain killer. You can’t even tell me what color my shirt is.” Now it’s my turn to fuck with her.

We’re doing all of my therapy sessions by Skype these days on a count of the fact that I smell so bad. Last time we did a live-to-the-office session, Dr. Sam had to burn the sofa and chair that I sat on in reception and her office and I had to pay for her to have a special air filter installed on her air conditioner unit.

“I know what color your shirt is supposed to be Mooner because you aren’t wearing one. If you were clean I’d report to SAC Ellen that you have been flashing me. But you’re so filthy you look like you’re wearing a grease covered mechanic’s uniform.”

I told her, “For your information little missy, I’m wearing the same hemp tee shirt and socks I had on when I started my protest.”

What I didn’t tell her was that I had dreampt that my jockey shorts attacked me and I ripped them off and set them on fire. But she could only see me from the waist up.

“Look Mooner,” she starts in on me. “No self respecting adult human would put himself through what you are doing to the rest of us. One of your neighbors has petitioned Governor Perry to designate your ranch as a disaster area. He’s worried that when somebody gets desperate and hoses you down, the runoff will contaminate his water wells.”

That could be a problem. The Governor and I don’t get along all that well. Did you hear that little shitball is so afraid of snakes that he carries a big pistol when he goes jogging? Give me a fucking break. No snake alive would bite Rick Perry, professional courtesy being what it is.

Then he says he’s out with his son’s dog for a run and feels the need to kill a poor coyote that looks them over. What a pussy.

Maybe I ought to try to mend fences with Governor Perry, you know, find some sort of common ground and make peace with him. I could have Gram formulate some special potions for him. She could do one to restart the left and right sides of his brain functions, one that makes him care for other people and maybe one that makes him stop lying and cheating the people of the fine state of Texas.

Likely it would help if I stopped calling him a brain-dead Baptist Republican shitball and latent Nazi asswipe. I really don’t think he’s a Nazi but I like to say so. I don’t think he could pass the Nazi’s intelligence exam.

But I could try to be nice.

Or I could take a bath and brush my teeth.

Wait a minute. What did Dr. Sam I. Am just say? “Sammie, what did you just say?”

“I said that if you had any dignity or self respect you’d take a bath you crazy fucking redneck. I’m going to lock you up at Shoal Creek if you don’t get your act together Mooner. And pronto!”

That’s when I stood up and showed her my ass play I called Guess What Came To Dinner?

“Oh sweet Jesus Mooner. Have you been sitting in a tar pit?”

“Take that,” I said back. “It’s not tar, it’s a new weapon for the Department of Defense.”

She bitched and called me names for another twenty minutes but I hardly heard a word. Instead, I formulated how I was getting myself out of this mess.

Think through my logic with me. So, I have been on a no bath, no tooth brushing while on a garlic and onion diet to get some respect, right? What if I show some respect to myself, would that count? And it takes a big man to stick by his guns for eleven days and never flinch, right?

Therefore, it will show self respect if I brush my teeth, take a bath and eat a buffalo. Ipso, facto smackto!

Respect administered from the one person who most respects me.

Hell, now that I think about it I deserve some kind of award or something.

So- fuck Rick Perry.

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A Confession- Can I Get Respect Now? (Part 8)

Saturday, May 8th, 2010

OK, I’ve got a joke for you. Ready? What do you call a 240-pound skunk?

Mooner Johnson.

After ten full days of no bath no tooth brushing and eating a garlic and onions diet, skunks think I stink. I took some scrapings from my armpits and between my toes and sent them to the research lab that Streaker Jones and I have over to New Mexico. That’s where we do all of our secret testing on potential new products.

I think I might have invented a 100% organic, sustainable chemical weapon to use against terrorists.

But I need a bath, my teeth have gone all rainbow colored on me, and I just tried to eat Rush Limbaugh. Rush the 500 pound pig here to the ranch, not the brain dead radio shitball. I got the pig out to the Travis County Livestock Show and Rodeo one year when Streaker Jones and I tried to outbid the Aggies on some of the prize livestock.

He’s one of my favorite animals because he furts Gram with stunning regularity. If you remember, furting is when you sneak up on a person, gently poke your finger to their taint and say, “Furt!”

Excepting that Rushie uses his snout and says, “Snorft!”

Sends Gram halfway to the moon every time.

“I’m gonna plug yer fuckin pig with tha 12-gage iffn he furts my ass agin, Mooner.” That’s Gram’s pat response.

I never get tired of hearing that. I had Dixie teach the pig how to sneak up on folks. It’s hilarious to see this 500-pound tusked hog all up on his tippy-toes to get a good angle on Gram’s ass. Have you ever seen a pig smile?

Anyway, when we last left off, I think I was telling you about that one time when Woozie, Streaker Jones and I went down to Mexico in the late summer and how Streaker Jones was waking me up so’s we could get the hell out of Dodge. It wasn’t Dodge but rather a small town down to central Mexico with a Mexican name I don’t recall, but I meant that we were skedaddling our butts post haste.

So, Streaker Jones has the comatose Woosie draped over his shoulder like a serape and I’m digging in my pockets looking for the keys to my 1963 Impala Super Sport and thinking about marriage and wondering why I felt different this morning from yesterday at this time- and I don’t mean feeling hung over but rather a feeling I’d never had before, and all of this as we hurried to where the car was parked.

As I’m unlocking the door, Blanquita, who must have awakened, is yelling at us from across the town square, she’s yelling, “I suppose so, I suppose so, I suppose so,” like that except she’s crying and stumbling around like she’s been shot of something.

She keeps yelling, “I suppose so,” and I tell Streaker Jones I want to go say goodbye and he give me this look that means, “No. Do exactly what I say,” and then he says, “Mooner, get in, start tha Paller and git us gone.”

Streaker Jones called the car the Paller so I started the car and took off. Lucky we had left our stuff in the car so we had a cooler with some Cokes and tequila for breakfast and to tide us over until we got most of the way back to the border.

As I’m driving I keep going back over my thoughts and wondering about my dream about getting married. I told Streaker Jones, I said to him, “Streaker Jones, I had this dream where I was getting married and the Sheriff was holding a gun to my head and we were eating roasted goats and pigs and rabbits. The food was good and the Carta Blanca beer was cold but that agave juice wasn’t something I want to do again.”

“Twernt no dream, Mooner. You’s a mairt man. Now git us to tha border an quick!”

Then he added, “An she twernt sayin I suppose so, Mooner. She was sayin ‘mi esposo,’ which is Spanish for ‘my husband.’”


This is the moral part to my story started a few days back about how the distinctions between dreams, hallucinations, reality and a person’s various separate realities are important. Stay with me on this, OK?

When I say that I have been divorced ten times I hope you have noticed that I have never said that I only married ten times. I won’t say how many times I have married because I am uncertain how to count my nuptials.

I can say with absolute certainty that I have been married ten times, each ending in an amicable divorce with significant divorce dowries. I know the ex-wives names, birthdays, favorite colors, favorite sex position, sex position wherein I think they best perform and I have their addresses and phone numbers and all of that shit.

These ten marriages I know happened in the real reality for sure even though most happened while I hallucinated and lived in several of the separate realities that inhabit my ADHD-addled brain. I have photos, newspaper mentions, receipts for tuxedos and all of that stuff to remind and verify the reality of the events.

That wedding (maybe) to Blanquita (I think her name was) under threat of bodily harm (according to Streaker Jones) was not a certainty. I even spent the summer after my first divorce, the one from Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, down to central Mexico looking for the town and possible wife and in-laws. Found nothing.

I did get arrested and Gram, Streaker Jones and Dixie springed me in a daring prison escape, but that is a whole nother enchilada. Maybe they sprung me. And why did I have to say enchilada?

Did I tell you that I tried to eat Rush the pig alive. I am a sick man and need help.

Will somebody please show me some respect?

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Sarah Palin Wants to Taser Mooner Johnson (Part 7)

Thursday, May 6th, 2010

I have just awakened from a dream or maybe it was an hallucination where I was being chased by a pack of crazed women with Taser guns. SAC Ellen was there with Chelsea Handler, Sandra Bullock, Kathy Griffin, Sarah Palin, Oprah, Sarah Silverman and some others. All of the women are women I would have sex with if I were unencumbered, and all of the women obviously wanted to have sex with me.

Otherwise they would have chosen a weapon different from a Taser. Please don’t make me tell you the whole story about the world class boners I get when a woman Tasers me. I’m too weak to tell the whole thing.

And don’t start in on me about Palin because there is no reason. I don’t like to admit it, don’t like that it is true and I plan to get some extra therapy to try and understand why I would have sex with a brain-dead, right-wing religious shitball. One who can’t string ten words together without tripping over her own feet at that.

I am embarrassed to know it about myself but this bloggie is all about truth and full disclosure so I’m truthfully disclosing that I might boink Sarah Palin. Like Gram always says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Truth is as truth is.”

Besides, my hope is that this was not a dream and that I was simply hallucinating about the Palin sex part. I feel less responsible for my thoughts in hallucinations than those in dreams. Like the story I was telling yesterday when I conked out on you. You know, from when we were down to central Mexico that one time.

So, we were served this fermented liquid agave juice by the barkeep/sheriff and after a few jelly glasses of that and the cold Carta Blanca chasers required to wash away the slime coating our mouths, we were led outside to join the festivities. Our host drags us all over the little town introducing us to each group of people- mostly large family units with generations of grandparents down to grand babies. In some cases there were great-grand babies. He started with the first grouping, which was camped at the side door to the bar/cantina/jail/post office/general store and then wormed our way in a big circle through town.

As we walk from group-to-group and we have an empty glass, someone refills it with the sticky goo. And luckily, every Igloo cooler we encounter has Carta Blanca chilling on ice. Everybody is happy and festive and getting just a tad drunk. Of course we boys have been eating mushrooms for the last few days so the alcohol is providing us a layered high to add depth to our already magicalized central nervous systems.

So, we walk and walk and drink and drink and meet and meet and meet some more, when we get to the last family group, a herd of maybe twenty people set up to the front porch of the main building. Three elders, a handsome woman of maybe forty years- the sheriff’s wife, two young husbands and their wives with four kids, and eight young girls. The girls, I think they were from maybe twelve through nineteen, were all dressed in peasant blouses, rainbow colored skirts and sandals.

None wore makeup but each had a bright bow in her hair, dangling silver earring’s and a beautiful smile. They were stunners to a one, and one look left no doubt that they were their mother’s daughters.

And their proud papa left no doubt that he was just that. Papa.

We were welcomed to their camp with hugs and kisses, and then each of the three older girls took one of us boys by the hand. I think I got the second youngest of the three and she led me to the cooler where she refreshed my glass of slime and got two fresh bottles of Carta Blanca.

Her name was Blanquita, I’m reasonably certain, she was eighteen, I pray to God, and she liked me. At least she was enamored with me. She walked me back through the little town while holding my hand and pointed things out with glee. She yammered and yammered away in Spanish and I got maybe every eighth word or so, but I was becoming likewise enamored with her and didn’t care what she was saying.

I only cared that she was saying it to me.

After awhile she started sipping my drinks, slowly at first, and finishing the last of each glass and bottle as we neared the next refueling stop. I though it was cute the way that she would drink the dregs of each serving and then offer-up the fresh ones to me with a, “Salud!” and a kiss.

As the evening went along, her sips became gulps and the kisses morphed into gropes. We ate copious quantities of goat and pig and rabbit, all of which was perfectly roasted. People who grow animals to roast know best how to do the roasting. It was a dream date.

Somewhere along the line I must have passed out because the next thing I know I’m dreaming I was getting married and I’ve got Streaker Jones whispering in my ear.

“C’mon Mooner, wake it up.” This accompanied by a sharp shake of my shoulders.

“Wake it up damit!” And more shaking.

“Leave me alone Streaker Jones,” I told him. “I think I’m in love here. I do, really I do.”

“Thas tha problem Mooner, now git it up. And don’t be wakin tha girl.”

Tha girl would be the mostly naked Blanquita who lay comatose and wrapped around me like an octopus on a sea urchin. “Help me get untangled here and I’ll get up,” I told Streaker Jones.

“An be quiet Mooner. Can’t wake tha Sheriff.”

So I got untangled and stood on unsteady legs. When I started to speak, Streaker Jones shushed me, and that’s when I noticed that he was carrying the unconscious body of Woozie over his shoulder.

“Git yur keys out yur pocket and let’s hightail it to tha Paller.” Streaker Jones called my 1963 Impala Super Sport the Paller.

My God I’m getting weak and dizzy again. I better take another break and eat some garlic. You guys check with me later.

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Day Nine; Rememberating Mexico and Other Hallucinations (Part 6)

Wednesday, May 5th, 2010

I’m having trouble distinguishing my stink-filled hallucinations from all of my other realities. I do know that since I barely have the skills to computerate when fully awake, everything I write here to the blog is real. It has been nine days of garlic and onions and poor personal habits for me and I think I might be a tad crazed.

You can’t trust anything I say except for if I tell you about something as if it were actual happenings in real reality and it was just my rememberating something that was halucinatory in nature. Or unless I’m here in actual reality writing for the bloggie and then I start hallucinating in my thought processes yet my motor skills remain in actual reality. I guess that would fall into the category of “actual real-time reporting of hallucintory events as they happen in real time.”

Like that time Streaker Jones, Woozie and I were down to Mexico late in the summer after we graduated from high school. I had this nifty 1963 Chevy Impala SS with a 350 cubic inch Corvette motor. It was Matador Red, which is appropriate for this story. It was this trip that got me hooked on Carta Blanca beer.

We drove through the border at Laredo and stocked-up on tequila, and then we headed south. It was harvest time for the maguay plants, that’s the raw plant product from which tequila is distilled and these days they call it agave. The agave plant is akin to peyote, or so I have heard.

Anyway, we drive for something like 20 hours and end up in this area in central Mexico where you can see some mountains in the distance. But there is nothing between where you are and the mountains except flat, arid land and millions of agave plants. Some are in tended fields, you know in rows and all orderly, but much of it is just old fashioned free-range agave ranching.

The fields are full of old trucks and cars, and people. The people are harvesting the long greenish-blue spears using either a machete or this sickle-looking tool. The way the sickle tool fit in a person’s hand reminded me of Jai-Lai, or whatever that game is called that they play down to Miami Beach. You know, the one where you bet on this little jockey-sized guy to outplay the other one in a handball game with a basket mitt and sometimes it’s a doubles match.

They would stack these spears onto wagons in big bundles, and when the sun shone on the bundles they turned a gorgeous blue color. In fact for years I thought that Elvis was singing, “To Blue A-ga-ve.”

At the end of the day we settled to this nifty little town for the night. The town consisted of: a single building that served as Police Station, Post Office, hotel, bank, telegraph office, telephone office and general store; a cantina; and maybe a dozen small tin-roofed houses. There was no grass or shrubbery, but each house had a small garden and one big tree in the yard.

As we were seated to the bar in the cantina, the town started filling with the vehicles and people from the agave fields. Several hundred people with dusty, sun-drenched faces started unloading tables and boxes and old timey Igloo coolers.

Streaker Jones was our interpolater so he asked the barkeep what was up and we were told that we were lucky because it was the day to celebrate the end of the agave harvest and we were invited to the party. Fact is, everyone was invited to the party.

They started fires and racked whole goats and rabbits and a couple of pigs on big iron skewers near the flames. Women began the amazing process of hand patting tortillas, an act that makes me cry when I see it done with love. Young girls did the rest of the cutting and chopping of peppers and tomatoes and stuff.

We ordered beer and were brought cold Carta Blanca in tall, thick glass bottles. The bottles were heavy with condensation and the weight of the glass, and that initial guzzle was inspirational. My first Carta Blanca beer was emptied with the second tilt of the bottle, and the barkeep had replacement set in the water ring of the first before I could ask. He said something to me in Spanish, and Streaker Jones interpreted.

“He says ya look lik a Carti Blanki man. He’s the sheriff an wants ta innerduce us ta his daughters.”

That explained the six shooter in the man’s belt.

Then, the sheriff/barkeep sets three jelly glasses to the counter, each filled with a milky white, viscous fluid, raises a fourth in a toast and says, “Poulquay. Salud!”

Poulquay, which I’m sure is spelled a different way, is the pre-distillation fermented agave mash and precursor of tequila. It is nasty tasting like peyote buttons, sticks to everything like grass burrs, and kicks your ass after maybe a couple dozen glasses like a quart of Gram’s mushroom juice.

Holy shit I stink. If I don’t get some respect soon I may kill myself. I don’t mean suicide silly, I mean death by poison gas.

Look, I’m feeling like passing out again so how about I finish this later.

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Dixie and Squirt (Part 5)

Tuesday, May 4th, 2010

First of all allow me to apologize for making a mess of yesterday’s post. My ADHD does not seem to work well with my body odor and I fritzed the first page and didn’t post it. I caught the mistake this morning and corrected it. I think.

Anyway, if you read yesterday’s post and it seemed like you were walking in in the middle of a conversation- you were. Please try again.

March To Respect- One Man’s Struggle For Appreciation is making no headway. I smell so bad that I can’t even get the flies to land on me. I’m desperate to feel the touch of another living anything that I am actually disappointed that I can’t draw flies.

I’m pathetic.

I’ve been sleeping in the loft out to the barn and now all of the animals have moved out. Dixie said the milk cows told her we might as well burn it because they won’t go back inside. The big bison got pissed at me yesterday and started a run to butt me. I was preparing for the blow but he came to a skidding halt a few feet away. He snorted and shook the tears from his eyes a skulked away.

I am seriously ripe.

My new tactic is that I’m not going to sign any checks until I get the respect and appreciation I so richly deserve. Like my Gram always says, “Ya want their tention Mooner, hit um inna wallet.”

In this morning’s phoned-in psycho therapy session, Dr. Sam I. Am told me that real respect isn’t for sale. “Who gives a shit,” I told her. “I need a bath and some red meat.”

We’ll see how this works.

I got a call from Dixie so she could brag on how much progress Squirt is making to her language studies. If you recall, Dixie is teaching the little shitbird to talk and she’s using this method she developed. It’s this intensive immersion in multiple languages at the same time. We’re in the Beta testing stage with the Squirt.

Once we get the bugs out, I think we can get a contract with the State Department to sell them a license to use the teaching method. Anyway, Dixie is just all overjoyed and excited and wants to put Squirt on the phone to talk to me. I told her, “Put her on but she’s got to make it quick. I keep passing out every time I fart and I don’t want her feelings getting hurt if I lose it and don’t compliment her.”

Dixie said, “This is important Mooner. Keep your shit together.”

“Fine,” I said. “Put her on.”

I hear the phone rustling on the other end and then I hear, “Buenos dias, monsignor Mooner, ach tu lieber ich nacht un der underwear?” Then I hear the silly sounds of two dogs giggling and, “Nic nic shooooosh whoosshhh and so are you!” Then more dogs laughing.

“Very funny Squirt. You have learned to disrespect me in four human languages and if I’m remembering correctly, Japanese yew. Very clever, I’m just so proud of you,” I told her.

Whatthefuck. I’m paying for both ends of these lessons and they make fun of me. See what I mean about this respect business. However, I will not cave in and say something to strike back.

When they stopped laughing long enough to catch their breath, Dixie gets on and says to me, she says, “How about that bear’s ass boy? We got us a talking dog!”

That’s all I remembered when I woke up on the dirt floor of the barn. I was dreaming of honeysuckle and roses when Gram woke me up with her bullhorn. I must have passed out and fell face first with the phone still in my hand and hit a pile of horse apples. I’d been dreaming with a face full of horse shit.

Folks, I stink so bad that horse apples smell like honeysuckle and roses to me.

I need help. And a cold Carta Blanca beer.

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Arizona Arrests Chinese Sarah Palin Impersonator; Still No Respect (Part 3)

Sunday, May 2nd, 2010

Well it’s Friday and the end of the wonderful month of April 2010. I think it is time to do some more housekeeping- you know clear up any dangling modifiers and participles and confusions, all of which are my modus operandi. Why isn’t that “operandisses” or “operandum” since it’s plurals?

First, I’m four days into my don’t-bathe-or-teeth-brush garlic and onion diet program, the program I have instituted to insure that I get some respect and appreciation. This is the point where I gave in back when I was on an ice cream only diet. After four days of eating only Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla, I was having milk fat delusions and things ended badly.

I went nuts and ate an entire roasted goat. That particular dietary break would have been OK excepting for the fact that it wasn’t my roasted goat.

With this diet my worst problem is that I stink so bad I keep going catatonic from the smell of my ownself. I need to call the research guys over to our lab and see if maybe that would have a military use. New product development is one of my strong suits.

With all of the time I’m spending alone on this current diet, I have had the chance to catch up on many personal needs that went untended when I had been spending so much time helping others. That’s why I’m on this pungent diet and personal habits kick- nobody appreciates my good deeds. I fixed the gates on the stock pens and got some other chores done and then I caught up on my reading. Ugh!

Arizona, Gulf oil spill, Chinese crazy man, and Sarah Fucking Palin with her side kicked-in-head-as-a-baby asshole buddy, Little Ricky Perry.

Ugh, ugh, and ugh plus a giant Ick!!!

Arizona first. Let me get this straight- the police are now required to investigate any person who “looks” like they might possibly be an illegal alien and then arrest that person if they can’t show proof of citizenship. What brain dead moron dreamed-up this stellar bit of thoughtful legislation?

Oops, that would be the same religious backed right-wing Republican shitbirds who attended Mrs. Palin’s anti-abortion clinic here to Austin last night. The same guys except for they live to Arizona and last night’s audience live in our area.

And have you guys seen Arizona’s lady Republican Governor? Add ten years heavy aging in the desert and kill-off maybe 13 of Palin’s 41 active brain cells and you’ve got yourself an Arizona Governor.

The two of them make the California Republican Governor look like an intellectual giant with good communication skills.

I find it incredible that the same assballs whose ancestors stole Arizona from the Indians have passed a law that will have an Indian arrested if he carries no proof of citizenship.

The Gulf oil spill is just the latest wake-up call from Mother Nature. These giant oil production platforms out to the Gulf are monstrous rigs designed to extract huge quantities of oil and gas from beneath the seas. Any screw-up on one of these rigs is a major league problem. We need tighter regulations on the rigs and more importantly, better choices than oil to fuel our economy.

Looks like China doesn’t provide any better mental health facilities for their crazies than we do for ours. When you force antisocial people to live on the streets you’re going to have a little blow-back. This is one of those amazing dichotomies I see in politicians. My Grandmother, the nice one that isn’t Gram, was murdered- stabbed dozens of times by a crazy man maybe ten years ago.

The man had been recently released, again, from a mental facility. He got off his medications, lost his already perilous grip on Reality, and killed an old woman in her front parlor. He attacked her and slashed her dozens of times with a knife.

Where do I place the blame? On those dumbass Republicans who slashed the budget to care for crazy people in the fine state of Virginia a dozen years ago.

Of course, the Republicans blame the crazy man for acting crazy. Like the same as me getting angry at the Republicans for being shitballs excepting that I know that I’m crazy to expect anything else.

Take the charming Mrs. Palin and her silly speech here to Austin last night. She’s here to speak out against abortion, and the centerpiece of her speech is her Down Syndrome son, Trig. Now, if everyone will remember back to during the big election, when she was known as Republican Vice Presidential candidate Palin, her honorship was mightily pissed that the Press and the Democrats and the rest of us godless liberal heathens made any reference to her brood of kids.

Last night at the big pow-wow, Little Missy Self Righteousness is using those same children to cash $100,000.00 checks for personal appearances. In-fucking-credible!

Trig is the result of her pregnancy at age 43. To quote Sarah about Trig, she said, “God won’t give you what you can’t handle,” and, “God gave us only eyes to see Trig’s perfection.” Then she told us how she’s comfortable here in Texas because, “You’re not afraid to cling to your guns or your religion.”

God please help me because I don’t even know where to start.

OK, first, you were the Governor of a state and you are 43-years old and you got pregnant. Was that because you still haven’t figured out how you get with child, or was it that you felt you could outwit time and have a healthy child at that age. But given her high levels of understanding science and geography, go figure.

And as far as God only giving you something to handle and only seeing Trig’s perfection, who the fuck do you think you are fooling?

You don’t spend two days a week with the poor kid. I don’t think God would have meant that you would have somebody else “handle” Trig and that you would miss his imperfections because you never see anything of him. I think you are both ignorant and cruel.

You don’t have the good sense to practice birth control for yourself yet you want to control the choices for other women. You don’t seem to be able to provide adequate parenting for the kids you have yet you have another child as you did.

I keep waiting for you to have a cogent thought that you can verbalize. I look forward to that day.

And now, Texas Governor Rick Perry:


Pay attention to me America. Rick Perry wants to be the President of the United States and I am not shitting you. I have been trying to tell people this for years but nobody listens.

Please listen.

Rick Perry is George W. Bush except not as smart and more mean spirited. George’s daddy got him his lobotomy as a fourteenth birthday present. Rick’s lobotomy was self administered and routinely updated. I think how it works is that Governor Perry has a medical advisor, one with a few ounces of common sense, and this advisor travels in the entourage.

If little Ricky sames something intelligent, they whisk him back to Austin where they re-insert the silver spike into his pre-frontal lobe. Word here is that Perry has this permanent access plate there to the middle of his widow’s peak, kind of like when a person gets a stint installed for needles except this is bigger.

I think that’s why he always has that pretty boy haircut- it hides his access plate dealie.

And now I realize that I’ve just spaced-out two full days while writing this. Folks, I smell so bad the cockroaches have left the building. If I don’t some respect or appreciation soon-

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

Thursday, April 29th, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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A Fossil Fuel Alternitive; Psycho Therapy Sucks (Part 1)

Tuesday, April 27th, 2010

What does a man have to do to be appreciated? Sometimes I feel like all I do is give, give and give some more and all I get in return is a load of crap. I give up my valuable time to walk Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s little shitbird dog, Squirt, every day rain-or-shine, busy or not and what do I get in return? Arrested.

Arrested and scolded by the fine doctor.

I follow my therapy homework assignment to a “T”, with one little exception, and agree to donate profits from my sales here to the bloggie to Health Alliance for Austin Musicians. And because I only scored a 90 on that homework (I see my attempt to get HAAM to market my products as a mere ten-point deduction from a perfect score), I get scolded again by Sammie like I’m a ten-year-old school boy who just mooned his appreciation for America’s Veterans at the big parade down to Congress Avenue.

Born on the Fourth of July is one of my best ass shows and likely the most performed of them all. The Veterans’ Day Parade was a big deal when I was growing up and I wanted to show my elders that I could be grateful. We’d been studying about the Vets to school in fifth grade Social Studies Class, plus Grampa was yakking about “the Big War” so much, until I wanted to do my part.

I had planned the first of my July 4th celebration moon shows for the big parade. Red, white and blue-painted butt cheeks were adorned with the American flag and banners from all of the Armed Services. I even included the Coast Guard banner because Pastor Browningwell had been in the Coast Guard and his wife, Leticia, was a teacher to my school and she made sure we got that, “The Coast Guard is a Veterans group, children.”

The moon show went great until I set a lit punk to the 1,000-pack string of Black Cat Firecrackers serving as the finale to my show. The firecrackers set my underwear ablaze at my ankles and started quite a stir. I don’t make that mistake anymore as all of my pyrotechnics occur off-site from the main attraction.

Since I’m visiting Dr. Pain-in-the-Ass ten times a week these days, I told her at this morning’s session that I am not taking this lack of appreciation any more. She’s scolding me to beat the band and Squirt, that little shitball, is sitting there grinning and dissing me under her breath. Which brings to the surface another entire situation to which I am not appreciated.

In all of the years since I first realized that Dixie could talk, she has only spoken human-speak to me. When she was a puppy I couldn’t distinguish her mewling from the battalion of other noises that rattle inside my skull. Once I understood that this one childish voice I was hearing was my sweet puppy talking to me, and not my own early childhood memories come back to taunt, I was elated. I felt special.

I felt special for having a doggie who could talk and we could share our problems and solve life’s mysteries together. That specialness lasted like maybe a month before I realized that Dixie would only speak to me and that Dixie is female. For whatever reason, I stupidly assumed that my dog would be grateful to me and that somehow she would express her gratitude in un-womanlike ways. Maybe that should be not womanlike ways.

Nope. Dixie is no different from all the other women in my life- she takes advantage of my kind heart, spends my money like it is her own, and she talks back. Now, she is teaching Squirt to talk to and back at me, and only me, and Squirt is abusing me like I’m her owner. I can’t even get respect from man’s best friends.

After like something close to the full fifty minutes alloted to this morning’s therapy session spent with Sammie six feet up my ass and her goofy dog smirking at my discomfort, I said, “I got it. I’m not gonna take a bath until I get a little respect.”

“No problem, Mooner,” responded the psycho therapy queen bitchball. “You don’t smell so great to start with.”

You don’t smell so great to start with.

Then Squirt added, under her breath of course, “Mooner got in trouble, Mooner got in trouble!”

“Nanny-nanny-boo-boo to you too you little shitball.” A clever retort from a clever man.

“We’ll see who’s zooming who in a couple of days,” I told the two of them. “I’m going on an onion and garlic diet. And I’m not gonna take a bath or brush my teeth.”

I’m now discovering that an all onion and garlic diet is something akin to an all ice cream diet except without the ice cream. I once made it four days eating nothing but ice cream before I caved in and ate an entire roasted goat. But I’m having difficulty making it through my second pungent meal without something not colored white to eat as a filler.

My hope is that cold Carta Blanca beer will help me keep the wheels on the bus during this road trip to appreciation. Actually, this might be one of those rare instances wherein my ADHD/ADD might be an attraction rather than a distraction. Maybe I’ll get all brain fritzed and forget how miserable I am on this limited diet.

Did you ever light farts as a kid? We all did and it was great fun. The first scientific research project Streaker Jones and I ever did was this one where we determined which foods produced the best gas. It was a simple testing model with simple criteria since it was our first attempt. We were looking for the largest fireball.

Basically, each of us kids- Streaker Jones, Sister, Woozie, Walley, Tony and the rest of the gang, each of us would eat only one food for an entire day. Then that evening we’d all meet up to the Baptist Church and gather in the Sunday School Classroom that brought me so much mental anguish growing up.

It was summer so we could all stay out late, and our parents were all so very proud of us for spending so much time in church.

Being boys, and Sister a lesbian in-training, we were only interested to discover which foods sparked the biggest flames when lit. Since Sister was naturally the most gassy of us all, we used her as the baseline tester. Whenever one of us boys hit on a good food, we’d have Sister eat it the next day for Beta testing. We didn’t call it Beta testing and I’m not disparaging my sister.

When I say Sister is naturally the gassy-est, I only mean that she farts when she drinks water. I was not knocking lesbians.

The church classroom was this long, skinny rectangular thing with three small windows on one wall and two parallel rows of light fixtures with exposed incandescent bulbs running end-to-end. I got my first hand job in this same room a couple years after our ass-gas experiments were interrupted. Wait, my first hand job that wasn’t administered by a Baptist Boy Scout Adult Leader as I lay petrified in my sleeping bag to Aquatics Summer Camp.

Fucking asswipe Baptist shitwad.

So, we would pull the drapes tight to the windows and turn off the lights. Part of the fun was the metal chairs with molded seats. The molded shape was like two big hands cupped and held close together, like if some giant was using his cupped hands to get water from a bucket. You guys know those chairs. They added an extra dimension of sounds as we farted and fidgeted our butts around to release and ignite our gases.

In the darkened room, I was the starter because I had a Zippo lighter, and Streaker Jones was the scientific observer because he was the smartest. Streaker Jones is still the smartest and I carry that Zippo to this day. We set the drapes on fire when we decided to see if the seven of us could produce one big fireball.

We could.

Anyway, my point to all of this is that onions and garlic were top five on the Streaker Jones Fart-Flash-O-Meter rating system. I remember that broccoli was number one, a fact I still don’t understand, and of course pinto beans was two. I forget what came after garlic and onions but who gives a shit.

Maybe for nostalgia’s sake I’ll torch a few when I get home tonight.

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Health Alliance for Austin Musicians Needs Our Help

Friday, April 23rd, 2010

Sometimes psycho therapy is just too much for me. The last thirty years of my therapy have been one of those, “Take one step forward, get back on the horse and tell me how you feel,” kinds of dealies. I know I’m getting better I just hope I don’t die before I feel better.

Actually, I sometimes want to kill myself because of the therapy.

So. I’m in session this morning and Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson- that’s my psycho therapist, first ex-wife and third biggest pain in my ass. Of course Gram is first-in-line on the ass-pain list followed closely by Dixie, and then Sammie. I’m doing twice-daily sessions five days weekly right now because I keep getting arrested so often.

Usually my arrests are not my fault but sometimes they are, and this I know with absolute certainty. OK, this I certainly know until I’m in the first therapy session after an arrest. Usually these sessions occur to the jail or the Loonie Bin where I typically spend my arrested times. I’m certain that not all of my arrests are my fault until my therapist convinces me otherwise.

Like this morning.

Today’s therapy business was after Pat the plumber from Pat’s Plumbing Company came over to change the leaky kitchen faucet out to the ranch. Pat had told me I shouldn’t have gotten the Moen fixture when he installed it just a few month’s ago. Something about a vacuum valve that leaks after a short time. What Pat actually said was, “Thanks for the work Mooner. I’ll be seeing you again soon when the vacuum valve goes out on this thing and it floods your kitchen.”

I like Pat because he does good work, has fair pricing and he doesn’t say, “I told you so.” I hate when somebody does that nanny-nanny-boo-boo crap. You can get Pat at www.pattheplumber.netfor just about any plumbing need. Tell him Mooner said to call. He won’t give either of us anything if you mention me, but at least he’ll know I appreciate him.

“Mooner, would you look at me when I’m speaking to you?” starts ex-wife-therapist-ass pain Dr. Sam I. Am. ”What part of, ‘I had to race home from my European vacation early because you were arrested for sexually abusing my dog,’ sounds like this is somebody else’s fault to you?”

If you are a regular reader, you know that I was accidentally arrested the other day but is was not my fault. Check out Wednesday’s bloggie post and you can read all about my innocence.

“Oh shitcicles, Sammy. I never touched the Squirt’s goodies. I was just doing a scientific observation. It was the ‘close-in first-person observational technique’ I was using, so my guess is that old lady just has bad eyesight.”

“That ‘old lady’ you are talking about is one of my patients, Mooner, you nut-case. She and Squirt are good friends. You scared her to death.”

Dr. Sam I. Am sometimes uses Squirt like a sort of prop when she has especially frail-brained patients. For some reason having that little shitbird in the room for psycho therapy helps some people relax. As far as I’m concerned, if you need a trouble-making mutt in your therapy sessions to make improvement- you should can the psycho therapy and get drunk instead. You’d get better bang for your buck.

It doesn’t really work for me to get drunk instead of therapy because I am not frail-brained. Nope, in fact my diagnosis reads, “Subject Mooner Einstein Johnson is….. fat brained, thick skulled, inappropriate and blah, blah, blah.” However, a dozen cold Carta Blanca beers do help me to assimilate what information the brain doctoring provides.

“But I still don’t get why this is all my fault,” I whined. “Why is everything always my fault?”

I feared I said that like a petulant child.

“Oh stop acting like a 4-year old you crazy old fart. Act your age and take responsibility for your actions. I have a homework assignment for you and if you screw it up- I’m locking you up at Shoal Creek.”

Then Sammy added, “Mooner, are you paying attention to me?”

“Who me?” I asked. “I was just wondering if Dixie taught Squirt how to dribble one little pee drop like she does. That would be just like Dixie.”

My damned talking dog is a pain in the ass.

“Look, here’s what you are going to do. I want you to choose another charity to sponsor on your website and blog. Just decide which one it will be and do it. Do something for someone else and you will feel better about yourself, which might help you stay out of trouble.”

And then she added, “And don’t you dare call the charity to see if they will help you do any marketing of your silly books and products. You need to make a true and charitable deed for others if you want this to work. Don’t try to link with their website or ask them to have a book signing for you.”

Why do women always have to “add something” when they lecture?

“Bite me and bill me. I’m tired of you and I am outta here.” Sometimes I am truly clever.

“And keep your nose out of my dog’s ass, Mooner. I mean it.”

So when I got out to the compost plant I got to thinking about what charity I like enough to put on an even keel with the Food Bank. I was cogitating around and remembered telling you guys about my friend Sally. You know Sally, right? I think I told you about her back on like March 16th, or so.

Sally is the musician who was attacked by her ungrateful heart and almost put down for the count. Sally has a big heart and it nearly got the best of her. And I think I was talking about Sally because I was talking about the health care debate and how lucky Sally is to be covered by the Health Alliance for Austin Musicians, or HAAM.

These are really great people doing good things to help support our city’s artists in a very meaningful way.

So, I called over to HAAM and spoke with Carolyn- she’s the main poobah over to the Alliance, to see what kind of arrangements we might make for some joint marketing. You know, the cross-pollinating that occurs when two groups promote each other. I already knew that HAAM would be more than reluctant to do this but I had to ask.

Of course Carolyn explained that HAAM protects its “Brand” like a mother lion protects her cubs, and that linking to my webbie or to hold a book signing for me would be problematic, of course. But I had to ask. I’m a businessman for shitsakes, so I had to ask.

So I tell Carolyn- just as I told the nice folks over to the Capital Area Food Bank, that I’m going to contribute 5% of the gross sales from anything sold here to my webber and bloggie to HAAM even if they won’t tie themselves to my stuff. That’s just the kind of guy I am.

I understand why people don’t want to be too closely tied to me. This one time, when she and I were still married, Ingrid and I were role playing in the conjugal bed. Actually we were role playing in the conjugal kitchen, where I was doing an ass show I titled, “Julia Childs cooked my Christmas goose.” Ingrid had dyed and shaved my butt hairs to look like a Christmas goose’s cooked carcass, and we had adorned my pecker to be its neck, and head. Had a pretty bow draped around the goose’s neck, and the eyes and beak were made from plastic containers we melted down and molded to fit.

I made a handsome Christmas goose, all plucked and browned and dressed, and Ingrid looked mighty fine in her apron.

Part of the scenario was to have Ingrid, in the role of Julia Childs, truss my goose for the cooking. Ingrid was trussing herself to me with handcuffs and those plastic retainer jobbies the police use instead of handcuffs. We were trying the plastic restraints for the first time because we kept misplacing the keys to the cuffs and getting into embarrassing situations.

Anyway, just about the time we’re fully invested into our role-playing scenario- you know, the spot where Ingrid says, “Bon Apatit,” Sheriff Wozniac breaks down the door and barges in to arrest me, again. Seems it was reported that a man matching my description had mooned the Governor’s motorcade down to Congress Avenue earlier that day and the little shitbrain politico had sworn out a warrant.

Fucking Republicans do not have any sense as to what humor truly is.

Wait. Ingrid is another of my ex-wives and owner of Ingrid’s Hot Wax Emporium. She plucks, and waxes, polishes and dyes my butt and pubic hair for my moon shows.

But look here because my ADD is digressing me to distractions. Click here to and give Carolyn or Jennifer a shout.

And a check.

Maybe if you guys donate enough money I can get a mention over to HAAM.

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City of Austin Employee Does Kind Act

Wednesday, April 21st, 2010

I saw something this morning that gave me a renewed appreciation for people. I want to give a special “Thank You” acknowledgment to the man driving City of Austin solid waste truck number 10G758. This was at about 8:45 am this morning and it was in the area in the Northwest off Anderson Mill near to US 183.

Now I know you are dying to know what I was doing over to Anderson Mill at that time of day so I’ll tell you. Dr. Sam I. Am is on vacation and I drew the short straw to walk her little rat dog every day. So Dixie and Streaker Jones and I are doing the almost hour-long up-and-down-the-fucking hills walk with this little shitbird.

Sam doesn’t allow me to use the actual names of her “children” in any of my writings, so let’s just call the little runt “Squirt”. Squirt is this half wiener dog and half Mexican Chihuahua ball of smarts and energy. A long and muscled body with short legs support a head that is more Latin than Teutonic. She’s way smarter than Dixie, has more spunk than a nine-year-old gymnast and has somehow learned to pee one drop at a time.

Squirt and Sammie live in this nifty neighborhood that’s all hills, so this morning’s walk is real exercise. I’m in pretty good shape for an old fart, but this little shitbird drags me breathless the entire route. She wants to run the whole way at full clip, all the time making these immediate, jolting stops to drip one drop of puppy pee in spots which seem to be predetermined by Squirt.

We make maybe 137 of these stops on each walk. OK, we make exactly 137 of these stops on each walk. I have counted them. I’ve counted them each of the six days I have been walked.

Yesterday I got pissed at getting jerked around by the ten pound brute, and at stop number 126, I lost my temper and yelled at her.

“Nobody needs to pee this much you little shitbird. Your dry-peeing is worse than your dry-humping.”

Squirt loves to dry hump folks.

Anyway, Dixie is teaching Squirt how to talk, so Squirt says back to me, she says, “Flockinsieg your glickenstiner und tu cerveza Carta Blanca.”

Dixie is using an ultra-intensive language teaching method where you teach multiple languages at the same time, so I usually need a translator at this early stage of Squirt’s lessons. I say, “Dixie, what the hell did she just try to say?”

“Well, asshole,” my loving dog started, “Squirt just told you she wants to piss in your beer.”

“Crapsicles Dixie. Could you at least get her to where I can understand her insults before you teach her how to talk back.”

Why does every woman in my life talk back at me?

So today, at pee stop 88, when Squirt pulled us over to the curb to pee, I squatted quickly to the ground with my face to Squirt’s butt so I could see if she was actually doing anything. She squats her little tushie to the grass and looks over her shoulder at me with a grin on her face. We stare for maybe three minutes. Squirt stares at me with that grin, and I’m glaring at her little wedge of girl dog plumbing.

Then Squirt says to me, she says, “Waaaaait…. waaait… wait… Now!”

And on “Now!” the muscles around her rear-end do a little dance and this one, pathetic drop drips out.

Holy shit guys, I am ADD digressing this compliment of a City worker to death.

The point to all of this is that as I was squatted down at pee stop number 88 watching Sam’s ungrateful poochie drip a drop, the driver of truck number 10G758 was performing a remarkable act of kindness.

The driver was emptying trash containers on his route, which I assume is his job. Should be a safe assumption since Wednesday is Sammie’s trash day and this is a City truck picking up the trash. According to the brochure Sam left for me to read so I would be certain to get her trash properly picked up- the driver’s job is to: …”drive, stop at the can, and push the button that starts the mechanical process of container dumping, finish said process and drive away.”

The driver does nothing else. Cans must be placed, just so, at the curb in just the right spot and by the right time. I believe all of that because I have seen homeowners in other parts of town racing down the street behind sanitation trucks, pulling their big containers.

But the driver of number 10G758 must dance to a different drummer. He was at this one house with a very steep drive where an older lady lives. Maybe she has a man living with her, but I have only seen the lady. The big truck stopped, the driver got out, and he walked maybe thirty paces up the steep drive and brought the lady’s container to the curb. I notice that he did properly place the container at the curb so I know he read that part of the memo.

He dumped and drove to the next house. And as he passed our group, me on hands-and-knees with my nose stuck up a dog’s ass, he gave us a huge toothy smile and a wave.

Of course, after we left Squirt with her “sitter” I got pulled over by a Sheriff Deputy. To quote the officer, “Step out of the car, sir- hands where I can see them.”

“What now?” my stock and standard reply to these situations.

“I said show me your hands sir. You don’t want me to Taser you, do you sir?”

I replied, again my stock and standard, “Not today, officer. My girlfriend works the late shift on Wednesdays so I don’t need the Taser jolt or the resulting stiffy. But please, pray tell, what did I do now?”

“Sir, a nice lady over on the next street was dumping her trash and saw a man molesting a little dog. You fit the description of the man. Now tell me what you did with the dog.”

Anyway, I’ve got a court appearance next week to clear all of this up. But I need a favor from you guys.


Please tell the City what a good guy drives truck number 10G758- click on You have to click to get to the City site and then click “Contact Us” to wiggle through their web trickery.

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