Archive for the ‘Oprah Winfrey’ Category

One More Time; Mel Gibson Re-Jumps The Shark

Monday, January 14th, 2013


So. For starters, I’d like to say that it seems that America’s Congressional politicians are finally going to enact smart gun laws after the recent murders in an elementary school. That’s what I’d like to say. Instead, I’ll say that one more time it appears that the mass slaying of innocents has brought nothing more than communal grief, the requisite chatter about “is this finally the tipping point”, and a gigantic spike in sales of the very same guns used in those killings.

One more time guns are used to kill, and one more time public outrage demands intelligent changes, and one more time nothing will happen except for the fact that more guns are sold. One more time big business’ monetary influences and extremists overruns civility and humanity in America.

One more time our law enforcement professionals and educators and parents publicly plea for restrictions to make our schools and movie houses and shopping centers and restaurants and churches and business offices safer, and one more time we’ll get nothing but talk—and more guns sales.

One more time Walmart made a contrived sympathetic gesture and stop gun sales for a few days, and one more time Walmart will see record gun sales in the weeks after. One more time the NRA will blame all but the guns for the violence, and one more time America will bury and forget dozens of wasted lives.

One more time we’ll honor murdered children and teachers and other innocent bystanders to the politics of the business of guns, and one more time—as a country—we will write-off those lost lives as the cost of doing gun business in America. One more time dead children will become the cannon fodder used by gun pushers to sell more fucking guns.

One more time sanity will be ignored in the name of extreme misinterpretations of The Second Amendment, and one more time we will fail to provide policies or funds for the mental health needs of our population.

One more time.

What would it take to get smart gun laws? If the151killed in mass murders in one year of 2012 aren’t enough, then how many mass murders will it take? The average high school in our country has about 1,100 students. If an entire school population were murdered in a mass shooting, would that be enough? No?

OK, what about that technical school over to Brooklyn, New York, where they have over 8,000 students. If some assholes were to shoot up 8,000 kids, would that be enough? Is there any number of murders that would tip the scales from acceptable to un-fucking-acceptable?

Senator McCain—you got a number, sir?

Ugh. This shit makes me tired and angry, and tired of being angry.

On a better note, I caught some of the Golden Globes last night. I want to say that I admire Jody Foster. I also want to say that Mel Gibson looked like he’d been ingesting my Gram’s magic mushroom juices without a license and on an empty stomach. I also want to say to Oprah and Lance Armstrong, “Fuck both of you. Lance, you’re too little and too late, Mr. One-Nut Wonderman, and, Oprah… Please stop giving these celebrity fuckballs the forum when they are only using you to change public opinion. You, my good woman, don’t need the publicity.”

Anyway, I’m headed to the Sandia Casino to play a little poker. Manana, y’all.


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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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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.

Print Friendly Got It Right; F Fox News

Wednesday, September 8th, 2010


So. I want to thank you all for your thoughtful and creative submissions on ways to castrate Rick Perry. Your imaginations have gone into overdrive in your efforts to help me. I was especially intrigued with having three different people offer methods using a Veg-A-Matic. I still have a Veg-A-Matic and use it often.

I bought it back to when Ron Popeil still had hair.

If I ever decide to separate the current Texas Governor from his balls, your thoughtful suggestions will come in handy. Of course, you’d first have to help me find Governor Perry’s balls. It seems that the fine folks at The Southern Baptist Convention up to Dallas have them secreted away in a locked box somewhere.

They probably hold Ricky’s gonads in the same dank dungeon where they keep their own compassion.

What I needed from you was a how-to for removing testicles from an adult, male ostrich named Rick Perry. It must be rutting season for giant black-and-white feathered African birds, because the Rickster is getting all randy and shit.

He keeps snuggling up to Rush Limbaugh in the closet where they hide from my Gram, and their spooning is starting to make me uncomfortable. Just last night I was having another of my celebrity camel toe dreams. In this one I wasn’t a judge for the contest, I was the “plumper”.

Best way I can describe what a plumper’s job entails would be to compare it to what a fluffer does in porno movies.

Anyway, I was getting all the ladies plumped up for the swimsuit competition when I was distracted by a commotion from the the audience. I was working on Oprah, who looked absolutely ravishing in a zebra skin one-piece. When the noise ratcheted up a few notches, Oprah said to me, she says, “Mooner, Sweetie, will you please see what that is. You know I can’t do my best with all of that distraction.”

That is how I know Oprah doesn’t have ADHD. If she had my variety of ADHD, she’d understand that all of her work, best-to-worst, would be completed under distractions.

I looked out to see what was up, and there were Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry in this big lovers’ spat. Rick was snuggling Rush from behind and Rush was attempting to ward off all of the attention. Rush was grunting and snorting like a pig, and Rick was making this noise that I can only describe as unsettling.

“Oh for Heaven’s sake, Mooner. What the hell is that?” Oprah had quickly drawn a bead on the noisy couple. “Here’s my credit card. Take it out there and tell those two boys to get a room.”

Then she says to me, she said, “I thought I’d seen it all, Mooner. But Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry making out at Radio City Music Hall?” She looked into my eyes, and then back-and-forth between the boys and me several times. “Take me now, Jesus. I think I’m ready to go.”

I have long wondered if Oprah would be a good wife. She has her positive and negative attributes both, but she is a strong woman. Oprah has her own identity, like it or not. Those are my type of women. Strong, opinionated and happy.

I had started daydreaming in my dream about what marriage to Ms. Winfrey would feel like, when the ruckus from the audience became too loud to ignore without action. Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry had started fighting. They were rolling around on the floor with Rick trying to hard spoon Rush, and Rush trying to escape. Then there was a crash as they rolled into a big set light, and it crashed to the floor.

That’s when I awoke from my dream, startled by the racket, and reaching for the Glock pistol kept in my nightstand. I don’t like handguns- I wish they were illegal. I keep this one to combat the many rattlesnakes that find their way to our ranch house. I keep it loaded with Gram’s homemade cartridges, a special load she calls Ya Don’t Rattle Me Snakie Boy.

It’s a rat shot load and Gram soaks the little pellets in an hallucinogenic potion of the same name before loading the cartridges.

I came to my senses as Rush Limbaugh the pig comes slamming out of my closet, the ostrich Rick Perry clamped to his back like a monkey on an elephant’s back at the circus. It would have been funny except for the look of stark terror on my pet piggie’s face.

They came to a screeching halt when I pointed the gun in their faces. Rush stopped so abruptly that his hooves shredded the small oriental carpet in front of my dresser. The ostrich was pitched over his shoulders and landed on his back with an, “Ooof!”

“What the shit are you two doing?” That’s when I realized I was pointing a 9mm pistol at my pig. “I might have shot the two of you. What the hell are you thinking?”

Now, I realize all of my questions are rhetorical because I didn’t have a translator. Dixie was over to New Mexico with Streaker Jones and the Squirt was spending the night with Dr. Sam I. Am. That’s Squirt’s regular home.

Regardless, I was ready to read the ostrich the Riot Act when he started crying. At least it seemed like he was crying. He was making this “Boo-hoo” sort of sound, and his entire body was shaking. I sat down beside him and scooped his head off the floor and laid it in my lap. Giant, hot tears leaked from his eyes and soaked into leg of the boxer shorts I wear to bed when I sleep alone.

Actually, the undies were what are called ‘boxer-briefs” on the package. These were made at our hemp clothing factory over to New Mexico. The same one to where Streaker Jones and Dixie are visiting. We make the legs a few inches longer than the major manufacturers, like Hanes, and Fruit of the Loom.

“Don’t cry, Ricky. Shush now, you’ll be OK.” I’m stroking the fine, soft feathers on his chin and neck while I try to calm him. “It’s OK big guy. You’ll find yourself someone to love. Maybe I can find you a girl ostrich in the newspaper.” Then I got to thinking about how I would tell a girl from a boy ostrich, so I asked Rick Perry.

He showed me.

But that isn’t what I wanted to tell you guys about. My buddy Lloyd sent me a request from www. that asks you to boycott Fox News. That’s not a problem for me because it’s been blocked since I had a blocker on my TV.

Even my reasonable-thinking Republican friends won’t watch Fox News because they are such fuckwads. All of that anger and poison.

Please join me and my buddies over to and shout:

!!!!!!!!!!!!! FUCK FOX NEWS !!!!!!!!!!!”

Now, let’s go relax and have a cold Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all

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Is That Jury Hung, Or What (Part 4)

Monday, June 28th, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Towed it was, and mightily pissed was I.

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


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

Fucking sign.

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

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

You know how head wounds can bleed. Fucking sign.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I said drop the weapon, Sir!”

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

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

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


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More Jury Woes; Squirt Helps Mooner (Part 3)

Sunday, June 27th, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For shit sakes I’m tearing up now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bon appetit!

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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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Adult ADD and ADHD; Using Tasers and Stun Guns as Foreplay

Friday, April 9th, 2010

Enough already with the Oprah Winfrey feedback. I mean give me a break already. What part of “I, Butcher Einstein Mooner Johnson, like Oprah Winfrey” is so difficult for you to understand. The fact is that I like Oprah, admire Oprah and even envy Oprah. Maybe it should be the “facts are” that I like, admire and envy.

Hell, I have this recurring dream about Oprah. See, Oprah is over to the ranch watching TV and we’re sitting on the couch right up close to each other, holding hands and smoocherating a little. We’ve made all of these proposition bets on the Super Bowl game, which is what we’re watching on TV. You know, prop bets- like who wins the coin toss, which player scores first, first penalty or first broken bone. Those kinds of bets.

For payment, if I win, Oprah owes me sexual favors. If she wins, I owe her sexual favors. All of the favors include sex paired with either wine, tequila or food and sometimes all three. Its a high-scoring game, so by halftime, the couch is littered with food scraps, empty booze bottles, leather straps and used condoms. But this is a major ADHD digression.

So look. Oprah is a person that I like, more than just somewhat, or a little. I like Oprah a lot.

But that has nothing to do with the very simple fact that Oprah Winfrey almost ruined my life! She did it, it is on record- video-taped as a matter of fact, it is verified and bona-fucking-fied. It is true that she almost ruined my life.

I didn’t blame her. I didn’t get mad at her or sue her for the near destruction of my total wellbeing she precipitated. I have never said a harsh word about Oprah and, in fact, have only promoted her.

So pull your collective heads out of your asses and your feet from my ass and listen here. While I cannot tell you the story, because little missy-pissy Editorator lady will get me re-institutionalized to the Bin if I confide here to the blog what’s in the book, just trust me when I say that Oprah had this week-long series of interconnected shows that set up a series of events that almost ruined my fucking life.

OK? I have proof. And I’m getting riled-up and punching at this shitty little keyboard to my new laptop like I’m playing Whack-A-Mole down to the Chuckie Cheezers joint. My fingertips are bleeding from hitting all these O’s.

Ever play Whack-A-Mole with a snoot-full of mushroom juice and about a dozen Carta Blanca beers under your belt?

Wait. The “Bin” is short for “loonie bin”. Which is short for the Shoal Creek Mental Hospital, Austin, Texas.

There was this one time when Streaker Jones and I took my kids to the original Chuckie Cheezers they had out to US 183. It was big time hoo-ha shit for Austin when it opened. He and I had just closed a big business deal and the kids were clamoring to go to the new place in town, so we loaded the crew into the recreational vehicle and headed out.

Why, you might ask, did we take the reckie for a quick stop to dinner to a place that was fifteen minutes drive from the ranch. Inquiring minds, right?

Ever try to drive with a snoot-full of mushroom juice and a twelve pack of icy cold Carta Blanca beer smoothing their way through your system?

I’m not driving. Fact is, none of us do any driving whilst intoxerated. Don’t mind writing stuff to post on my bloggie with a little influence, but drive- never. So, we took the reckie, this big Greyhound bus we converted into a road wagon. It had all the amenities of home with most of the amity.

After the kids wore themselves to total exhaustion whacking moles and rolling those little balls up a ramp and all that fun stuff, and Streaker Jones and myself had downed a case of beer, we all settled in for the night in the bus, which I had parked at the bank next door. The lot was full to Chuckie’s place and since the bank was closed, I figured, “Who gives a shit,” and parked at the bank.

However, as I discovered early the next morning, bankers lack both a forgiveness in their hearts as well as humor in their souls. Woke up at like 7:30 am when the bus jolted and rocked as this giant tow truck was lifting it by the ass-end for hauling it away. We’re all waving out the window to stop the presses and the tow driver sees us and stopped. I gave him a couple hundred and he unhooked us and drove away. I was warming-up the engine to take us home when the bank manager, followed by his “security” guard, came out yelling at me. We had a discussion, at first friendly, that somehow managed to escalate into something less friendly.

When the security guard reached to pull his weapon, Streaker Jones came from out of nowhere and in like half-a-second, the guard was unconscious, mostly undressed and hogtied with his own clothes, and the bank manager had the guard’s pistol stuck in his ear- hammer cocked.

Streaker Jones says to the banker, he said, “Go ahead, make my day,” so that tells you this was likely mid 1970’s or so. The tightly-bound security guard looked more like a badly-trussed poorly-plucked Christmas goose than he did a manly enforcer of security.

Can you “enforce” security or would you “secure” it? Need to ask the Department of Redundancy Department. Any of you guys know Fire Sign Theater or am I wasting good literary references here?

Anyway, that was the second time I got arrested in front of the kids and the first time I experienced the effects on the central nervous system of a new law enforcement technology called the “Taser”. Nowadays, I look forward to a little dose of the taser from SAC Ellen. It’s part of our pre-sex foreplay.

In fact, the last time I had the Oprah dream, she got to taser me if she won. Then, after she witnessed the effects a good jolt of Direct Current had on my pecker, she wanted me to take a dose even if I won.

I think that would make a good theme for one of Oprah’s TV shows. If you think so go to and tell them.

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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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South By Southwest, Stewart Udall, Oprah Winfrey

Sunday, March 21st, 2010

Hello everyone. I bring you glad tidings from the frozen tundra that is Austin, Texas. I’m still up from the all-nighter we pulled down to the South By Southwest Music Festival. Streaker Jones, Dixie, Gram, Aunt Hilda, Sister and Anna the Amazon, P-cubed and I made the trek and, of course I was the designated driver.

I’m always the designated driver. I have the CDL Driver’s License so I drive the bus.

It was a great time this year- really good bands, really cold beer (well, duh, its twenty degrees outside) and I only got into one altercation. The bands and cold beer were welcome and the fight was not my fault.

See, there’s this man from Gram’s Baptist church who lost his job with one of the big chemical companies. I hate big chemical companies and write stuff about how you should stop using chemicals on your lawns and gardens. Therefore, ibso proto mento, I caused him to lose his job.

So, were walking around at the SXSW drinking beer and having a grand time of things and we needed to make a pee stop. Making a pee stop at a festival is always an experience in and of its ownself, so we all made our way to the closest row of porta potties. Now look, I do not approve of porta potties because of all the chemicals, but there were too many ladies in my party to just use a cup and carry it with me. Gram’s OK with it and she’s the one that taught me how, but I was talking about “ladies”.

As we get there to the temp johns and take our place to the lines, I hear this drunken voice yelling at me, “Mooner Johnson, you disruptive shit!”

I turned and it was this guy, Maynard Miller, the Baptist former chemical worker. He’d gotten a temp job manning the porta cans, his allotted row of cans next door to one of the music venues. Being as cold as it was, the proprietors of the music venue were keeping their beer kegs out back to save energy and kitchen space. Maynard was abusing their inattention to the stored beer barrels, and he was wearing a cheaply-acquired shitface.

Wasn’t much of a fight. Gram poked him in the eye and Dixie had him solidly by the crotch of his shorts before he ever got to me. He started crying about how I ruined his life.

Man had a point.

We got to talking and I told him he could have a job out to the compost plant if he would quit smoking cigarettes. I don’t allow smoking employees. He said, “OK, I’ll try.” Good enough for now.

Anyway, Stewart Udall died, and I am totally bummed. You guys remember who he is? He is the granddaddy of the entire environmental movement as a mainstream issue. He was the US Secretary of the Interior back to the sixties and he raised six kinds of Hell to save US Park lands and promoted sanity with the Environment.

Before Secretary Udall took his stands, the Environmental Movement was known by another name- “Hippies, Communists and Subversives.” This brave man was the first “corporate type” to speak up for the protection of the Planet. Of course, since he was early in the movement he was chastised and often lumped in with us Hippies and Communists and Subversives. Without him I don’t think the Environmental Movement would have made it out of the sixties yet.

Bless you Stewie.

OK, let’s do some business. I would like everybody who reads this crap of mine to post a comment. Tell me what you like, or don’t, and how you found me. Don’t be shy, tell me exactly what you think. I have thick skin plus my psycho therapist tells me I’m too stupid to catch most digs.

But here’s the business part. I’ll have Dixie judge a contest for the “most interesting comment”. The criteria will be: the keyword you used to find me; your likes/dislikes; and Dixie’s arbitrary nature. That dog can be a real bitch sometimes.

The winner will receive an autographed copy of my new book, I’m Not That Crazy, or How Oprah Winfrey Almost Ruined My Life. I reserve the right to disagree with Dixie and to end the contest at any time and also the right to award more than one winner at my whim.

I do, however, promise to be fair. Mooner

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