Archive for the ‘Kathy Griffin’ Category

Dissociative Identiy Disorder Creates Problems; Mooner Loses Camel Toe Dream To Mental Boarder

Wednesday, September 14th, 2011


So. After performing another community service yesterday, fully disclosing to you—and fully exposing more of the inner-workings of my fevered brain—I find myself in quite the quandary. I exposed another part of my mental maladies to you only because it was what I SHOULD do. I didn’t tell you about the other man who resides inside my skull for personal enhancements, rather, I exposed that sordid part of me because I felt it was the right thing to do.

Why does life punish us for willingly doing the right thing? How come I didn’t have a life of roses and honey for at least one fucking day as a reward for good behaviors?

Why is life so very fucking mean?

Don Legacy, my personal Dissociative Identity for which I’m considered Disordered, has been but a very small part of me ever since I saved him from a terrible drugged drowning when I was a boy. I pulled him from the deepest part of our creek out of a sense of doing the right thing, and even then with some trepidations. I didn’t want to get caught and I didn’t save him for personal gains. But I knew he was more than just my “imaginary” friend. (So that everyone understands how fucked up I am, I just self-edited that last sentence to avoid the punctuation quandary I have with non-quotes placed inside quotation marks. I first typed “imaginary friend”[.]. So as to avoid doing the “[.]” dealie, my personal sign of protest to the grammar police for allowing such a confusing fucking rule, I changed it. But I feel somehow less a man for having done it. I sacrificed my integrity as an author to avoid an uncomfortable moment. Ugh.)

Even at that young age I knew Don Legacy was more than imaginary. He was tangible. But not tangible in the ways that most crazy people see their real “imaginary” friends. Wait. Maybe I should have said that crazy people’s imaginary friends are real people to them and that isn’t how I view Don Legacy. I see him as a real person only as far as some stuff goes. Like he has a brain—my brain—which is a partial brain usually and a near-complete when I allow him to use it.

How fucking confusing is this? Let me try again. My form of ADHD is the one where a person, me, has many simultaneous lines of thoughts going on at the same time. Usually not the fevered, racing thoughts of bi-polarized or schizophrenic persons, but multiple, random and mostly intelligible, and distinct thoughts each fighting for attention.

Don Legacy is one of those thought streams. He’s always there, mostly unheard except as a feint echo, and occasionally he’ll burst through and take control of the frontal lobes. He lives his own life separate from mine and until yesterday, he stayed closeted from the world until I brought him out.

Now, I fear I’ve unleashed the beast. Last night I had another of my wonderful camel toe contest dreams. Most of the usual contestants were there—Sarah Palin, Dr. Marcus and Michele Bachmann, Oprah, Queen Elizabeth, Kathy Griffin and Chelsea Handler—and each was showing spectacular camel toes. I’m always the judge in these contests. Sometimes I’m judging which is best displayed by clothing, sometimes with jewelry and bling, sometimes I judge for shape and contours.

But it is always me judging. Until last night when Don Legacy had the dream. It was so fucking weird, guys. Like an out-of-body experience.

I might be more messed up than I thought. I need to get this Jack back in his box. SAC Ellen called me from Omaha, Nebraska last night to tell me she was concerned with my latest revelation. Why is Homeland Security worried about Nebraska enough to send my sweetie there for meetings? What in hell a terrorist would want to blow up in Nebraska is a conceptual problem for me.

“We have hard intelligence that a terrorist cell of three was smuggled across the Canadian border to blow up cows. All farmers with herds of more than ten cows need to be on the lookout for suspicious persons.”

Did you know that the plural of cows is “kine”[?] I know it’s considered archaic and all of that, but I like the word kine. I also like the word vagina. I mean I like vagina and vaginas when they are attached to a woman, but I also like the actual word. And whyinthefuck is Microsoft Word giving me the squiggly red line dealie on the word vaginas? What the hell would you call two or more vagina(s)? Vagini? Nope. How about vaginos? Uh-unh.

I like the word vagina. It’s one of those words that fits what it is. Like stop! And fuck and ostrich. And kine.

Holy-fucking ugh! I am a seriously fucked-up vagina-loving crazy man. I need some extra psycho therapy sessions. And I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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Not A Kate Middleton Sarah Palin Kathy Griffin Chelsea Handler or Queen Elizabeth Camel Toe Story

Monday, June 27th, 2011


So. I have got to stop looking at the statistics-gathering devices attached to my bloggie. As I do every night before laying me (myself?) down to to sleep, I logged-on to my Admin dealie to the bloggie to see what’s up on Mooner I-Land. That’s when I check comments (always), see where my visitors live (usually), and look at top searches and top views (rarely).

When I first opened this book on the I-net, I looked at all of my statistical shit multiple times per day. In the beginning, my visitor counts read “Zero” and my visitor locations said “Nowhere.” It took quite a while for me to be found by anybody, which was no surprise to me, but once I was found– I was found.

What found me was that first bloggie posting about camel toes. You know, the one when I was over to the Sprouts Farmers’ Market and the lady smuggled her camel into the store beneath tight Lycra workout shorts. My mouth waters every time I think of those moments.

Which reminds me. Go over to Squatlo Rant at and check the posting he did last week called “Japanese Bagelheads”. It’s a story about how you use saline solution to make temporary bulges on your face. Squat has a bunch of pics to show how it works and I, of course, started wondering why not use the method to plump-up naturally deflated camel toes.

Then I, again of course, started to think of the business opportunities and created a concept for a chain of salons we’d call “Plump Da Hump”, or maybe “Pooch-Up Your Pachyderm”. We could offer services to add pocket meat volumes to both sexes– it’s almost like a Public Service kind of thingie.

We could pump-up poor Renee Zellweger to look like she’s packing the same poochies that Chelsea Handler’s camel toe so proudly displays. We could even name all of our services after the level of plumping and, holy shit I’ve had another idea– we can also do be-jeweling or whateverthefuck you call those colored adornments. And henna tattoos too!

OK, what about this. The Chealsea Handler Camel Toe would be a medium plump with a bull’s eye be-jeweled around the targeted area. Then, the Kathy Griffin Camel Tow would be slightly fuller on the one side and we’d be-jewel arrows pointing to the toe and then place the words “Suck It” above the arrows and just at the top of the bikini line.

We could do a Kate Middleton Camel Toe where we be-jewel a crown over a tastefully engorged pubic mound. That one would be a huge seller around the entire fucking globe.

Oh, and we could do waxing and dying too, you know, provide a broad base of year-round services. We could do holiday specials and dress a lady’s nether regions to look like a Christmas package with bows and cards that have the “To: and From:” dealies as additional-charge add-ons. We could serve Carta Blanca beer and wine and Margaritas as complimentary refreshments.

And we could have a skincare line of products. And everything would be organic and as green oriented as possible.

The men’s product line could possibly be as extensive as the womens’. My philosophical inspiration for the men’s line is that African tribal culture that does adornments of their penises, the Beja. The Beja are a nomadic bunch who adorn their peckers for both beauty and pleasure.

Holy shit, could that be where they got the name for be-jeweling, from the Beja’s? If so, they better be paying a royalty. I hate when people steal a person’s idea and don’t pay for it.

Doing male pecker enhancements is an idea that’s been stewing in the cauldron of my brain for many years. I, Mooner Johnson, have had such a male enhancement since childhood when, as the result of an accident, my pecker was mangled and mauled and…

Can’t talk about my accidental pecker adornment since that story is in the fucking book, and holy shit has my ADHD digressed us all over the fucking place.

What I started to say is that last night I read my bloggie statistical info only to rediscover that the main searches used to find me, second only to searches for “Mooner Johnson”, were those for “camel toes.” Why I wanted to tell you that bit of drivel is, therefore, to additionally say that each time I discover that info I have a dream about camel toes, which I then tell you, and thereforemore, the telling to you restarts and rejuvenates the camel toe search bias.

I’m unsure if this is a Catch-22 dealie or one of those circle jerks. Either way, I read the stats and then dream a camel toe dream then write a camel toe story and then read the stats, and so on. It’s no fucking wonder I’m nuts.

But imagine this, if you will, for I find a small measure of joy in it. There’s this sixteen-year-old sitting in his tiny closet-sized room in Mongolia, or some fucking place. He’s got his special sock, all clean and fluffed with Downey fabric softener, at his side. The family is asleep so he fires up his laptop and punches in “Sarah Palin camel toe” in hopes of obtaining images that will inspire him to a steamy climax.

And up pops my site! Hoo-yah!

Drink Carta Blanca beer and I’ll see you manana, y’all.

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Kate Middleton Joins Moonettes; Sarah Palin Camel Toe Wins

Wednesday, December 22nd, 2010


So. Prince Willie is getting himself a mooner. That’s right, Kate Middleton is a certified, documented mooner.

Cheerio, Prince William. Cheer-i-o!

I’ve long been concerned that any offspring of Prince Chuck would be too dumb to shuck the stogy ways and antiquated social graces of England’s royalty, and actually display some human traits. Too dumb, or maybe too scared to stand up to the Queen and have a real life.

Speaking of the Queen, I was planning to bitch about the other Queen today but Kate Middleton stole my heart away. I was winding up to take another swing at His Royal Highness Pope Benedict, Queen of all Catholics. The Popester and his brain-dead advisors have managed to shit in the manger right here at Christmastime and I’m mad as hell about it.

But let’s be serious for a minute. The future Queen of England is a mooner for shitsakes. Kate likes to flash her ass in public! Or would she like to flash her ass in private? The English confuse the ever-loving-shit right out of me with their Public Schools being private, and their Private Schools being public. The origins of that confusion must lie in the whole royalty business. When you add the extra layer of Your Highnesses on top of a near-democratic government, weird shit is bound to happen.

Like Prince Charles.

In case you missed the story, as university students, young Katie and her mates would routinely poke their naked bottoms out the dorm windows in proud display. Said displays were made for the entertainment of both themselves and the boy student observers. Contests were held by the viewers to determine which bared arse matched which comely coed.

As an expert on the subject, I can confidently say that I would score high grades on those tests. I didn’t see any reporting about the observers and their observations, or their scores, and that makes me wonder about the voracity of the initial reports. I wondered if it really happened.

When I questioned whether the reports of Kate’s mooning were accurate at breakfast this morning, Gram says to me, she said, “Who gives a shit, Mooner? Prince Walter’s gittin hisself a fine little lady. An she’s got good teeth.”

Gram’s right. I think Kate Middleton would have made a good fit for me at about my ex number four, or maybe number six. Those was my skinny, model-type ex-wife periods, and Katie would have made a fine match. She might also have been richer than me and be paying me alimony and buying my house.

But I’m starting to digress. What I wanted to tell you is about the dream I had last night after hearing this story. The dream hit me after I was awakened by Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry at 2:30 am. My pig and ostrich have been in this nasty lovers’ spat about Christmas gifts. Rick Perry told Rush that he felt they should be fiscally responsible adult Texans and not buy expensive, unneeded gifts for each other this Christmas.

Rushie reluctantly agreed, and had me return the cashmere cardigan– with its matching beret and scarf, a nice bottle of wine, and a pair of velvet-lined leg shackles he had purchased as his gifts for the Rick. Personally, I think the giant bird would look splendid dressed in the high quality wool garments. I had envisioned the two of them coming out of the closet as a couple this Christmas. Those two dressed in their finest, we would toast them with glasses of the tasty wine Rush bought Rick

I was unsettled, however, thinking about the shackles.

Anyway, nobody bothered to tell Squirt that the boys were having a no gifts Xmas, and when Rush Limbaugh asked her where she and I were going yesterday afternoon, she told him.

“Senor Mooner e moi es going to la biblioteca primavera, and then to le Body Oil Store,” the Squirt told him.

Well, that was all it took to start a war because the Body Oil Store is Rush’s favorite and he figured out that Ricky was cheating on him with a gift. I was startled awake at 2:30 last night as the two of them fought it out in my closet. Rush was quite pissed and accused his lover of being a Republican go-back-on-his-word liar like his namesake.

I try to stay neutral with them, but Rush Limbaugh was spot on with this assessment. I got them separated and settled back down, and I managed to get to sleep. That’s when I had this dream. I was up to New York to be in this big Broadway production called, “Mooner and the Moonettes Present: Camel Toes and Moon Shows, a Christmas Extravaganza.”

Other than myself, the cast consisted of all my regular dream girls– Kath Griffin, Sarah Palin, Chelsea Handler, Oprah Winfrey, Sandra Bullock, Hilary Clinton and Renee Zelwigger. Kate Middleton and a dozen of her classmates filled out the cast, and they were the Moonettes.

We had one skit where there was a set that was just like the window set dealie on the old TV show, Laugh In. You remember, the Rowan and Martin show that had Goldie Hawn, and Henry Gibson and the rest. I saw a picture of Goldie a few weeks back where she was splashing her camel toe and I must say, Goldie’s holding her own.

Instead of having cast members open their window and tell a joke, we would either flash a moon as we open the window flaps, or display a tastefully-decorated camel toe. There were elves with those air cannon dealies firing tee shirts to audience members making correct guesses as to who’s toe or butt was poking out the window.

In telling you this dream story I just got a terrible feeling deep in the pit of my stomach. I had my choice of one each camel toe owner and butt flasher to take home with me after the show. I chose Kate Middleton, of course, since this was a KM dream.

But my choice of camel toe owners disturbs me. So I wouldn’t hurt any of my regulars’ feelings, I played that eeenie-meanie-minie-moe game to choose my camel toe girl. I kept going with that “My mother told me to…” business until I landed on Sarah Palin.

I actually selected Sarah Palin over my other ladies.

That makes me a sick fucker. A really sick fucker. I would have sex with Sarah Palin if I weren’t in a committed relationship, and I could tape her mouth shut. Then again, I’d bet she’s got a randy mouth on her when she’s all sexed up. She and Kate Middleton would make a hell of a bed full of women. I’d dress Kate as a reindeer and Sarah as a hunter.

My god would you listen to me. I need a special therapy session and a Carta Blanca beer.

Manana, y’all.

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Celebrity Camel Toe Mystery Dim Sum and Other Tasty Delights

Tuesday, October 26th, 2010


So. Monday night’s dinner was my medical enforced last supper, part of preparations for Wednesday’s second medical procedure on my already abused butt. I love food and I love to eat, so this meal was important.

Menu selection should have been easy. I’ve been such a shit to everyone lately, bitching and complaining about my problems, I figured nobody would want to cook for me and I could just fix what I wanted.

As usual, I read things wrong. When I got back from walking Rush Limbaugh, Rick Perry, the Squirt and my bruised ego yesterday afternoon, I secreted the pig and ostrich back into the closet, and Squirt and I sat on my bed to discuss dinner plans.

Squirt was lying on her back on the bed in the same pose as when she sits like a bunny to speak, except lying on her back. I asked her what she would like for dinner and after a bit of thinking, she got an embarrassed look on her face and whispered, “Je voudrais profiter de fleish von nguruwe, bwana Mooner.”

We both snuck a look at my closet to be certain the door was tightly shut.

I whispered back, “We can bacon wrap some quail and grill it with the last of that sausage Scott gave us. Would that satisfy your pork cravings?”

Now her tail starts its mad wagging and she says, “Oh si, Senor Mooner. Oui, oui, oui.”

“You’re a funny little shit, Squirt. But remember, pork’s not good for you, so you only get a couple small tastes.”

We headed to the kitchen to start our dinner plans expecting to find it empty. Instead, Mother and Gram were there and neck deep in food preparations.

“We planned a surprise for you Mooner honey,” my mother beamed. “I’m roasting a pork shoulder and Gram is making Chinese side dishes.”

I felt tears start at the corners of my eyes. “I’ve been such a pain in the ass I figured you guys would leave me to my miseries. This is so sweet.” Then I added, “I don’t deserve this.”

“Yer right about that shitbird,” snipped my Gram. She’s doing something with a stack of egg roll wrappers, three cutting boards of chopped and diced foodstuffs, about a dozen bottles and jars of condiments, and a hammer.

I walked over to wrap my arms around her. “I’ve been a little out of sorts. Thanks for understanding.”

Gram shrugged off my hug and said, “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner. I been wantin ta cook up some a this damn soon shit fer quite awhile. Now git out tha way.”

I kissed the top of her pointy head. “I think it’s dim sum, Gram. The Chinese call it dim sum.”

She glared and pointed the 12-inch chef’s knife in her hand at my chest. “Then that makes it all tha more propriated fer yer dinner. Dim sum fer a dim wit.” Then she laughed at me.

“You aren’t that funny old woman,” but said laughing. “What’s the hammer for?”

Mother jumped in before Gram could answer. “You don’t want to know, sweetie.”

I decided I didn’t.

The dinner was terrific- Mother’s pork roast with a spicy wild plum sauce, and than a smörgåsbord of Gram’s dim sum. The little packages were tasty, and quite interesting. One was a long, thin strip of fried dough, filled with mystery meat. This one I attached to the hammer, and didn’t ask its filling’s origins.

But this one was a dough package masterpiece- delicately shaped bundles with a familiar shape.

“Them’s my interpolation of one a them giraffe knuckle thingies you been dreamin’ about, Mooner.” Gram held one up to admire. “Had trouble decidin’ what ta fill em with, so’s I used calf balls and chicken butt meat.”

They were tasty as well. And suggestive. I had another celebrity camel toe dream last night, no doubt the result of Gram’s suggestive dim sum. I was sitting in a chair at Wolfgang Puck’s place out to Los Angeles. The chair was quite comfortable, but seemingly too short for the table. My eyes were at a level only a foot above the white linen tablecloth.

“Don’t worry about that, Mr. Johnson,” Wolfgang Puck told me. “This is my special camel toe dim sum mystery sampler table. Tonight I’ve prepared you a little moose knuckle du jour of Chelsea Handler, Sarah Palin, Kathy Griffin, Oprah, Demi Moore, Hilary Clinton and Lindsay Lohan.”

“Oh, goody.” I clapped in delight.

“The mystery is that you must do your sampling while blindfolded and then take a test. There’s no charge when you guess right.” Wolfie sounded like Bob Barker.

“What happens if I guess wrong?” Even in a dream this seemed an appropriate question, but all I got in reply was a wicked laugh.

I was right on all but two. I mixed up Mrs. Clinton with Sarah Palin- a likely mortal mistake outside my dream world. Here, it only cost me $125.00 each for the mistake.

And Wolfgang even bought a case of Carta Blanca beer for me. It was a special night. I asked for seconds of Chelsea and Kathy, but just as they arrived back to my table I was awakened by the symphony of snores rattling from my closet.

“Today is going to be a great day!” I exclaimed. I had decided that today was to be great, my gracious act for Monday’s blessings.

I walked to my bathroom to brush my teeth and start my daily routine. Then I noticed it was pitch black outside and checked the time. The bright red digital numbers of my alarm clock read 2:49 am.

“Fuckballs!” was all I could get out.

Manana, y’all.

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

Wednesday, June 9th, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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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