Archive for the ‘Parenting’ Category

The Joys Of Winter; Pink Panther Hidden In The Tea Leaves

Friday, November 6th, 2015

So. The first measurable snowfall hit Santa Fe’s streets last night and there is already a skiable base on some of our state’s resorts. All signs are pointing towards heavy, possibly record amounts of snow. This snow was fat and heavy flakes loaded with needed moisture.

However, as the Squirt refuses to even walk in snow, early this morning we had our now third annual argument thereabout. Tiny, brown puppy and I have repeated this fight since our first Santa Fe winter.

Me:      “Jesus Christ, Squirt, do you have to shit on my welcome mat? It won’t wash out of those bristles.”

The Squirt:      “Fuck you.”

Me:      “Don’t you fuck-you me, young lady, you answer me and right now!”

The Squirt:      “Fuck you some more.”

Me:      “You are not going to melt from squatting in a little snow, for shitsakes. It isn’t even knee-deep. Look at Yoda…the goat dog loves the snow. Ever since I taught him how to pee write his name, he loves the snow.”

The Squirt:      “It’s deep enough to drown my tooter, dickhead. You stick your pecker in six inches of snow long enough to empty your bladder and I’ll consider following suit.”

Ever submerged your pecker in a snowdrift long enough to drain a full bladder either on, or with, purpose? I’d accidently peed in the snow while nekid this one time back to junior high school, but that was, after all, an accident. I’d caught the measles and my Gram had dosed me with a mushroom potion she had labeled “German humps an’ German bumps be gone”.

For my part I’d semi-awakened from a drug-induced slumber and sleep-walked outside into Austin’s annual snow storm. Can’t remember if Gram’s hallucinogenic home remedy cured the German measles, but I’d fully-awakened with frozen extremities and a turtle-pecker hidden behind my sparse, pre-teen pubic hairs thickly-hung with yellow icicles.

Am I the only one, or is icicles spelled wrong? Whoeverinthefuck decided that one did a fine job of contracterating things, but it just looks wrong—not nearly enough letters for all the sounds. Like when some southerners say Mississippi. They say, “Mizsipi.” Or when Georgians say, “Marietta.”  “Mayreta,” they’ll say with sugar juice dripping off their lips.  If I was to say, “Mis-si-sip-pee,” like it’s properly said, and it was spelled, “Mizsipi,” it would be the same thing.

OK, stop. Maybe it’s the same thing, only backwards. Like my ADD-addled brains.

Main problem with peeing with your genitals packed inside a snow bank is that the freeze-chill from the initial submersion causes a freezing-up of both pecker and the bladder attached. Takes considerable aptitudes, and time as well, to get relaxed enough to pee, unless you’re sleep walking and don’t feel the cold. I found myself proud to have been able to do it this morning without self-inflicting frostbite.

As a compromise, I took the dogs shopping for personal doormats upon which they can do their bidness whilst we’ve got the heavy frost on our Lilies. Yoda chose a brown broom bristle mat that says, “Yes, Inspector, My Dog Bites.”

After I repeatedly refused to have my photo embossed on a slab of ridged, black rubber, the Squirt decided upon one with the sweet countenance of a yellow tabby kitty. “Second choice,” she said to my look.

Does make me wonder about Honor the cat. She’s been gone for almost two years now and there’s no word of her on the street. I’m also wondering about the state of my country. What in Hell is wrong with us? I don’t know and haven’t a clue as to how to figure it out.

So Fuck Walmart!

Print Friendly

Walk A Mile In My Shoes; Grandmother Sex For Dummies

Friday, June 5th, 2015

So.  I’m sitting at my dining room table with the dogs early yesterday morning.  We were drinking our daily Cup a Joe—a scenario whereat I have a full cup of strong coffee, then share licky-slurps from the drained cup with my furry charges.  Squirt always gets first licks as she is of shorter snout and tongue, and the Gene Simmons’ tongued Yoda laps what’s left in the overly-deep coffee mug I bought just because of this disparity of lingual lengths.

I drink my coffee while reading the flimsy local paper, had finished that before the coffee was gone, and was watching Sports Center on the TV.  Seems that all the greedy FIFA officials will finally pay their penances, and all is now well in the sports world.

OK, except for the rest of the greed, player violence on others, and Olympics corruption, arresting FIFA fuckwads pretty much clears up the worst sports offenders of our day.

My day was clear as well, and as the dogs and I were starting to converse about plans, I heard the screaming sounds of an Italian sports car winding high and tight in a low gear.  Santa Fe has many wealthy individuals who own, and sort of drive, expensive autos.  I’ve bore witness to old geezers over-revving and missing gears on our streets and thought nothing of it.  It seemed that these current sounds were from a mile off and headed away—towards town—then disappeared from earshot.

We three decided to go walking up to the Canyon Road art district to scope out any attractive, cultured patrons in need of the warmth and comfort of a local bon vivant, and I was putting on my sneakers when the high-pitched whine of what could only be a Ferrari hit my ears like the buzz of a giant horse fly.  The sound grew closer as the big 12-cylinder engine wound to its maximum tightness, grew closer still, then the air filled with the grind of a collision that sounded like a shot.

“That asshole drives worse than Gram,” the Squirt said.  “Old farts shouldn’t drive Ferraris, Mooner.  Ferraris are expensive to repair.”

She giggled and said, she told me with a giant smile, “That sounds so much like your grandmother’s driving, wouldn’t it be funny if it is her?”

I didn’t laugh.  I still keep a garage on retainer back to Austin to make repairs on Gram’s bright red machine, and the sounds of shredded metal brought me unhappy memories.  “Sometimes I think it would be cheaper to just buy her a new car every few months.  Or maybe I should learn to do body work.”

The Squirt laughed aloud.  “You,” and here she laughed some more, “can’t change a lightbulb without doing damage to yourself or breaking something.”

“That’s mean, little lady.  I’m a good home repair artist,” I answered, a tad bit hurt at her comment.  “I’ve not needed any stitches this year and haven’t started a single electrical fire.”

She and I debated my skills around the house and were designing a challenge.  I was to change the filter on the HVAC system, remove the hair from all the sinks and the two bath tub drains, and put new plastic string line on the weed eater before noon.  Should I accomplish those tasks before 12 O’clock, without personal injury or additional damages, Squirt promised to make the goat dog stop peeing inside the house for an entire week.  Should I fail, I have to take them for long walks at sites of their choosing for the next seven days.

It was as I wrote out the contest agreement for our signatures that I heard the sound of a big truck’s air brakes in the street in front of our house.  After the shoosh and pop and screech of pressurized air release, then a pause, we were treated to the sounds of a hydraulic lift gate lowering to the pavement.

“Wha tha fuck?” I muttered, jumping from the table and heading out the front door to the porch.  I tippy-toed to look over the wall and was treated to the sight of a bright red Ferrari—front-end smashed and crumpled—lowering out of sight.  I raced to the gate in my bare feet, bruising my soles on the gravel with each step.  As I swung the gate open, I was met with the cheery countenance of my grandmother, hand-in-hand with a young man wearing a University of Texas tee shirt, a pair of cut-off shorts, and an expression of sheer terror mixed with the afterglow of sex.

“Hi ya, Mooner.  Put on sum fuckin’ pants an’ meet Jimmy here.”

Did I mention that I like to read the paper in my undies?  This was when the wrecker driver approached and handed me a bill.  He said, “Mrs. Johnson, here, gave the other driver a check for his damages, so all you owe me is $150.00 for the tow.”

“A hundred fifty?  I play poker with Tommy and I know he’d charge me half that.”  I was pissed.  “Didn’t I give you Jimmy’s card last time you were here?” I scolded at Gram.

I told the driver to bill me and walked out to look at the car.  It was a total mess. When I walked back inside to properly welcome and appropriately scold my Gram, she, and Tommy, were not waiting on me.

“There’re in the guest room, Bwana.  Asked if you’d bring their bag from the car and put it outside the door.  Gram said they haven’t had no sexing since Clovis and that she is all backed up.”  Squirt giggled like a little girl tickled on her feet.  “Maybe we should take a walk, give them a little privacy.”

Been doing a lot of walking.  Now I’m headed to play poker and I’m realizing that my randy old grandmother has been in this house only one day, and she’s had twenty times more sex here than have I.

And did I tell you that Santa Fe doesn’t have a Ferrari mechanic?

Fuck Walmart.

Print Friendly

Growing Pains For Dummies; Understanding Windows 8

Friday, December 5th, 2014

So.  I’ve had my new Windows 8 computer since April and I just, quite accidently, learned how to change the font style and size in a default action.  Heretofore, I was required to adjust the font from Calibri, at an 11 sizing, to size 12 Times New Roman, each time I sat to write.  As I haven’t worn a size 11 since 8th grade, and font in my now size 13 setting isn’t well accepted over to my Word Press bloggie dealio, I settled on a 12.  As for the font style, the Romans seemed to have anticipated an ink layout that is easy to read.

I wonder when Times New Roman was invented.  Did Caesar Augustus or his contemporaries develop the font style?  Back then with the quill pens and pimply paper products of the pre-industrial age, it must have been difficult to provide clarity of written documents.  All those splatters and blobs from quill-penned words can be off-putting.  Like this one time Streaker Jones and I made a pen from a turkey feather and ink from cow’s blood thinned with turpentine.

With my ADD and ADHD, funky, fancy print styles agitate what little focus I have and cause my mind to wander.  Makes me wonder too.  Like, remember when you were a young teen and your body was growing at its fastest rates?  Me, I grew a foot between sixth and seventh grades.  This I knew because I was measured and weighed for the William B. Travis Junior High School football team the first day of school.

Coach Pepworth—a nasty little man who most resembled a 5’6” bowling ball covered in a sniper’s ghili suit made of course, black hair—held my opened student file in one hand and the ruler used to mark where, on the height thingie painted on the wall, the crown of a student’s head  reached.  In my case, run-on sentence aside, Coach P teetered on a chair as I fidgeted around while looking at the marvel that was a junior high school locker room.

I focused on his face for a moment and asked, “Does all that hair itch, sir?  I itch all the time and my Gram says it’s because I’m starting to grow pubebies.”

“Stand still, you disruptive little shit, or your pubic hair will be the least of your concerns.  I fall off this chair and you’ll see why that two-by-four is sitting over there by the door.”

Coach P bandied about at practice with a scarred two-by-four used to punish poor plays, back-talk, and what he called, “Your lack of enthusiasm, Mr. Johnson.”  I still have a bone spur on my hand from when I tried to deflect that fucking piece of lumber this one time.  He’d grab you by the face guard and pull your head down to his level to deliver the judge and jury edict before administrating the punishment.  However much taller than him were you determined the force he used to pull.

“Well lookie here, Mr. Johnson,” Coach P said to me.  “If this record is right, you grew eleven-and-a-half inches over the summer.  You’d best be careful in contact drills…I’d hate for you to break one of those tender, new bones.”

I don’t, didn’t remember my bones as soft back then.  I can remember lying in bed in the dark with my tiny crystal radio hissing, “In the jungle, the quiet jungle, the lion sleeps tonight…” while I could actually feel my bones expanding.  Sometimes I thought I could hear them as they expanded—crackling and groaning.  This one night my arms grew a full inch.  I have semi-scientific proof.

This was also the summer I discovered the wonderment that is my pecker.  Also the summer my fucking Boy Scout leader discovered the wonderment that is my pecker, but that’s another dealio in its altogether.  Each night in my efforts to get to sleep, I would lay precisely in place on my bed, position my elbows on the only spot atop the springs of my twin mattress that didn’t touch my funny bones, and I’d play with my pecker.  The motions became so machine-like that I could position myself in my sleep.  With the usual overnight growing, the positioning adjusted so slightly I didn’t notice change.  But this one night was different.

This one night, I lay my head in just the right spot, adjusted to place my elbows on the springs, and reached for the spot where my manhood waited.  It wasn’t there—it was AWOL!

I won’t say I screamed like a girl, but as my voice was still in that awkward stage between man and falsetto, my Gram says I screamed like a girl.  She burst through my bedroom door with her double-barreled, 12-gage shotgun at the point and flipped on the light.

“What tha fuck, Mooner?  I thought that fuckin’ cooner climbed in yer winda and grabbed ya by yer tiny balls”

There was a raccoon we thought might be rabid hanging around the ranch down to the creek.  That racoon was a constant subject of conversation until Gram blasted it not long after this night.  “It’s OK, Gram, I found it.  Not the raccoon, my pecker.  It was only an inch away, but I thought it had disappeared on me.”  I was scared but I wasn’t crying.

“Oh stop whimperatin’ like a baby.  You Johnson men ain’t never lost a pecker one.  Yer great uncle George got shot in ‘is ass back to the WW One, but havin’ them ten kids says his pecker worked fine.”

Anyway, I was standing with my back to the gym wall, trying to make my skeleton fit flat against, and Coach P teetered on the chair as I fidgeted and squirmed.  Standing on a chair he could look me in the eyes without any adjustments.

“Says in your record that you’re a problem child, Mr. Johnson,” he told me with the dead look of a snake.  “Don’t you be thinking that your mother can keep you out of trouble on the football field.  Assistant Principal Johnson is a saint, and you are problematic.”

When he stepped down I asked him what problematic meant.  Saying nothing, his response was to flip his eyes across the room to the worn timber sitting by the door.  I’m not all that smart now, and was smart less back then, but I two-plus-two’d the two-by-four and problematic.

2X4 + problematic =  Owie!!!

And whatinthefuck does “wee-ma-whacka” mean?  I never thought that song was about a bunch of guys masturbating.  Maybe it was a symbolism I’m unable to grasp.

Anyway, and now again, my actual shoe size is a 13, except for some sneakers require me to buy a 14, and all in a wide, or doublewide.  The accident that makes this newsworthy lay back in paragraph one, herein.  I was fumbling with my computer mouse and accidently right-clicked on the font dealio up top-left of the screen.  If I wished to change the font in Word 8 to default, the little box explained, all I needed to do was contort six fingers onto the keyboard in a digital tangle, and sis-boom-bah, I’m defaulted.

Are you feeling as confused as I am?  Confused as me, maybe it would be.  I refuse to say “myself” as that word pisses me off for some reason and I only use myself when forced to do so.  Maybe it’s because sports guys refer to themselves as “myself” so often and I just don’t like it.  Speaking of myself getting used:

So, FUCK Walmart!

 

 

 

 

Print Friendly

Childhood Memories; Hey, Mikey Doesn’t Fucking Like It!

Monday, December 1st, 2014

So.  As Thanksgiving has managed to pass through the American landscape with barely a thanks given to the actualities of its foundings, we are now under siege by the actualities of what has become Xmas.  My local paper—a lightweight tabloid of maybe seven ounces average arrival weight—hit our driveway Thursday at a hefty two pounds and four ounces.  Filled with the advertising fodder of every fucking retail and service outlet within an hour’s drive, the actual newsprint seemed like a dust jacket for the War and Peace of coupon cutters.

When I unwrapped the parts I was to read and tossed the balance into the cardboard box I use to recycle newsprint, the Squirt said to me, she says, “Hang on, asshole, don’t you need to find some coupons for your presents for me and the goat dog?”

As I am one to always look for ways to better father my charges, I explained to the small brown puppy that, “It’s better said Yoda and me, sweetie, you should have said, ‘…the goat dog and me.’”

I’ll not tell you that she growled at me because that is forbidden between us.  I will, however, say that she gave me her best “eat shit and die” look while saying, “Look’a here, butthead.  If you plan to leave us with that nut-ball dog sitter for ten days while you explore the Oregon coast, you’d better give us some really good Christmas presents.  Otherwise, I’ll tell Yoda to eat her furniture and it’ll take $25,000 to bail us out when you get home.”

“Look, Squirtie girl, please don’t use the word ‘Christmas’ when referring to December 25th.  A major component to my plan to unravel excessively right-wing Christians is using ‘Xmas’ and ‘Happy Holidays’ instead.”

“Christmas, Christmas, Christmas!” was her reply. “Christ-mas, Chrrr-ist-masss!”

I spent the day Friday examining Thursday’s and Friday’s ad supplements with the two dogs looking over my shoulder.  OK, in actualities, one would sit in my lap while the other parked ass on the chair pulled tight against mine and both with chins rested on the table’s edge.  I don’t allow dog feet on my dining table and I’m pleased to say it’s the one rule they obey routinely.

“Hey, there are some attractive ladies at that place, Mooner. Are they for sale?  Maybe we should go over there and do some shopping for you when we finish here.”

“That’s a Hooter’s ad, silly rabbit, those girls aren’t for sale,” I told Squirt.

“Could’a fooled me, Bwana.  Looks like all their assets are sitting on the meat rack and ready to serve.”

How do you argue with that logic?

Did I mention I was drinking Carta Blanca beer and enjoying a touch of Raspberry Kush medicinal pot as we couponed?  I had the TV on as we perused and was down to the last two retailer’s packages when the Squirt told me, she exclaimed, “Look, its A Christmas Story!”

As the last two sales papers were for Walmart and Hobby Lobby, I told her, “Let’s take these papers out back.  You guys can do your business on them for me and then we’ll watch Ralphie.  I’ll pop some popcorn and you guys can share a jigger of beer.”

They did, I did, and we lounged before the big screen to watch my favorite Xmas Movie.  I try to watch that film anytime I catch it, sometimes as many as four times each season.  This time when we got to a scene when Ralphie has to eat the bar of soap, a childhood memory of my own flooded into me like an emotional dam had burst.  Bursted?  Why don’t we say bursted?  If it “burst” when actually breaking, whyinthefuck don’t we say “bursted” when referencing the event in past tense?

“Holy shit, guys, I just remembered an event quite similar from my own past.”  This said as tears started leaking from the corners of my eyes.  It seems that learning of my cancer has brought new levels of emotional tidings to me this holiday season.

I blew my nose and wiped my eyes, and paused the movie with my new pauser dealio on the TV remote, and recounted the remembered memory to the puppies.  I was five and it was either a Sunday or a Wednesday, and I know it was one of those days because each of those days of my childhood included visits to The Reverend Browningwell’s Baptist church.  His wife, Laticia, would later become my teacher in several grades.  We never got along and she is the mold from which I cast most every right-wing conservative Christian bigoted asshole I have encountered since.

In those days, the 1950’s, after each Baptist church service the pastor and his wife would stand on the church steps and shake hands with each parishioner and they would shake each down for tithes or service or some sin recently committed.  Leticia was an enigma to me even at that age- things I heard her say and things said about her behind her back.  I likewise lacked any social filters as a young boy, a trait upon which I’ve not managed any significant improvements even yet.

On this particular Sunday or Wednesday, I remember watching Laticia interact with people as we made our way through the line as Gram, Mother and I waited our turns. I remember how my hand ached as Mother gripped it like a chicken neck in a vice.  I think the fingers of my left hand are still blood-swollen from Mother’s attempts to control my movements as a kid.  My ADHD in her firm control, I kept trying to pull away to watch the preacher’s wife by peering around the folks ahead of us.  I peeked and peered between legs and around poofy dresses and jacket tails anxiously as I had a very important question to ask the preacher’s wife.

When we finally got to the head of the line, I remember Pastor Browningwell said something to Mother—likely something pleasant, as my mother was, is, a perfect Baptist—and then he said something to me.  For my part, I didn’t hear a word of any of that because all the attention I had was focused upon his wife.  I’d recently heard something about her and my curiosity was killing me.

In my anxiety to speak to an adult, I blurted out, “Does it hurt, Mrs. Browningwell?”

“Huh?  Oh, it is you, young Mr. Johnson,” said with a not varnished contempt as she and I already had some history.  “Of what, or which, are you speaking, young Butcher?”

She called me Butcher because that would be my actual given name and this was before I had earned my nickname.  And why isn’t it “knickname”?

“Does it hurt that you can’t fart?”  I elaborated.

Getting no understandable verbal responses, I continued, “My Gram says you’ve got a corn cob pipe stuck so far up your ass you can’t fart.  My tummy hurts when I can’t fart.”

Back in those days, ranchers and farmers would wash their clothes in Twenty Mule Team Borax detergent, and sitting by every sink was a lunky bar of Lava hand soap.  Lunky is now a word, and a perfect descriptor for this bar of soap.  The grit and lather was/is perfect for removing the grease and oil and barnyard gunk of everyday work with animals and machines.  As a child, we had Lava bars at the old pump head next to the big barn, at the sink in the wash room where we entered the house after working to wash hands and remove soiled clothing, and by the kitchen sink.  Seems this particular, egregious offense mandated a sentence to be carried out standing beside the barn.

“You stand here and think about what you said, you disruptive little shit.  I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life!”  That was Mother as she jammed the grease-and-cow-shit-blackened bar of Lava in my mouth.  “And I’ll be watching you through the window, Butcher Einstein Johnson. Don’t you dare take it out until I say!”

As she walked away, she flipped over her shoulder, “Einstein my rosy-red ass.  Your grandmother missed that one entirely”

The reason my eyes teared with this memory is my crazy old grandmother.  She’s who named me and later that night, after dinner, she corralled me to go out to her potion pantry that was the smaller barn on our property.  All my previous trips to the cellar where she brewed her psychedelic mushroom potions were for times when I’d been injured or poisoned, real or imagined. This was the first visit when the invitation was a curiosity to me.

My Grandmother started laughing on our walk to the pantry as soon as we were out of sight of the kitchen window where Mother was washing dinner dishes.  “That might’a been tha funniest fuckin’ thing I ever did hear.  Yer mother’s got no sense to a good humor, sonny boy, and she never did.”

Once inside the storage cellar of her potion pantry, Gram searched the shelves looking for a particular bottle.  “Little fucker’s here, I jist know it.”  She grumbled and groaned as she reached and stooped and crawled the shelves to find what she sought.

“Here it is!” she exclaimed. All I could see of her was the bottom of her Keds poking out from the heavy plank shelf where she was deeply planted.

She held the medicinal-brown pint glass bottle to my face for a close look, then set it on her work counter.  “I made this un fer tha boys when they got back from tha big Dubbie Two.  That war broke them boys right on down, Butcher.  They needed a pick-er uppie when they got back ta home.”

She turned the label to her own face and read me the label.  “Fuck Hitler and Tito too-  Mooseie Boy’s Done Already Dead!”

I now know that she was referring to Benito Mussolini, the best effort the Italians could make at a modern wartime dictator.  I’ve always thought the Italians spent all their real warrior vitriol back in the Times of Rome.  Too much amore in modern Italians to conger-up a true mirror image of old Adolph.

I just stood in rapt anticipation of what my Gram might say next.

“Here, boy, let’s give ya a double doser.  Ain’t used this shit in ten years and I’mma thinkin’ it might a lost its pow’r.”

Gram squeezed a first dropper into my opened mouth, I swallowed and then accepted another.  She looked at me and said, “Fuck it,” and squeezed several full droppers into her own mouth.

“Let’s us go sit onna dock an have a cold one.”

We did, my first entire cold beer sipped while my grandmother told me stories about war, and Baptist preacher’s wives and my mother.  Maybe it’s time for a repeat performance.

Fuck Walmart this Xmas season!

 

 

Print Friendly

Cynthianne Visits Santa Fe; Modifications For A Mostly Modern Man

Monday, January 28th, 2013

 

So. After a swift yet satisfying visit with Cynthianne from Albuquerque Friday evening, I enjoyed a mostly satisfying weekend. C’Anne came to Santa Fe for a rally supporting the 40th Anniversary of Roe V. Wade and arrived at Del Charro with Gloria in tow. I would very much like to tell you more about Gloria, but I can’t. Not because I know nothing of Gloria—I do—and not because I’m censored in any fashion.

I’ll remain mute re: Gloria because I don’t quite know what to think. Del Charro is bustling and quite noisy Friday afternoons, Gloria doesn’t drink but she’s a smoker requiring frequent trips outdoors for fixes, and to be brutally honest—I, Mooner Johnson, have the ADHD.

Gloria might also be afflicted, but Cynthianne is not, no sir-ee, Cynthianne has the laser focus of a clear mind and peaked interest. She’s exactly who we all thought she would be and I’m better off that she’s inside my circled wagons. She has much to say and I’m trying to get her to say some of it here in a guest posting.

Gloria was too busy circling for me to get a firm grasp on her stuff. She always spoke quietly, almost conspiratorially, in the 90-decibel Del Charro air, and I missed most of her words. I did get that she has been involved with a group who persuaded the US Department of Justice to do an investigation into the Albuquerque Police Department. This much I got because Cynthianne told me when Gloria stepped out for a ciggie break.

Our visit was far too short as Gloria wanted to start the hour-long drive home before dark. I’ll let Cynthianne tell you more whenever she decides to say something.

Which brings up another subject… Sex. OK, stop. Sex, and God, which, of course, would be two subjects. OK, stop once more, as in my eyes this particular conversation regards the single-subject introspections of sex and God as conjoined twin subjects sharing all vital organs. Maybe it doesn’t matter how many subjects there are to you, but the distinction is quite important to me.

Which brings up another subject. In an effort to bring better prose to these pages, I have been reading this silly shit to the dogs before I hit the “Publish” button in my Word Press Admin section. I’m not looking for content editing from the Squirt and goat dog, but rather I’m seeking to find if this silly shit is somewhat understandable. I’m actually watching to see if their eyes glaze over as I read to them.

“What’s with all the modifiers, shithead?” Squirt asked me when I read them my last posting. “All the “quites” and “mostlys” and “particulars” are distracting,” she told me. “Why don’t you just say, ‘the sex was good’, and leave out the mostly part?”

I must admit that I needed to think on that for quite some time before I could accurately answer her. “Well, little darling, if I’m going to hold myself accountable to full disclosure in these pages, I’m required to make modifications wherein I see them as necessary statements, usually.”

“Huh?” the diminutive puppy said. She looked at Yoda to get some telepathic information from his small brain—a brain damaged with abuse at the puppy mill over to Okla-fucking-homa and further damaged from his diet of pine cones and the pretty crushed granite gravel Adrian and I spread over some of the yard here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe.

“The goat dog thinks that you’re way too fucking wordy, Bwana, he says to tell you that less is more.”

I hate that “less-is-more” bullshit, don’t you guys? I mean I get that sometimes the less you say the better, but when you’re providing the written details of shit that happens you’re required to say what it is with however many words it takes to say it. Right?

“That’s bullshit, sweetie pie, we’re talking about explaining things—we’re not salesmen.”

Squirt looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “What, in the Hell, are you talking about we’re not salesmen?”

“Oh, you know, when a salesman asks for the order he’s supposed to shut the fuck up. The better sales guys will ask you to buy their silly shit and then not speak until you say something in response. That way they can learn what your objections might be so that they can work on you from better perspectives. Unless, of course, they get the order, in which case they take your money.”

I love the part of parenting where you teach your charges advanced insights and stuff. I’m always looking for the right opportunities to give the dogs information to work their ways through this quite crazy world of ours.

“Jesus, Mooner, you really are a nut bag and a confusing nut bag at that. And stop saying ‘of course’ so much. Makes my skin crawl when you say that.”

I know she’s quite right about that. Then again, we’re brought right back to where we started this discourse and that, of course, brings up the meaning of the word “discourse”, which is, “A serious piece of writing or speech.”

How can that be, because dis means “…apart, asunder, away… or having a private negative force…”, and course, of course, means in this case “… a series of actions…”

And that, dear friends, brings me back to the main topic in mind when I started this. Sex and God. Why is sex and God so much on my mind? Because, by God, I need me some sex!!! My hands are so chaffed and rough from spending so much time lathered with Ivory soap that I didn’t need to buy sandpaper when I refinished a night stand this weekend.

I do need some psycho therapy though. OK, and help me with this one. How can you be a smoker without drinking? Only way I could ever stand my own fucking mouth after smoking cigarettes was to drink or commit oral sex.

Maybe I should stop for now and simply say, “Manana, y’all.”

Print Friendly

Sniff, Hike, Dribble: A Parenting Lesson From Mooner Johnson, Father-of-the-Year Nominee

Friday, June 15th, 2012

 

So. I’ve been pretty busy with shit and stuff and haven’t been around the computer much. I did do an article for Katy over to Lesbians in my Soup, a returned favor for the public service work she did on my behalf. She said she’ll post it today. All the extra editing I did on that little dealio is why I’ve not been around here to the home site.

And speaking of Katy’s favor, can you even believe how quickly word spread about that non-party? Some people were even talking about how I was roasting whole hogs for dinner and how Willie and the gang were coming to entertain us. People were making guesses about the guest list and all kinds of shit. Maybe they were confusing me with Mathew McConnaughey.

Someone even sent the fucking governor an invitation, and let me tell you right now, that was funny. I got the fake RSVP card in the mail yesterday. It was marked “Decline” and in a scratchy scrawl at the bottom, it said, “Rick doesn’t think you’re funny.” It was signed, “A.”

I’m guessing that the “A” was Anita Perry, the long suffering wifey-poo to the pompadoured prick we call Governor. I’m also guessing that the scratchy scrawl to her handwriting is from the “vitamins” she takes for her nerves.

As soon as I get clearance to tell you the story, I can provide you with some very interesting insights into Mr. And Mrs. Perry. You won’t believe what happened because I wouldn’t believe it my ownself if I hadn’t been there for the experience.

And by the way. Who taught Mathew McConnaughey how to spell?

I spent the morning over to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s house doing her lawn and pool. I like to walk the dogs in her neighborhood when I’m there so that the puppies can interact with other dogs, and also walking them on the pavement and concrete sidewalks keeps their nails trimmed.

Yoda the goat dog is a total trip when he walks the neighborhood. As he was raised locked in a cage at a puppy mill over to Oklahoma, he came to us without any of what the dog people call “socialization” skills. So he goes nuts every time we encounter another dog, and he barks and snarls 100-pound threats that his 12-pound butt can’t keep, and he still hasn’t come to grips with the whole concept of leaving his mark around town.

Squirt and I have spent hours teaching him the proper pissing protocol yet he still screws up most of the time. “Oh for shitsakes, Yoda, you dumb ass,” Squirt told him this morning. “First you sniff, then you lift your hind leg and then you dribble a few drops. And if you piss on my head one more time I’m feeding you to the coyotes.”

Then my adorable little puppy-translator turned to me and said to me, she said, “Do you have any idea what the attraction is with that entire golden shower thing, Mooner. I love the smell of urine but I hate to get it all over me.”

“We-ell,” I dragged out, “I’d like to say that I have no experience upon which to base an opinion, but, of course, I do.”

I then told her about the time I was down to Costa Rica with Roshandra, my ex number five and a large bladdered woman, and how I got stung on my back and the backs of my thighs by a sea nettle. “All the times before I’d been stung on my feet and calves so I could pee on myself to kill the pain,” I said. “Since my pecker is way too short to douse my back, Roshandra did the honors for me. I was lucky Roshandra can pee buckets.”

I reminisced for a minute and added, “I’d also like to say that I hated everything about it, but I can’t say that either.” For some reason the memory sparked thoughts of Thai hot and sour.

“Jesus, but you’re disgusting, Mooner. Where we going for lunch?” Squirt’s favorite meal is lunch.

We settled on Torchy’s Tacos and we hadn’t been finished eating for ten minutes when Yoda started with the refried bean farts in the car. He was riding shotgun in his harness and I had the windows up and the GTO’s A/C blasting. Squirt said, “Let’s throw him out of the car, Bwanna Mooner. I can’t take him any more.”

But the Squirt started farting too and we all got the giggles and played fart games. I was thinking about that just a while ago and it came to me that the dogs have the maturity level of ten-year-old boys, and so do I.

And I miss my father. For no visible reason at all, I have this longing to spend just one more hour with Daddy. Maybe it was the retelling of the bean farts. Daddy loved fart humor. Maybe I miss him because he was so missable.

Manana, y’all.

Print Friendly

My Old Kentucky Assholes; Pack Mentality Always A Loser

Tuesday, April 3rd, 2012

 

So. Kentucky and their asshole coach won the men’s basketball championship last night and the asshole Kentucky fans showed us why I call them assholes. Not that Kentucky has cornered the market on asshole sports fans, it’s just that when a school like Kentucky finally gets a winner at some fucking thing, you’d think they would act more human. As bad as Kentucky’s football team is, you’d think their fans would happy celebrate a big win like this, rather than tear shit up.

Makes me wonder what these assholes do when they lose at shit. If they lost last night, I guess they go down to the soup kitchen and serve the hungry or head over to Big Brothers and Sisters and sign up for sponsorship. Maybe their brains are reverse-wired from normal brains. Maybe they reward good deeds with punishments and bad deeds with good cheer and support.

Maybe they are just assholes and assholes travel in packs for protection. Notice how it’s never the lone wolf who starts a riot? Have you noticed that schoolboy fights are never started when the lone new kid at school walks over to the pack of bullies to pick a fight? Nope, assholes are chickenshits, and chickenshits require critical mass to have any guts.

OK, except I just thought of this one example of the lone wolf picking the fight with the pack. It was seventh grade and back then Austin still had an open, active Air Force Base, and my junior high school had a pack of bullies. Our school’s bully pack was led by Jimmy Seigler. All the Seiglers were from Kentucky, which I hope is the reason this story popped into my head. Jimmy was the youngest Seigler brother of four and the fourth in succession to have been held back twice by the time he hit seventh grade. He was fifteen when we started my seventh grade and turned sixteen quickly after.

So, Jimmy Seigler was sixteen in January when Robert Meone started school with us. Now, let me back up for a second and tell you that the Seigler-led wolf pack didn’t ever mess with me or my group of friends. My best bud, Streaker Jones, was the baddest mother fucker in the entire Austin Independent School District when he hit third grade. High school bullies turned tail and hid when they heard Streaker Jones was looking for them.

Streaker Jones made certain that nobody at our school got beat up without good cause, so the Seigler pack had to make due with verbal intimidation. They’d call kids sissy and queer and all of that stupid shit, and they’d posture and act like imbeciles. But they didn’t beat kids up.

So, Robert Meone was the seventh grade son of an Air Force sergeant who transferred to Austin from Georgia in January. He was tall and rope thin and looked like a Praying Mantas. We were all in the Commons before school on Robert’s first day, gathered as we did every day before school. All the kids were standing in their groups acting the variety of dumb as only junior high kids can act. Robert walked into the big room, stopped and looked around at all the groups of kids, took his jacket off, folded it and placed it carefully on the floor.

I remember that the jacket was one of those silk bomber jackets worn by servicemen of the era, and it had a hand-stitched airplane embroidered on the back. It was a jacket for the Mosquito Squadron, a famous flying group from the Korean war. Robert’s daddy was the lead mechanic for that squadron during that war. OK, conflict, the Korean Conflict.

He just stood there with his long arms dangling at his side. He had quite long arms and they hung to his thighs. We were about twenty feet away and I must admit I was curious about this new kid’s strange behaviors. I said, “Let’s go meet the new guy,” and I took a step that direction.

Streaker Jones grabbed my arm and said, “Stop, Mooner. Watch this.”

I always did, and still do, whatever Streaker Jones tells or asks me to do. He is the smartest human I know and he has both saved me from serious harm and shown me some of the funniest things on earth. Meone just stood there relaxed, with hands at his side and what as an adult I would call a “bemused” look on his face.

The noise level of the Commons was gradually lowering—like the lights at the symphony when they want you to take your seat. The talk lowered to murmurs and whispers all around as the different kids started to notice the lone figure standing in the midst of all our established groups.

“Hey, everybody, look at the Air Force queer standing like a fencepost.” It was Jimmy Seigler. “Hey queer boy, what are you doing here?”

Robert turned to face the Seigler pack, and then he smiled. Didn’t say a word, but he smiled. A simple act of defiance that instantly enraged Seigler. With his pack of junior high thugs backing him up, Seigler moved across the Commons to where Meone stood smiling. Streaker Jones said, “Look at his hands, Mooner.”

I looked and saw two raw-boned fists covered with big scabs.

“Boy ‘s a fighter,” my friend said. “Looks like fun ta me.”

“I’m talking to you, Air Force queer boy,” Seigler said as he reached Robert’s post. “What you smiling at, queer boy?”

Robert looked him up, then down, and said, “Looks like a sack a shit to me. Are you the toughest they got here in Texas?”

Seigler clearly relished this moment because he was allowed to only fight when the other guy started it. That was a rule strictly enforced by Streaker Jones. The bully cast a sideways glance at Streaker Jones before answering, “I’m tough enough to kick your skinny Air Force queer ass.”

“OK, take the first shot,” Robert Meone told him. “My daddy only let’s me fight if I don’t throw the first punch.”

Seigler ripped his jacket off and threw it to the ground. It was a three-year letter jacket for the Auto Mechanics Club. Seigler was the only kid old enough to drive in seventh grade. He posed his fisted hands like a boxer and started circling Meone, looking for a spot to make his move. Meone didn’t even turn to follow as Seigler circled him. When he had walked all the way around, Seigler feinted a left jab and then threw a big, looping right hand. If it had landed, it might have broken bones.

If it had landed.

I’d never seen actual Asian martial arts before that morning. In less than ten seconds, Seigler was on the floor bleeding from his broken nose, and crying like a baby. His whimpers were the only sounds in the Commons. Jimmy had two fingers of his left hand bent and broken, looking like a cardboard tube from a wire pants hanger that had been twisted with pliers. He’d been punched in the nose, and kicked in his ribs—two broken and three separated—and if the asshole had any nuts, they would soon be swollen to the size of grapefruit.

Meone just stood there, his now re-bloodied fists hanging at his sides and the bemused look back on his face. After a couple minutes he broke the verbal silence. “Anyone else?”

The entire room looked over at Streaker Jones. “Welcome to Austin. I’m Streaker Jones and this here is Mooner.”

Robert Meone fast became one of our group. He was smart and funny as all get out. He had lived in many far away places and had great stories about Japan and Germany and England. His father was transferred less than six months after he arrived, and that explained Meone’s actions the first day at school.

“When you go to three different schools every year, you either eat the bear or the bear eats you. I decided to set the table and get dinner done early. I like to eat the bear, and I prefer my bear first thing of a day.”

He went on to say that he’d had his ass kicked for years until his daddy was shipped to Japan for fifth grade. There he learned martial arts and self defense. Once he knew how to fight, he made the conscious decision to not be picked on again.

And holy shit am I off the fucking tracks. Look, I love me some University of Texas sports teams, and I do mean I love them. I am a true fanatic. But when we won the football National Championship a few years ago, I didn’t go out and burn peoples’ homes or wreck their cars, I had celebratory sex a couple times to unwind from the high. And when we lost the championship game two years ago, I didn’t go looking for trouble then either. I went over to Roshandra’s house for some poor sweet baby action.

Roshandra is ex-wife number five and the best poor sweet baby partner ever. Roshandra could make me forget I had any problems.

Maybe folks up to Kentucky don’t like sex. Maybe they’d rather trash up the streets than have good sex. Maybe folks up to Kentucky don’t know how to have good sex. Hell, maybe all those rioters were toothless assholes incapable of getting laid. Hell, for all I know it was a bunch of fucking Seiglers up there getting into a pack and acting stupid.

I need a beer. Manana, y’all.

Print Friendly

Lessons In Parenting; Hot Sauce Torches Breakfast Mood

Monday, March 26th, 2012

 

So. We were all at breakfast this morning enjoying pancakes, apple wood smoked bacon and a big fritatta with peppers, onions and strips of zucchini. I went to the walk-in pantry for a fresh jar of my homemade salsa for the eggies only to find the cupboard bare of tasty sauce picant.

“Moth-er fuck-er!” I was pissed. “Why didn’t somebody tell me we’re out of salsa?”

I walked back into the kitchen and waved the offending last jar at the table full of formerly laid-back diners. “Who took the next-to-the-last jar from the pantry without telling me?”

The kitchen air chilled with my harsh, frosty bitch. Everyone but Gram pulled a church mouse and picked quietly at their plates. Gram, however, didn’t.

“Shut yer yapper, ya pissy little shitbird. What was ya plannin’ ta do iffn ya knowed?”

I didn’t have a good answer to that question, but not having a good answer never stops me from having something stupid to say. “I have a right to know and you guys have a responsibility to tell me.”

“Awright, fuckball, we’s outta hot sauce. Now open tha last one an’ give it ta me. My eggies er dry ’cause ya left ’em in tha oven too long.”

I can always count on my Gram to straighten my ass right up. What real difference would it make to have known we were down to one jar of sauce made from fresh produce from our garden when we’re still six weeks out from having any produce from which to make a new batch? How much more would I have obsessed about it if I had known? Answer, an entire week’s worth.

“OK, sorry, guys. I should actually thank you for not telling me. Saved me anguishing over it for the last week. I had no idea we were so low. I was just in there a couple weeks ago and there were eight or ten jars in the pantry.”

Mother still had the front page of the newspaper clenched in her fist at what was now the midway point of Sunday breakfast. She said, “Says here that our dear, sweet ex-Vice President Cheney got a heart transplant. God bless him. And there were a dozen jars week before last and I took eleven to the church for the big Fiesta party last weekend.”

Huh? She stole eleven of the last twelve jars of MY hot sauce to feed a bunch of fucking Baptists? My “top-ten in the entire world, scorch-the-skin-off-your-lips hot sauce with a secret ingredient” hot sauce was consumed by a church full of fucking Baptists?

“You what???” I half yelled. “You stole MY hot sauce and took it to church?”

“Don’t you dare yell at your mother, Mooner Einstein Johnson. Show me some respect?”

I didn’t need the fiery-hot salsa to heat me up now. “Show you respect? Show you some fucking respect? Why, I’ll show you some…”

I didn’t get anything else out. Mr. Dave rose from his chair and pointed an elegant finger my way. “Sit, and zip your lip, Mr. Johnson. I don’t want to feel required to take you outside for a lesson in manners, but I most certainly will.”

I’d never noticed that Mr. Dave has elegant hands to match his elegant pecker. Long, slender fingers and perfectly manicured nails. Fitting, I guess, that a man with a giant pecker should have good hands to hold it with.

“But,” I started, then realized what I was doing. “Aw, shit on a dinner plate and call it fudge.” Now I looked at my own hands that I’d clenched into fists. “I’m sorry for being an asshole, everybody. And speaking of assholes, did they say if they could find a heart to exchange when they cut into Mr. Haliburton, or was the new heart an add-on rather than a replacement?”

Actually, old Dicky C must have had some semblance of a heart. The one issue he and I agree upon is his support for gay rights. Then again, his support likely stems from the simple fact that his own daughter is a lesbian. Funny how spawning and rearing a gay child can effect your world views. But who gives a shit how he got there. Dick Cheney had to have a little heart.

“And I’m sorry for what I said about your idol, Mother. He must have had some sort of heart before. I have a tendency to judge by content rather than by the cover.”

That was breakfast and now I’m fixing to give the kids another shaving lesson. The cuts on my scalp and nose have healed into fresh scars and I’m feeling brave. And Mother’s theft of my hot sauce has given me an idea. What if I tell Rick Perry he can have his breast implants if he and the other animals can raise the money? I think an ostrich getting giant rubber titties is very close to a really dumb idea, but I thought liquid paper was stupid too. We’ll jar hot sauce to sell and the kids will all participate in growing the veggies. I’ll let the ostrich sell the idea, and if he can convince the dogs and fucking cat to help him, I can teach teamwork, entrepreneurship, hard work and charity, and all in one gift basket.

Multi-tasker is my middle name, and better parenting through creative thought is my game. But maybe I should hide a stash of this season’s hot sauce over to SAC Ellen’s place. Manana, y’all.

Print Friendly