Archive for the ‘Moon Shows’ Category

Re-edit, Relived, Relieved

Tuesday, August 3rd, 2010


So. I’m doing another edit on my book and I am unsure if I can take any more. This edit, while I agree with most everything I was asked to do, is hitting me the hardest of any of my many edits.

Look, I’m not stupid. I’m dumb and inappropriate and, “A crazy redneck fuckwad,” to quote my publisher, but I am not stupid. OK, maybe I’m a little stupid, but not your garden variety brain dead stupid.

I’m not a Republican.

I don’t know why I’m taking this so hard except to say that I thought I was finished writing the book after the last edit. What I have to do to make everyone happy is to take out some pop culture references and “fourth wall” interplay. Pop culture, it seems, is fleeting and temporary. Like Willi Manilli or coonskin caps, you know, things that grow out of fashion and out of a reader’s mind.

My nature is to argue about this because when I wrote the book, it was a real-time dialog. Just like the stuff here to the bloggie. So, if I’m pissed at Rick Perry and I have a point to make, I tell you. But I’m told that in my book, and I’ll quote Pulled Pork Publishing, LLC, “You need, Mr. Johnson, to be pissed at the Republican Party as a universe, not the fleeting, caricature that is Governor Perry. And you can talk about Elvis or Liberace, because they are enduring entertainers whose legacy will stand the test of time. But leave out all that talk about the Beatles.”

I think they are full of shit, but they do have a point about topical issues with short expiration dates. But, I will talk about the Beatles anytime I think about them.

As for the fourth wall interplay business, that is a theatrical term for when the author takes the audience aside and tells a story, or provides insight, that is not a direct part of the story line. Again to quote Pulled Pork Publishing, LLC, “Fourth wall interplay is the lazy man’s prose, Mr. Johnson. Stop cheating your reader and be creative.”

Fuckball publishers.

That’s how my brain works for shit sakes. If I am talking to you and I need to go to the bathroom, I’m not always going to take you with me, so I would throw in a little story I had printed somewhere else to keep my readers entertained, and informed, while I was away.

Then they went on because fuckballs always feel compelled to go on. “You should also attempt to provide better tracking in your storyline. Your digressions are distracting.”

Well fucking duh!

Are you kidding me? My digressions are distracting? Did you not read the part about the ADHD? Give me a break because I’m not going to do anything about the digressions. If I change that, my entire real-time dialog concept is ruined, and all you will get from me is dumb chatter.

But I do want to give you the best product I can, so I am rewriting my book, again.

However, what I really want to talk about today is my friend Lloyd. Lloyd is the college buddy who is the man I most admire. (See bloggie posting of April 20, 2010) Lloyd has started blogging, and if you will go there, you will understand just what I mean. Lloyd makes me cry and feel crummy about myself every time I think about the kind of man he is.

Crummy in that good sort of way where you end up feeling good about yourself just because someone like Lloyd calls you, “Friend.”

Please go to his website at and read what he has written. It’s OK to cry and feel crummy if you want. Just understand that what you see is precisely what Lloyd is.

Next, let’s talk about my butt. It is getting back to normal and I have been cleared for sexual athletics. Except for for no stun gun foreplay. SAC Ellen is trying to hide it, but disappointment is written all over her face.

“How do we warm up without a dose of Direct Current Mooner?”

We have never had sex without a jump-start from a stun gun. That all began when she and I first met. SAC Ellen headed the multi-jurisdictional task force that was investigating me, and I have to stop talking about this since it’s in my book.

Anyway. Grab a cold Carta Blanca beer and go check out what Lloyd has to say. Me, as a fourth wall indiscretion, am going to take a sitz bath and get prepared for some serious sexolating.

Manana, y’all.

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Freedom Means Never Having To Say You’re Sorry

Wednesday, June 30th, 2010

“Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow, oh wow.”

Since that is my standard mantra after getting zapped by a stunner gun, I know that voice must be mine. I’ve got my eyes pinched tightly shut, by choice, and my arms and legs are chaffing at the ankles and wrists from the all too familiar restraints. The restraints are absolutely not of my choosing and feel like the overly-thick bands with lambswool lining that are favored by the Shoal Creek Mental Hospital, aka the Loonie Bin.

That would be the self-same Loonie Bin I write so much about. Maybe I write so much about it because I’m crazy and spend so much time there. Another choice- I’m keeping my eyes pinched tight because I fear I might have done something terrible enough to be locked up to the Bin.


The reason I’m wondering about the terrible possibilities is because I always lose my short term memory with a good jolt of Direct Current. The memory loss and diamond cutter erections are the mainstays of my DC experiences.

“I think he’s coming around.” A woman’s voice that I think I recognize.

Then an unfamiliar female voice, “His erection looks painful, Special Agent.” Then an audible sigh followed by, “Should I do something for it?”

“No problem, nurse. I’ll fix that when I can get him home.”

That’s SAC Ellen’s voice- thank you God. I’m thinking now might be a good time to open my eyes and assess my damages.

“Evening ladies. What’s shaking besides the arrow in my quiver?” Am I clever with the ladies or what? Then I thought to add, “Looks like Cupid left a little sumpin-sumpin for somebody.”

“That arrow has escaped its quiver, Mooner, and it’s scaring the natives. Let’s get you dressed and to my apartment before someone gets hurt. I’ve got some Carta Blanca on ice and I changed the sheets before coming down.”

“Oh boy, tazer sex! Let me call Gnat and cancel my schedule for tomorrow.” Gnat is my very trusty and trusted assistant, a former Russian mail order bride with keen organizational skills.

“Already done, Mooner, but I told her only that you might be a little late. I’ve got to fly to Washington DC for another silly meeting.” SAC Ellen hates meetings.

You know folks, I was hoping that when we elected Obama to be our president that some of the wasted meetings would be shed from national politics. Senseless meetings are like old dog hairs- if you don’t shed them they end up in somebody’s soup. I haven’t seen any less wasted time in the federal government since the elections, but I must say that we seem to be spending less time with our feet in our mouth and our head up our ass as a result of having met.

I saw a headline in the paper the other day that said, “Dick Cheney Hospitalized For Distress.”

“Whose distress?” was my first question, and second was, “As much as that bastard distressed me why wouldn’t my health insurance cover a stay for me to get over that malady?”

I’d call it, “Right-Wing Republican Religious-Right Baptist Shitball-Controlled Distressed Syndrome, or RWRRRBCDS for short.”

We could get Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson to do a big clinical study and I would be in the control group. I like being in control. Which reminds me about my psycho therapy session this morning and I now realize that my ADHD has digressed the ever-loving shit out of all of us because today is Tuesday June 29th, and I was starting this blogger posting with the finishing touches to a story that happened late last Monday night, and early Tuesday morning, the 21st and 22nd.

And now I realize that was terrible run-on sentence but I can’t figure how to break it up and still convey the specific meaning I intended for you to grasp from the carefully crafted original prose. I asked Gram to read it and help me with a restructuring but she said to me, she says, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Run-ons an run-downs are all tha same. But me, I fall straight ta sleep with sum a yur sin taxes.”

Back to last week before I forget. I was strapped to a bed to the emergency room at Shoal Creek Mental Hospital- that’s where the Deputy Sheriffs took me once they phoned the incident in to their superior. Sheriff Woozie Wozniak is a lifelong buddy of mine and a giant pain in the ass. Once he heard what happened and who it was, he had them drop me off the the Loonie Bin while he called my main squeeze, SAC Ellen.

The nice nurse lady was new and had little knowledge of me and my ass show shenanigans. “Can I ask a question, sir?”

“Only if you call me Mooner,” I told her.

“OK, Mooner. Why is the hair on your handsome bottom plucked and dyed red, white and blue?”

I had a ready answer for that one. “Well, this pretty Special Agent for the United States Department of Homeland Security and I are headed to west Texas on Friday so I can march in the big July 4th Parade.” Then I thought to add, “When I get my pants to my ankles and the SAC-ster torches off my sparklers and Roman candles- why I’m a one-man America’s birthday extravaganza.”

“Ooo, how exciting,” she almost squealed with glee. “You’ve got a little 5 O’Clock shadow popped up back there. How about I lather you up and put a sharp edge to things.”

“And how about I arrest you for eyeballing my prisoner after you’ve already had three warnings?” This from the semi-hostile guardian of America’s borders that I call, “Sweetie.”

Now me, I have heard but one previous warning so I don’t fully understand the territorial threat in SAC Ellen’s voice. But I do know that she is a level-headed, just and fair person even though she was promoted to her lofty position by the previous, Republican administration, so I’m fearful for the nice nurse.

“Don’t fight over me girls,” I intervene. “I’m not worth the effort.”

The expected chorus of, “Oh, you’re worth fighting over to the death,” never came because the nice nurse took the hint and left the room.

I got dressed and checked out by 2:50 am and we drove to SAC Ellen’s place over to the north campus area. It was maybe a five-minute drive from the Loonie Bin. I now know that she moved to this place to be closer to me when I spent all that time locked up to Shoal Creek. We had cold Carta Blanca beers and some sweaty tazer sex and I guess we napped for awhile as well. Her alarm clock went off at 9 am and we got up and into the shower at which time the lingering effects of the tazer blast provided additional entertainment.

As we were dressing, the SAC’ster said to me, she says, “Hey Mooner, call the judge and thank him for jailing you yesterday. I needed this before facing this damned meeting this week.” Then she thought a minute and said, “I guess it would be the Judge jailing you that led to the zapping.”

I told her, “I think that would be accurate,” and that I would call, and we dressed. Thank goodness I have a change of stuff there to her place because my jury duty clothes were a bloody mess. She dropped me to the impound place to where my car had been towed and I paid the almost $500.00 in charges that had built-up in less than a day. My normal behavior would be to get arrested and or tazed again with an emotional outburst about how unfair all of this was and how none of it was my fault and all of that.

Nope, I took my punches like the man I have become and felt grateful for my service to my country. I took jury duty seriously and never once attempted to be falsely released from serving. I think I went far beyond the call for duty and made efforts uncommon in most men.

I am a certified nut case but I think a true American.

If you think about it, the great American Jury- those twelve tried and true, are the final true firewall between innocent people and potentially abusive power structures. Without the Jury, law enforcement, governments and brutish businessmen could ruin the fabric of freedom and free enterprise that makes America what it is at its best.

I think this is the end of what you need to hear about me attempting to serve on a jury, but I want to push a point maybe harder than is necessary. It doesn’t matter what you are- your color, sexual orientation, political ideology or religious system because we, as Americans, we each have the same rights.

And responsibilities.

Somehow we need to stop all extremists from using our freedom-based Constitutional governments to force their agenda and non-Constitutional belief systems down our throats. Stop with all of the religious-based politics. Religion is a personal choice the same as abortion and it has no place in lawmaking.

Stop calling me un American just because I have beliefs other than yours. The real difference between us is that I think you have the right to think as you do and that I don’t have the right to force you to do as I wish. When we govern based upon religion and/or ethnicity, what we get is Hitler’s Germany and Afghanistan. No amount of so called silent majority has the right to make America into their image just because they have the votes.

Let adult Americans make decisions for themselves. Let freedom ring!

I”ll be on vacation until July 6th, 2010.

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

Friday, June 25th, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“OK,” from the Judge.

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

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

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

What the fuck is this all about?

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

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

“I plead the Fifth.” Take that asswipe.

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

“Answer him Mooner.”

From me, “The Fifth.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And that would be?” he inquired.

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

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

I love parades.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, June 15th, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I must have been thinking out loud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I warned everybody that talking pig makes your nose run.

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

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

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

I am strong, aren’t I.

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

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

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

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

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


Thank God for Carta Blanca beer.

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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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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 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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Oprah Winfrey and Shooting the Moon; World Ass Tug Federation

Tuesday, April 6th, 2010

Sorry I had to leave so abruptly yesterday, but when they called my name and case number, Jeff slammed my notebook computer lid and shut it on my fingers. I’m just now getting the feeling back enough to type from my Post It Notes for today’s bloggie dealie. You guys know about me and Post It Notes, right?

OK, maybe all of you don’t know that I use Post It Notes for all of my writing, thought organizing, reminder notes and letters and everything. I have developed quite a sophisticated system- using the various sizes and rainbow of Post It colors to create an intricate way to organize myself. I just write everything down on Posties and then enter it on the computer or type it into my Smith Corona.

Plus, when you place the sticky edge of your Posties to the sides or bottom, rather than always at the tops, you open new horizons in professional organizing. My computer guru told me my Postie Note system was baffling to him. Gram says I need to write a guide for my system and sell it. (Postie Note to self- write a guide and sell it here to the webber and bloggie)(find out more about Post It Notes at

I really do need to get some stuff ready for sale. Most of my products are sold in bulk, like the compost and mulch we sell out to Mooners Compost Plant. Not good products for webber sales I shouldn’t think, unless you need a truckload. Everything else, all of our other already developed products, have been committed to some other enterprise of Johnson Family Interests, L.L.C.

Like all the products from our hemp clothing factories. They get marketed by If You Can’t Smoke It- Wear It!, our clothing distribution company. That one’s a joint venture dealie I have with Streaker Jones and Dixie. Streaker Jones grows quite a bit of pot, and since I insist that everybody recycles/reuses everything, we decided to manufacture cloth from the pot stems and trunks.

That’s what hemp is, kiddies, the woody fibers of the pot plant.

And don’t be telling me that pot plants don’t have trunks, either. Until you have seen Streaker Jones’s growing operations, just take my work on the trunks statement. Between his horticultural techniques and the special compost I make for him, his pot grows trunks.

Gram thinks I’m funny when I say that this particular collaboration of ours is a “Joint Venture”. Me too, otherwise it would be an L.L.C. Like everything else.

Our product design team is working on some new products for the World Ass Tug Federation, a Johnson Family Interests L.L.C. enterprise. See, when I spent all of those months incarcerated over to the loonie bin, otherwise known as The Shoal Creek Mental Hospital, I had this brain storm and created a new team sport. Ass Tug is what it’s called. We’re looking at new ropes, uniforms and other “Official” gear we can license and sell.

That’s that time I was arrested and charged with four murders.

Wait, I am most definitely digressing the ever-loving shit out of us all. My ADD is fritzing like crazy. All of what I’m attempting to tell you here is part of what my first book is all about. That would be the same book that is the root cause for me to start all of this webber and bloggie crap for starters.

The name of my book is I’m Not All That Crazy, or How Oprah Winfrey Almost Ruined My Life. Jeff, attorney Jeff, cleared me on my inclusions of Miss Winfrey in my writings, so you guys calm down. I love Oprah and Streaker Jones is in love with Oprah.

“You know how I feel bout Opree Mooner.”

Yes, Streaker Jones, I do.

Look, here’s how much Streaker Jones loves Oprah Winfrey. Streaker Jones lives to streak- run around naked except for fashionable sneakers and maybe a few adornments, and me, I’m most happy when I’m showing somebody my gorgeous butt. Between the two of us, I estimate that we have flashed at least a million people live. That’s right, I mean live people looking at us as we do it, where we do it. No telling how many millions more have viewed our manly forms on TV, film and now the I-networks.

We have flashed football stadiums, indoor sporting events, the Texas Rangers and Houston Astros baseball stadiums, live concerts, and even several swearing-in ceremonies for Texas elected officials.

Well, and of course, Austin City Council meetings.

As far as ass-flashing and naked streaking around, Streaker Jones does not have any rules- except for where it pertains to “Opree”. Nope, Streaker Jones has been to the live audience to Oprah’s TV show sixteen times and never once jumped up to the stage for a dangle-wangle.

As for my antics, I’m banned from getting near Miss Winfrey because as Streaker Jones says, “I woont wanna put no hurt on ya Mooner.”

Being a person who has seen Streaker Jones put a hurt on somebody before, I just watch the TV show and admire from afar.

But again, all of this stuff is in the book and I need to shut up about it here. I got another call from my Editorator for the book telling me to stop disclosing so much about the book here to the blog.

“I’m only going to tell you one more time Mooner.” Then she gets this really pissy school marm voice on her and says, “If you can’t stop telling stories from the book I’ll have you committed again.”

Then, when I laughed at her and said, “Nanny-nanny-boo-boo,” she said, “I already cleared it with Dr, Sam I. Am-Johnson, Mooner. Zip it Bozo-breath, or I’ll get you zipped into a straight jacket.”

I hate straight jackets, don’t you? Most of the jerks that strap a person into one haven’t got the clue-one on how a straight jacket works. I’m always getting my shoulder pulled out the joint or having my pecker and balls go to sleep from when they cinch the over-and-under chinchie straps too tight.

No, I’m not talking about “erectile dysfunction” here for all you Republican limp dicks who I haven’t managed to chase away yet. I’m talking about asleep- like when you lay on your hand and it goes to sleep and then for a short time you can’t feel it and then it feels kind of numb and then- well, and then you get that sensation to where it feels like your hand is the pin cushion at a Voodoo convention down to Haiti or somefuckingwhere.

Except for it all happens in your pecker and your balls and maybe you already got that first dose of the Haldol the brain doctors give you to settle you down before they unstrap the straight jacket. So you feel all of those same sensations, except that there’s this little disconnection between your brain and your pecker and instead of the pain shooting from pecker to brain instantaneously on a light beam- the pain trickles in from pecker to brain and you process the sensations v e r y s l owle y.

It’s like what I imagine a porn video download would be like if your net server was using the Morse Code telegraph high wires from back to cowboys and Indians times, and each bit of data was inputted by this dude tapping shit out on one of those Morse Code tapper dealies.

You know- dot dot dot, dash dash dash, and wake me up when my down-load’s finished.

You’re sitting there waiting for your new porno movie to download and it takes forever and then when it does bother and starts to screen-up, you can’t tell if you ordered a porno movie or a black-and-white photo of the Crab Nebula.

Anyway, the Judge dismissed all the charges against me stemming from my arrest the other night. Of course, he fined me $500.00 for me mooning him with my butt show titled, “Here Come Da Judge.

That one’s a classic but I seem to find a use for it routinely.

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American Justice

Monday, April 5th, 2010

I’m writing this on my new laptop computer while I wait for my name, and case number, to be called. The benches here to the courthouse are not very comfy, but that isn’t a bad thing if you care for my opinion.

I got arrested for “Assault and Battery” last night over to the Z-Tejas and spent the night in jail. I needed the sleep so the jail time was OK. The Sheriff, that’s my longtime buddy Woozie Wozniac, let me out this morning so I’d have the time to go change clothes for my arraignment. Sometimes it pays to pay elected officials. I don’t mean direct bribes but rather I’m speaking of “political contributions”.

Who do I think I’m fooling? My Gram got this one right when she said, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. A bribe’s a bribe!”

But Woozie truly is a better choice than the silly fuckballs who have run against him. His last major opponent ran on the slogan, “Jesus is my Deputy, riding shotgun and takin names.”

Now personally, I think that if that silly toe jam was a true Christian- he might have made a fine sheriff. Think about it. Every time the new Sheriff attempts to step over the line and pull the tazer trigger on some innocent guy for expressing his freedom of speech with a polished-ass butt show- Jesus would whisper in the peace officer’s ear, “Turn the other cheek, Rosco. It’s the Christian thing to do.”

And then Rosco would say to the offending party, he’d say, “That’s enough now, Mr. Johnson. Put your ass away so this crowd of nice people will go home.”

Instead, I guess Rosco’s Jesus must have whispered, “Hit him a good jolt and kick him in the ass to boot, Rosco,” because old Rosco, he’d be giving the newly-tazed ass performer a not so gentle shove into the back seat of his police cruiser for a ride to County Lockup. “Godless shithead,” would be Sheriff Rosco Baird’s words as he smashed the poor guy’s shoulder into the back of the front seat.

At least that’s how I think it would go. That’s how it went last night with Deputy Sheriff Rosco Baird.

I think Rosco worships the “Smiting” Jesus rather than His more understanding alter ego, “Gentle” Jesus.

When I asked Roscoe if Jesus approved of him roughing me up, he said, “Fuck you, Mooner. If I was listening to Jesus right now I’d of busted a couple a caps in your ass.”

“Would it make any difference if I donate to your campaign for when you run for dog catcher next time?” I asked him.

I really am funny.

After I awoke from the second tazer jolt from Deputy Rosco’s stun gun, Sheriff Wozniac arrived to my cell to let me out. “Get out of here Mooner, and take your Gram with you. How many times have I told you to keep her out of my jail?”

Woozie is a giant pain, but a decent friend. I get this nasty body odor a few hours after I get tazed and my clothes were a touch rank when he let me out. I always like to look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at my arraignments. So I appreciate him letting me out to go home to change before my court time.

Gram has always liked jails for their wide selection of needy men. She used to spend a lot more time cruising the cell blocks than she does now. Since she got the new Ferrari, she spends her cruising time hot-rodding down to the Drag at the University of Texas.

Mother asked Gram why she was spending so much time to the Drag and so little in jail, Gram told her, “I like lamb better un mutton.”

“Oh, dear,” sighed Mother.

Mother heads the “Inmate Outreach” program for her and Gram’s Baptist Church. I have always thought that letting Gram loose around incarcerated men was risky business. And I’ve always thought that my grandmother has a way with words.

Mother says of her work with the inmates, “I love doing good for these men who have been locked up.”

Gram’s take is, of course, “A man thats been lockered-up fur a month er so- he’ll do ya good, an I love that.” Then she adds, “I try not ta miss a man what’s been missin it.”

Jeff, he’s my attorney for everything that doesn’t relate to hallucinogenic chemical compounds, is sitting with me. “OK, tell me what you did, Mooner.”

“Why is it always tell you what I did? Why can’t you ever ask me what the other guy did?”

“Because I’m busy and need to cut to the chase. Now. Tell me or I’ll leave you to the Judge and Deputy Baird.”

Then Jeff added, “And what did you ever do to that Deputy to piss him off so much?”

“It’s a long story, so I’ll just cut to the chase, since that’s all you care about. He was in love with Anna the Amazon and they were on a date that time when I met her over to the Broken Spoke and she…”

That was as far as I got when Jeff interrupted. “OK, I got it.”

Look, I’ve got to go. I’m up.

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An Atitude Adjustment

Friday, March 26th, 2010

Whenever I start thinking to myself, “Mooner, you are a good man,” all I need to correct my thinking is to make a trip down to the Capital Area Food Bank. Anytime I think I have become one of those people other people should admire I just go down to way-South Congress Avenue and pay a visit to some actual good people.

Like yesterday, for instance. In spite of the risks of personal injury and possible arrest, I sucked it up and attempted to do a public service for that nice lady with the moosie knuckle over to the Sprouts. I was proud of myself for taking the time to think, plan and act in the best interests of another human being, and ignore the threats to my personal safety.

My Gram says it like this, “Hoomin bing,” and that cracks me up. Since I’ve spent my entire life with Gram and Streaker Jones both, I can understand most of their fractured English. But sometimes my Gram just cracks me up. What can I say.

So, I got back to the ranch, unloaded the groceries, washed the avocado off my face and changed my clothes. Gram took one look at my face and said to me, she says, “Whose pansies ya step in this time Mooner? Let me go git my “A Slug A This Will Stop That Slap From Bruisin” potion. Yur gonna git shiners from chin ta eyebrows unless ya dose-up.”

After ingesting a couple droppers of Gram’s potion, I sat out to the patio with a cold Carta Blanca to ruminate my day over. Wait- maybe I ruminated over my day.

Whichever, my day was getting ruminated about and I was feeling pretty good about myself. I did a good deed for a damsel with distressed pocket poochies and it only cost me a couple hours and two black eyes. Usually my efforts with damsels cost either trips to jail and terms to visit the loonie bin for “observation”, or six-figure annual alimony payments.

I was ruminating that this good deed of mine had gone mostly unpunished, at least from an historical perspective.

Are you guys still with me?

So. This morning I woke up feeling pretty good about myself as a “Do Gooder” and an all-around man of the people. I exercised, read the paper and got ready for the day. This day was starting with a visit to the Food Bank.

See, I’ve made arrangements for the Johnson Family Interests, LLC- that’s my holding company that controls all of my business interests, to make some direct donations to the Food Bank from my website and bloggie job. Five-percent (5%) of all gross revenues from the web and blog and my book sales will be donated to the Capital Area Food Bank.

I go with five-percent of the gross because that’s like 40% of the net after Gnat gets done doing the books. I’m always suspicious of anybody who wants to pay me off the net profits of anything. Like Streaker Jones says, “Nuttin seems ta slip thru tha net.”

How do you argue with Streaker Jones logic? Can’t.

Movie and record people are the worst of what I call “Net Profit Pirates”. I can’t tell you how many of the world’s best musicians were ripped off by Net Profit Pirates back to the Sixties. Some of those guys made tens-of-millions of dollars for music companies and died broke while they waited on a royalty check.

So, I like doing my deals based on gross, except with tax men and other government types. Them I don’t mind creative bookkeeping to end up paying pennies on the dollar. In fact, its a source of pride. Donations to the Food Bank are not net dealies.

The reason I was going down there was to do some arm-twisting to convince them to link their website with my site- do a little cross-pollinating with me. Networking is the only way to go!

OK, look, I know it was a highly unlikely possibility that they could be convinced to tie themselves closely to me, but I wanted to give it the old college try. I have a clear picture that Baptists, Republicans, church ladies of the non-Baptist persuasion, and other people offended by my thinkings comprise a large portion of the Food Bank’s donor list. I get that.

But I had to make the effort to see if there was a way.

There is not a way, and that’s OK with me. Like to have a “Yes” but understand, and appreciate, the “No”.

Other peoples’ principles are something I understand even if I don’t agree. I don’t have a problem with people having principles with which I disagree. But sometimes I disagree with the principals behind them.

I’m pretty sure that was properly said.

The Food Bank cannot afford to endorse any supporter at the risk of alienating another supporter. It doesn’t bother me to upset anyone because I’m the only one I need to serve. The Food Bank will not discriminate- they will take anyone’s help and use to offer a helping hand to anyone who needs it. The Food Bank is non-sectarian on both front and back ends of their business model.

They hold themselves to a higher moral code than me. The mirror into which I look every morning is small and fogged when compared to theirs. I freely admit that I practice personal bias as my routine. Pastor Browningwell over to my Gram’s Baptist church says of me, “Mooner Johnson has fractured moral fiber.”

If the right reverend would ever listen to me, he would understand why I feel as I do. But it just isn’t a part of his moral fiber to listen to any view that takes an opposing position to the Southern Baptist Convention.

Having concerns for what others think of me is not one of my moral fibers because I am sectarian, or whatever it is that I am for not caring what you think of me. The weave of my social fabric is based upon my experience, attempted understanding of contrary views and actual thought. I am capable of changing my mind when the evidence proves me wrong, and that, I think, moves my moral ground out of the flood plain.

But the Food Bank will feed you regardless of your thinkings. They will accept your money gratefully, even if you are a Republican, because you are a person who cares enough to help feed people.

I’ll take a Republican’s money because I think I can put it to better use than him. His money is safer in my hands than his.

So, on my way home I was thinking about how I’m not really such a wonderful guy because I’m opinionated, rude, crude and completely inappropriate. I am, after all, The Most Inappropriate Man In The World.

But that’s why I give my money to the Food Bank rather than just taking the 18-wheeler down to the Valley and loading-up with produce for the hungry. I’d be trying to use my personal bias to limit the distribution of nutrition. Hell, I’d likely make you pass a test before serving your lunch.

Then I’d feel bad about myself and need more psycho therapy.

But look here. I can’t feed everyone who needs some feeding. You guys send a check to the Capital Area Food Bank. It’s a crime to let a neighbor go hungry.

Even if he is a Republican.

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