Archive for the ‘Politics’ Category

Class Confusions; What’s Your Strength?

Monday, May 4th, 2015

So.  Today is an interesting day for me.  I’m caught cogitating between, or maybe I should better say debating between, two subjects about which to ramble.  As my skull is a-swill with myriad thoughts on each subject, to elucidate herewith without a deliberate debate as to which subject is most appropriate would send us all into word-and-sugar shock.  The conflict is that one subject is something I wish to speak about of my own devices, and the other is a subject upon which my God has asked me to expound.

My personal subject is one upon which I have been thinking long and hard to find a way to cogently state my ideas.  For several years now, I have thought that I have insights enough to formulate a theory, said theory having practical application and being worthy of publication herein.  As previously stated to the pages hereof, I see a marked likeness in 1968 and today.  The happenings in Baltimore relate directly to this theory and spurred additional thinkings on the subject last evening as the dogs and I sat out to our portal for our last beer and smoke of the day.

The weather was rainy and cold, so we were all sitting in the rocker covered with an old army style blanket.  The rocker is extra-wide so as to allow the three of us comfort, and the only part of the dogs that saw fresh air was their adorable, tiny snouts.  The only reason even their muzzles shown was to enable them to lick Carta Blanca beer from the pointy finger of my left hand.

Maybe that should have been “muzzles shown were” to enable beer slurps, but who really gives a shit?

I had fed my puppies several sloppy fingers of Mexico’s best cerveza from my left-hand digit before my right hand tired of holding the cold bottle.  Having switched hands with lit doobie and cold bottle, I fed the dogs another lick, then stuck the near roach to my lips for a pull.  The stench of acrid dog slobber stuck to my left finger overwhelmed the sweet fragrance of Raspberry Kush.

“That was pretty fucking stupid of me,” I told the three of us.  “Which of you has been eating cat shit?”

“Don’t look at me, I’m on a cat shit-free diet for now.  My butt still hurts from all those drizzle shits the last time I imbibed.  Yoda’s found a secret stash around the corner of the house—takes little snacks throughout the day.”  The Squirt added, she told me, “He says to feed him more and he won’t need the supplemental nutrition.”

“The two of you are already overweight, little lady, and I’ve been thinking of cutting back on your rations.”

The deep brown eyes gave me a hard stare, then smiled.  “You’ll need to hide all your shoes and put plastic on every surface of the house first.”

That was not a threat, it was a promise.  “Just tell him to stop eating cat shit, OK?”

I got no answer, but, rather, received insight.  “Sonofabitch!” I exclaimed and startled the dogs, who both jumped from beneath the blanket to bark maniacally.  “Son, of a, bitch!  I know how to say it.”

Squirt didn’t bother to ask me what it was that I knew how to say.  She looked at me disgustedly (not an actual Webster’s word, but the most precise way to describe her look) and slid back under the blanket.  That’s the backstory on what it is I want to say.  As for God’s issue, that will relate to later last night as I lay sleeping—deeply, I might add—when I felt the weight of another person sit beside me.  They sat near the goat dog, and because Yoda didn’t leap from under the covers to run, I knew it was God.  My God, not yours.

I didn’t bother to open my eyes when I said, I asked my God, “Hey, God, how’s it hanging, baby?  Long time, no see.”

God lifted the covers aside and snuggled in beside me, facing to look into my eyes.  “It got cold here today, Mooner, cold enough to snow.  It’s almost May…  You humans need to do something about global climate change or your clock will stop ticking.”

With my eyes still closed, I said, “Since you said, ‘May,’ and not ‘Three in the fucking morning,’ maybe a better simile would be to say, ‘If you don’t stop global climate change that our calendar will stop flipping.’…Is that why you’re here, ma’am, to convince me to stop greenhouse gassing?  If so, I’m going back to sleep—you’re preaching to the choir.  Head on over to the Koch brothers’ houses and let me get some rest.”

“I used a proper figure of speech, silly boy, to emphasize that you people are fucking things all the way up, and back.”

God reached a slender hand to my face and gently flicked my nose with a manicured finger.  I smelled the scent of rosemary and fresh lemon zest and immediately knew what visage I would encounter when I opened my eyes.

“You’re here as Cat Cora, right?”

I opened my eyes and sure enough, the ever-so-attractive lesbian chef’s eyes stared deeply into mine.  “Don’t even think about it, Mooner.  I only look like this to fulfill part of that fantasy and to get your attention.  Focus on my words or I’ll change into Sarah Palin.”

“Uh, well, er…  I’d be OK with that as well.  You know I did have dream sex with the Alaskan Governor that one time.”

“I said focus, big boy.  You need to write about hunger, Mooner.  People are starving and near-starving right here in The Land of Plenty.  I know you plan to rant about your comparisons between today and 1968, but don’t forget to speak to the issue of hunger.”

God kissed me with Cat Cora’s lips and poof, She was gone.  The covers hung for a few seconds, molded into the shape of Cat Cora’s body.

“Was She nekid?  Did anybody see if She was nekid?”  I’ve long wondered what Cat Cora looks like under those dowdy chef togs.  She has great lips I now know, and I’m thinking a killer physique as well.  Maybe I can invent sexy chefs’ clothing.

Anyway, before my ADD burns our cookies and over-whips our cream, let me see if I can’t find a way to combine God’s plan with my own.  Here’s what I’ve been trying to say.  America is at a tipping point again, a point of great upheaval.  We have once more become a class society of distinct and quite obvious differences—a three-tiered near oligarchy now manipulated by the upper class of super wealthy and too large corporations.  There’s the middle class of professionals, union workers, small business owners and our like—those of us with plenty of money to live comfortably yet not enough to pay for political or social influence as individuals.  Then we have our last class—our working poor, disabled and homeless, our hungry, and those with murdered motivations, who combine to make the class of Americans living paycheck-to-paycheck, or worse.  A class in the wealthiest society ever known that has millions of under fed, malnourished members.

For the sake of my argument, please accept that I see the upper class as 5% of our human population, the last class as 35%, and we in the middle as the remaining 60%.  Disagree with these numbers if you wish, but even Foxy Newbs puts my estimate at +/-10%, a margin fully acceptable in my summaries.  If you can accept my percentages as at least in some ball park not Camden Yard, you’ll be able to understand my theory, which is this:

“Humans fight with their strengths—simple mathematics always wins.”

OK, that was pretty lame.  Accurate to my intent, but lame all the same.  Let me try to elucidate.  Assume an upper class person wants something.  How do they get it? They BUY it.  A rich person’s real strength is money—not their numbers nor their willingness to get dirty or fight with their own hands, it’s their wealth.  So, when the rich get tired of paying their fair share and want to control government and influence public policy to lessen their burden, they simply fucking BUY it.  Rich folks don’t do work to get rich, they have others make the actual effort for pay.  Or payola.

The rich in America control the vast majority of our wealth and a few of them are using that wealth to control the rest of us.  For my example, let’s look at those kooky Koch boys.  Their plans are to invest at least $250 million to buy a president and to influence their rich buddies to contribute the remaining dollars to reach the $2 Billion total required to complete the purchase.  Simple math for the strength of the rich, and hold that thought.

The class most opposite the rich have no money to pay for their families to eat healthy food much less enough loose change to fund a US Senator to deny global climate change.  When a poor man decides to influence something, he might have his words with which to fight, but in today’s American politics, words and facts are worth almost nothing because the rich have purchased our media and constantly lie to us.  So, when a poor man gets tired of repression at the hands of the rich or powerful, he reacts in anger and frustration—his class’ strengths—and starts putting matches to shit.  Matches are free at every liquor store on almost every corner in his neighborhood, and one man with one tiny paper match can bring down an entire CVS Pharmacy and turn a rich man’s $5 Million investment in building and inventory into ashes.

Now for a poor man’s simple math.  Of the thousands of protesters in Baltimore, what if only 400 had a pack of matches and struck flame for their cause?  If each torched facility equaled an average $5 Million in ashes, the overnight tally in Baltimore alone would equal the Koch-fueled President-purchasing funding of $2 Billion.

In the middle, we middletons have the numbers, we are the majority and we have the votes to decide any political issue.  Should we desire to influence public policy, our voices can be loud and clear, but only if we can agree on things and actually VOTE!  We can’t buy our way into power, but we can vote it.  Our votes are our strength.  Our strength and mathematical power are simple to evoke, take the least amount of effort, and in the final analysis, are the most powerful class strength.

We need to awaken to the dangers of today and use our strength.  Put some efforts into regaining balance and civility in our society.  We need to stop bitching and start doing something.  We need to get involved and get out the vote.  Now.

Did that make any sense?  Fuck Walmart!

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Changing Perspectives; Mooning A Senator’s Wife

Sunday, August 3rd, 2014

So. I’ll begin this posting with another attempt to outsmart my Word Press bloggie software. I’ve so far made attempts in vain, efforts that have nothing to do with vanity, another of our language’s many vagaries and conflicts of interest. If the outline format and numbers appear once more herein, please know that I will continue my attempts at correction. I realized earlier this beautiful New Mexico morning that first, my lack of computer knowledge is a handicap and, second, my ADHD both handicaps and trumps my lack of knowledge.
If there truly is a God as the modern American extremist charismatic Christians seem to see It, then one man would not be required to be dumb AND have less focus than the cracked lens of my old Brownie camera. Plus, said loving God would require—and I do mean require—all His/Her/Its followers to look at both sides of every situation rather than to focus on only the one side. The side that suits their bigotries.
Having made that preamble, please allow me to tell you that I took a break from mourning my sister’s death—and gritting my teeth at my mother’s actions thereabout—and hosted a neighborhood meeting for the New Mexico Democratic Party. I’ve decided—at my psycho therapist’s urgings—to get myself involved with local politics in a more proactive way. The little soiree was attended by maybe thirty-five likeminded residents and held in the adorable back yard here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. Lucky we were like-minded, as an hour in a big thunderstorm blew through and forced the entire crowd to bunch up on my portal.
For those of you not familiar with our culture, a portal is an outdoor living space some would call a covered porch even though calling it a covered porch doesn’t quite cover it. Our portals are often separate structures, and here I’ll stop myself from getting into all the whys as to how our New Mexican portals put your covered porches to shame.
The honorees in attendance last evening were our candidate for Lt. Governor, Deb Haaland, and the wife of our state’s senior US Senator, the most honorable Jill Udall. Lovely women in all ways were they both. The Democratic runner for Lt. Governor is a Native American woman with the perfect background to be a leader, and lucky for us all that the previously-mentioned psycho therapist had admonished me earlier in that day to, as she put it, “And look me in the eyes, Mooner Einstein Johnson—I said look me in the eyes you inappropriate numbskull—do not, repeat do n…o….t use this meeting as an opportunity to meet women!”
I spoke with the Squirt after, when we were cleaning up the meager trash, and she said to me, she said, “I saw several qualified prospects, Bwana, including the future Assistant Governor.”
When I tried to tell my little brown puppy that a Lt. Governor isn’t an assistant governor, she almost scolded me when she said, “Listen to me, shithead, and listen good. That is a smart, strong and focused woman. She’ll assist and then she’ll take over.”
As host, Jill Udall felt compelled to spend a few moments interacting with me, moments she likely regrets. She thanked me for hosting the event and complemented me on my quite comfortable and attractive back yard. We discussed local politics for a minute and then she excused herself to go to her next event. I made some silly-assed comment about how she must be busy, what with her husband up for reelection this November, and then as she turned to leave, she turned back and said to me, “I’m sorry, Mr. Johnson, but I have to ask you. How did you come to be named Mooner?”
I showed her.
“Oh for shit sakes, Mooner,” Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson scolded me in my Friday session the next morning. “Don’t you ever think before pulling your ass out?”
“I don’t understand what the big deal is, Sammie. My left cheek was already shaved to say, ‘Vote for sanity’. I’d have finished but my new shave artist is having trouble balancing the right cheek to match it. Seems “Vote Democratic!” is difficult for one cheek’s worth of fur,” I thoughtfully explained. “My plans are to stand on various street corners and encourage people to vote sanely.”
The good Doctor stared at me over the Skype machine for what felt like ten minutes. “You’re wasting my therapy money, Sammie, so say something.”
“OK, asshole, try this on for size. Have you thought—even once—that you flashing your backsides on a street corner would create an urge in sane people to vote sanely?”
After some careful thought, I shaved both cheeks this morning so the hair will grow back evenly for a new slogan. I’m thinking “Vote for Women- Vote Democratic!” will fit the appropriateness bill. That one doesn’t have all that push-pull.
Anyway, yesterday I went to another Democratic soiree attended by Senator Udall and his friend, Senator Al Franken. I love the word “soiree” and it was a doozy. Fodder for another day. So:
Fuck Walmart.

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Chris Christy- The Face Of The Republican Party

Monday, January 13th, 2014

 

So. Thought I’d drop you a quick line, see what happens. Gram called me yesterday afternoon and the call went like this:

Me: “Hey, baby, who’s banging whom?

Gram: “I’mma be a bangin’ yer hard head iffn ya don’t call yer crazy ol’ mother.”

Me: “I already spoke to her twice today, Gram. What’s her bitch now?”

Gram: “Said she had ate a salad at lunch with Eddie’s mammy an’ got tha gassers so bad she shit herse’f. You call ‘er up an’ make it right.”

“Eddie’s mammy?” I asked the dial tone buzzing in my ear. “Eddie’s mammy?” I re-asked, this time to the Squirt.

The little brown dog looked at me like I’d lost my mind and said to me, she said, “Your mother’s memory is going fast, shithead. Try to be more respectful, if you even can.

“OK, you’re right, of course. But Eddie’s mammy? Who, inthefuck, could Eddie’s mother be? Hells-bells, Squirtie girl, I don’t even know an Eddie in Mother’s life.”

Which reminds me. I heard Rangy Rance Preibublican, head of all Republicans, on the TV Sunday am, and he was saying how Governor Christy having closed a major Interstate bridge in political retribution, causing serious human suffering, and then throwing his own staff under the bus and lying about it all, does not disqualify the obese former prosecutor from a Presidential slot on the next Republican ticket.

I agree. Chris Christy is the face of the Republican Party—a fat white bigot willing to cheat and lie and take social support from the needy, all the while clutching his rosary and living his life for Christ’s honor. “Chris Christy is the face of the Republican Party” should be their new motto.

And that just spurred the mental acuity required to solve Gram’s puzzle. Edamame. Eddie’s mammy is soy beans. My mother is allergic to raw soy beans, had some in a salad and got the squirts. Having figured out the quiz, I beg the question, “How’s that my problem?”

Anyway, gotta go for now. Manana, or so, y’all.

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Syria Brings Out Serial Liars; Beej Makes 6 O’Clock News

Sunday, September 15th, 2013

 

So. Labor Day has passed and I find myself deeply troubled with the labors of my country. In watching all the ballyhoo surrounding the entire Syria fiasco, I’ve come to realize that there are very few honest men or women left who are willing to run for public office, or who are willing to serve in offices of public service. It seems that each and every person who either has a Congressional vote, or an opinion that we should value as it relates to this Syria bullshit, is a liar. A prevaricator.

And don’t even start with me about how it’s all just “spin”, and we need to be cautious when discussing a delicate public issue. In my eyes, if you know what you are saying isn’t true in its essence, you, dear friend, are a fucking liar. Don’t nuance my ass, tell me the truth. This is a semi-democratic republic and it is we, the People, who need to be making decisions.

And speaking of the truth, I’ve found myself a new source for my news—a source that it seems from early viewing that I can trust. I can’t spell it yet, but I can watch it without questioning each and every word. I hear two sides of stories and actually get to watch a reporter question the words of “authorities” who spin facts into misunderstandable pabulum. If you’ve tuned your TV to watch Current TV in the last several weeks, you too have caught sight of my new news source.

On the phone yesterday, when I told my mother that I had started watching Al Jazeera America to get my news, she went all apoplectic on me. “Wh… Uh… Well, I… Uh… You’ll burn in Hell, Mooner. How can you do this to me?”

Maybe so, Mother, I’ve started wearing foil undies to get acclimated to the heat” I told her, “and why does everything I do reflect on you? At least I’ll burn with the knowledge that I died with some actual fucking facts about Syria.”

Oh please, Dear God, don’t tell me that you don’t support a Syrian war. This is the first thing that Muslim murderer from Ethiopia has gotten right. Are you going to tell me that you disagree with me on this, when I finally agree with Obama?”

I pondered Mother’s question carefully to organize my thoughts. I felt it was important to give her a precise answer. I took another full minute to gather, sort and emphasize the words. “You bet your bigoted and wrinkly old ass I disagree with you. This Syria business stinks from end-to-end.”

I heard the deep, martyred sigh that has been Mother’s go-to preamble to any emotional display. I heard it a second time—a sure sign that I would soon hear the words, “I don’t know what I did to deserve (fill-in the blank).”

Why doesn’t the Good Lord just take me right now—I’ve suffered enough. I just don’t know what I did to deserve living my life with such disrespectful children. That’s the first question I’ll ask Sweet Jesus when I finally lay to rest.”

Would you ask Him for me does He fold or is He a baller, Mother. I’ve got God’s answer, but maybe Jesus can give me a definitive answer.”

I’ve had a personal debate about which is truly the best method for wiping my ass. When I asked God that one time, She told me the answer would come to me in the end. Ever since I was a post-rape teenager, I have carefully folded my perforated sheets of papier de toilette and swabbed my quite attractive ass in much the same manner a maker of fine cabinets would file the burrs off rough-sawn birch planks. My psycho therapist has long told me that the precision of my personal ass hygiene habits lies in my desire to cleanse my mind of the entire experience wherein my Baptist deacon Boy Scout Leader laid hands on me on my thirteenth birthday.

Me, I think it is my desire to display my ass to the world that spurs the etiquette, as I see a dirty moon as a wasted effort. Nobody wants to see a 6’4” man lower tobacco-stained white cotton undies to display a cut and dyed depiction of the American flag with a couple brown stripes.

Mother’s response to my question was to hang up on said, and same, gorgeous ass. Can’t blame her. And why, inthefuck, is Microsoft Word telling me that my use of the capitalized word “She” to describe God’s words is a mistake. I’ve met God, I know of what I speaketh. OK, maybe that should have been “of which I speaketh”.

As far as the Syrian dealio goes, fuck Syria, fuck World opinion, fuck John “There is no Such Thing as Too Much Escalation” McCain, fuck Rand Paul, and I must say as well, fuck President Obama. One of the reasons I voted for him is because I believed him when he said that this kind of intervention—this Syrian shit—is not something he supports or would ever.

But he lied. Obama lied. Not a real surprise, but a disappointment.

And that reminds me. I was at work and I got a call from my next door neighbor—a comely woman of extraordinary nosiness. She likes to take my mail from the box at the street and place it, carefully, on the rocker that sits on the front porch and behind the great wall of Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. “Mooner, there’s quite a pile of mail today. You’ve phone, American Express, New Mexico Natural Gas and City Services bills, and a fat and lumpy envelope from some man back East. Another Johnson. Is he your cousin?”

Not every Johnson is kin, dear lady. Although you could say that every person with a johnson is my brother.”

Huh?” her first response. “Oh, for shit sakes, Mooner. You really are an asshole.”

I hung up with the wondering as to just what kind of lumpy surprise my buddy Beej had sent from Tennessee. After ruminating the possibilities, I settled on either a pulled pork sammie from this one place he drove me within thirty minutes of my first arrival in Murfreesboro, or a really fat doobie of Tennessee’s finest mountain-grown. My final considerations were that it would be a small doob to make me extra hungry for the mailed pork sandwich, and I went about my very busy day.

Day finished after dark, I arrived home late to find both dogs sitting at the front door with looks of consternation plastered to their faces.

You’re late, shithead. Yoda got so hungry he’s already eaten a cabinet door and most of your plastic containers from the shelf behind the door. I had him puke that appetizer into your basket of clean underwear.”

I’m sorry, Squirtie girl, but I’m crushed at work right now. Let’s get you fed.”

I placed my laundry back in the washer, put the first serving of their kibbles into their bowls and picked up the mail I’d grabbed from the porch as I walked in. The letter from Beej was in the middle and made the stack of envelopes cant awkwardly. “Did either of you take a sniff at this letter today? Smell anything interesting?”

Fuck you, Mooner. You’re lucky I didn’t tell the goat dog to eat your mail.”

I put the Postal offerings down and fed them the rest of their meal. I retired to the office to check email and then opened the lumpy envelope. Inside was not the treats I had expected to find. It wasn’t animal or vegetable nor was it precious metals of valuable bonds. But it was the most dear gift another man has ever given me.

Inside was a small gold lapel pin of the number 6. The significance of this pin lies in its meaning. Starting back in WWI, fighter pilots watching the rear of a comrade pilot would tell him that, “I’ve got your six o’clock.” Meaning that I have your back.

The note with the pin said simply, “Friend, I’ve got your six.”

Why are you crying, asshole. Oh, no, has somebody died?” Squirt asked. “Please don’t tell me something has happened to Gram.”

No-no, sweetie, everyone is OK. It’s just that Beej has managed to bring tears to my eyes with five simple words.”

Have you ever noticed that it’s the quiet men who can most impact your life. It isn’t the yacky assholes like me who make any great difference in peoples’ lives, it is, rather, those solid men of few words—men who speak with great thought and care—who make real impact.

I find myself felling unworthy of this honor. I’m lacking. The only true repayment of his gift is to tell him that I’ve got his six as well. But in the telling, I know with absolute certainty that my six is way better covered than will be his.

Manana, y’all.

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I’m Not Really Crazy; Liar’s Poker For Dummies

Sunday, August 11th, 2013

 

So. It’s another glorious Sunday morning in Enchantedland. We’ve now had enough rain to ease the drought conditions and turn everything green. Not enough precipitation to end the drought, but amounts sufficient to make us forget about drought.

The temp is 51 degrees, and that’s the absolute truth. It rained a gentle rain for several hours last night and the air smells just like my Gram’s fresh-washed sheets hanging from the clothesline on a crisp fall day back to Texas. Back before fabric softeners and scented detergents ruined the actual clean smells that were the short term payoffs of hard household labor. Back before vaginal sprays replaced a vinegar and water solution squeezed from a douche bag. Back before the musky smell of a hard day’s work became offensive and needed to be wiped out by chemical anti antiperspirants.

Back before Madison Avenue became so powerful. Before the marketers of big business learned how to manipulate our desires so effectively, so terribly.

Me, I blame Hitler and the rest of those Nazi fucks. It isn’t that other assholes were not investing serious scientific efforts into making determinations as to how the human brain works and how to manipulate it. It is, rather, that the fucking Nazis sole goals were to further their evil desires to dominate the entire globe. And as with all extremist cultures, Hitler’s mind scientists worked at their jobs with the same furor as a modern day Muslim jihadist, or violent right-wing Christian anti-abortion protester.

The advances made by psychiatrists and other scientists from the late Eighteen Hundreds and into the 1920’s were used by the Nazis of the 1930’s and 1940’s to do all sorts of dastardly deeds. Mass manipulation of their populace turning good, hard-working people into robots; creating mass hatred of cultures and religions and social belief systems; instilling fears so strong that formerly rational men would use poison gas to mass murder fellow humans; brainwash a generation’s children to surrender their own parents to a chilling death.

It’s the fucking Nazis who developed the sciences behind most of today’s behavioral understandings, or said another way, it was the Nazis who taught us how to “spin” realities.

OK, let’s stop this train before I ruin the entire day. It’s just too perfect a morning for me to go off on the Nazis when I have some other thoughts to share. I got a call from Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson last night. She wanted to remind me that I’ve continued to “forget” to call for my regular phone psycho therapy sessions—a sign of either progression or regression of my lunacies—and also to tell me that she has finished her book.

It was the good doctor’s having decided to write a book that stimulated the desire in me to write a book and finish before her. Having said that, I now realize that I must have a mean competitive streak inside me that might require some additional psycho therapization.

How fucking sick can one man be?

OK, please don’t answer that as, again, this is a glorious day. Dr. Sam’s book is her memoir—the story of parts of her life. Maybe that would make it a partial memoir. Like, maybe she’ll mention the how I ruined her life but not my positive influences. Or perhaps how she managed to become a wealthy woman by over-charging me for unneeded services—maybe it’s a “how to” book rather than a life story.

She wants me to read it. She wants me to read it and tell her what I think of it. She knows that I’ll tell her the truth, and her knowing that I could never actually lie to her, this scares the shit right on out of me. After everything I’ve done to this woman—all the heartache and other pains I’ve caused—the last thing in the world I want to do is tell her I don’t like her book.

I lay awake all last night worrying about it. I tossed and turned something fierce. I must have “Ughed” a hundred times.

“Listen, shithead. If you ‘Ugh’ one more time, I’m telling the goat dog to shit on the pantry floor again.”

That was the tiny bundle of short brown fur and canine wit I call Squirt. It seemed that my worries were keeping her awake. Not so for Yoda, the aforementioned goat dog. “You’ll need to splash him with a bucket of ice water to get his attention, little lady. That little guy is sleeping the sleep of the dead.”

The Squirt looked at me with dead-pan eyes. “Get your ass out of bed so I can get some rest. Go write something stupid and post it on your blog. That always calms you down.”

And here I am. And here I now realize that I haven’t said anything that matches the happiness that Nature has deposited outside my door. I have so many things that bring me joy and all I can do is fret over the fact that I can’t effectively lie. I have spent my entire life in the attemptings to lie with believabilities, and I’ve spent that same lifetime tangled in the snares of a caught liar.

Ugh. The Squirt tells me that I need to get lying lessons, maybe apply for an internship over to Fox News. Learn how to twist the truth into total shit without so much as a facial tic. Then again, maybe it’s best that I can’t lie.

But who really gives a shit? It’s a beautiful day and I’ll see y’all manana.

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A Fistful Of Fucks: Mitt Romney, Bigotry and Politics

Tuesday, November 6th, 2012

 

So. It’s finally election day and I, for several, am glad of it. I say I for several because I have mixed feelings about this election—I’m confident that President Obama will be reelected and I’m terrified that he might not.

It is still astounding to me that bigotry and religious radicalism can have such strongholds in “The Greatest Nation On Earth”. I’m amazed that the right-wing Christian radicals can’t see the parallels between themselves and the Muslim extremists they seem to hate so deeply.

Somebody please ‘splain this one to me. What is the difference between a Muslim thinking he can get to heaven, where 72 virgins await him if he blows up a crowded school bus, and Mitt Romney thinking he will get his own planet over which he gets to be God if he blows up America’s middle class?

Please. Wherein lies the philosophical or logical or practical difference? I mean other than the color of their skin or their religion, how are the Muslim shitheads any different? All of this fucking “Will of God” talk will be the death of us.

I have a good buddy who thinks that Armageddon is the self-fulfilling prophesy that will come about in a global religious war. He thinks all of these Christian asshole extremists WANT planet-wide war, that they actually pray for the “Rapture”.

I had lunch yesterday with my lawyer buddy down to the Del Charro. I’ve decided to start a contracting business with Adrian and Pedro and we needed a Registered Agent in order to be licensed in the state of New Mexico. I decided to get into this venture out of self defense, what with all of the repairs and remodeling I’ve had to do on La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe.

We both ordered the Monday Special—pulled pork sliders—and our central topic of conversation was, of course, the elections. The pork was tasty and the topic of conversation somewhat tasteless. “How can this election even be close?” I asked.

We talked about the President’s solid record of accomplishments and Romney’s lies, attacks on women, flip-flops, and all the rest of it. After a few minutes of talk we had a thirty-second period of dead air, as each of us pondered the answer.

“Bigotry,” we both said at the exact same instant.

“Racial bigotry,” I said in follow up.

“Religious bigotry,” he added.

Which reminds me. Why are most Republican surrogates fat and gray-headed white men?

And will somebody explain this one to me. How can we call America the planet’s greatest if we deny social services to the needy and make public education a secondary budgetary issue? How can we say we’re the finest if we make it more difficult for retirees to live in comfort after they worked so hard to retire?

Somebody needs to tell me what would make Mitt Romney’s America the Greatest Nation on Earth.

Fuck Mitt Romney. Fuck bigotry. But please don’t fuck America.

Go vote!!!

Manana, yall.

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Be On The Lookout; Please Vote!!!

Monday, November 5th, 2012

 

So. Today is November 5, 2012 and the last day before our actual Presidential election day. Anyone who isn’t sick of political ads is either a political hack or an ignorant asshole.

OK, maybe they could be an ignorant asshole political hack.

As soon as this election cycle is over, I’m going to push for legislation that limits the number of times an opponent’s name can be mentioned in a paid political ads. Stop telling me what’s wrong with the other guy and tell me what’s right about you.

If America gets it right, the President will be reelected and he’ll get some added seats in Congress to help ease Congressional deadlock. If America gets it wrong…

Which reminds me. Has anyone seen a stretch Hummer limousine with New Mexico plates, driven by a nice man named Ralph and carrying two randy old women and a mangy fucking cat? I haven’t heard from Gram and her crew since last Tuesday and I’m starting to get worried. The tracking chip in the cat’s collar showed that they left Santa Fe and headed north into the mountains where it stayed until Thursday afternoon.

Then it headed east to Chicago, where it was slipped into the G-string of a Stripper named Tawny Port along with three twenty-dollar bills and one of my business cards. Tawny called to ask me out but had no news on where the Johnson Family wagon train was headed. All she could say was, “Your granny is awesome, dude. How about I come out for a visit?”

After rolling the sounds of, “Tawny Port Johnson,” around in my mouth for a few minutes, I called her back to say I’d pass on the date.

I’m only somewhat concerned about their safety but I’m worried that Gram and the P-cubed haven’t voted yet. While their votes are likely lost ballots in Texas, it’s important that they vote anyway. Every vote actually counts, even in the Hellhole that is Prick Perry’s Texas.

Me, I’ve been invited to serve the Obama campaign as a poll watcher—a policeman, if you will, to insure that Romney’s right-wing assholes don’t intimidate any voters.

Shithead right-wing conservative Christian voter suppressing fuckwads.

I’m thinking of wearing my bulletproof vest and kidney belt just in case. Anyway, please vote. It is mightily important no matter where you live.

Manana, y’all.

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Of Horses And Bayonettes; A Liar’s Story

Wednesday, October 24th, 2012

 

So. I’m up early this morning because I can’t sleep. Maybe I should say I’m up not because I can’t sleep, but rather that I’m unable to sleep. “I could sleep if I were able,” might be what I mean to say. And I’d be able to sleep were it not for the terrible noises emanating from the guest rooms here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe.

My Gram and Penelope Paxton-Parades—Gram’s best ever buddy—are here for a visit. Gram and the P-cubed flew in rather than drive Gram’s Ferrari and I had to promise to rent them a limo for the times they wanted to go trolling for young men.

“Git us one a them Humdinger jobbers, Mooner, ya know, one a them four-wheelers what can go up to the top a tha mountains. P-cubed says she ain’t never had her a mountain man an’ I wouldn’t mind one fer my sef,” was the detailed request for transportation.

“An’ make sure they put us one a them Creeper Crawlies inna trunk.”

I guess I’ve been missing the skinny goat hide and giant libidoed old woman that serves as the matron of my family because I’d already prepared for her visit. “I made a trip down to Albuquerque to stock up on some supplies for you two. Out in the store room you’ll find a case of your favorite bubbly, Carta Blanca and Mountain Dew; cases of Trojan Super Lubes and Magnum Armour XXLs; two rubber sheets; some ammonia capsules and a trashcan with a box of hazmat liners. As for your Humdinger, I’ve reserved a driver and a stretched Hummer limo for the week.”

P-cubed made a silly comment about “stretched Hummers” and we all laughed. They left the house yesterday about lunchtime after Ralph, their Humdinger driver, spent thirty minutes explaining the company rules and loading their supplies. When I un-crated the auto Creeper car sled, he asked me, “Why’s this thing got seat belts?” Gram answered, “Load ‘er up and come on back fer a testy rider.”

Ralph demonstrated far more native intelligence and fear yesterday afternoon that he seems to actually have. His is one of the voices traveling through the crawl spaces and heating vents in my old house.

Which reminds me. I was walking the dogs on the hiking trail that runs along the commuter train rails the other day and we passed Ali McGraw walking her black Scottish Terrier. OK, I assume it was her dog, but as nice as I hear she is, she might have been dog sitting. Or maybe she started one of those fancy dog walking businesses.

Anyway, the Squirt was in a pissy mood with me, so she started her snarky growl shit from thirty feet out as we encountered Mz. Love Means Never Having To Say You’re Sorry, and that set-off Yoda the goat dog. My former punching bag for a puppy mill hasn’t got much of a bark, but what he has is delivered with mucho gusto at maybe 25 decibels. As we got closer he was yanking at his leash like a crazed lion and barking like a lunatic.

“Woolpfh-woolpfh-woolpfh!… Woolpfh-woolpfh-woolpfh!… Grrr-woolpfh-woolpfh-woolpfh!!!” were Yoda’s repeated, slashed vocal cord warnings.

As Ali walked by I noticed that she is just as beautiful as when I saw her in Love Story,and the smile she graced me in passing stirred me something fierce. After taking another thirty steps I turned and looked back, and saw that she had turned back as well.

The Squirt stopped abruptly, her leash almost yanking my arm out the socket. “How are we ever going to get you laid if you just walk by like a dead fish? Yoda and I can bait and set the hook, dumbass, but you’ve got to reel them in yourself.”

The Squirt stood, eying me with lazer beams. “Miss McGraw is an animal rights activist, asshole, and she walks her dog every fucking day. Yoda and I had this planned-out to the second.”

“You guys did that for me? Why thank you so…”

Squirt stopped my thanks when she turned her back and walked away, and flipped over her shoulder, she quipped, “I read all about her on the INTERNET and figured she’d be a good match. Looks like we need to lower our sights so why don’t you walk us over to the retirement home on Alta Vista. I’ll act sick and the goat dog can act stupid.”

Which brings up another point. America—my beloved America—is within a few percentage points of electing a liar as its President. Not just a little white lie liar, a bold-faced, in-your-face liar.

The kind of liar who sells used cars or stocks or vinyl siding. The kind of liar who will say anything to get you to give him your money. Mitt Romney is a gutless lying asshole and he’s close to getting elected to run the greatest country on earth.

Then, again, maybe America is no longer the greatest country on earth. Maybe we’ve sold so much of our civilization that we’re mimicking the Roman Empire’s last days. I had a dream a few months ago where the Pope told me that Christian extremists were attempting to forge an Armageddon and artificially bring the End of Days.

Electing Mitt Romney would be a Hell of a start.

Fuck Mitt Romney and his handlers. Manana, y’all.

 

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Q: What Did You Do In The War, Daddy?; A: I Supported President Obama!!!

Thursday, October 18th, 2012

 

So. A friend of mine asked me to republish the following posting I did earlier this year. She seems to feel that some of us are missing important clues to Herr Schmidt Rommel’s multiple personalities and his Party’s designs for America. I wrote this in Austin after a trip to Santa Fe.

Fuck Mitt Romney, and please enjoy this as it is reprinted with the permission of the author.

 

So. It’s Friday and this Friday has started on happy notes. My good buddy BJ from over to Dumb Perignon has posted a pleasing summer ditty, it’s not too hot this am to spend time outside, and God came to see me again last night.

Having said all of that, I’m set to wondering why decent Austin weather and blog posts from Beej are happening less frequently than my visits from God. Visits BY God? My deity has been coming around so often I’m starting to think I might be imagining things.

When we were conversing last night, I asked the big Him—He was a Him when I asked this question—if maybe it was my ADHD that attracted Him to me. It has seemed that I’m more distracted with rampaging thoughts these last few months when God has been stopping by, so I asked Him, I asked, “It seems that both the levels of my deficited attentions and the frequencies of your visitations are connected in some way, Big Guy. Have I scratched a scab of truth here or am I delusional?”

“Yes,” was all the response I got and all I needed to gain the requested insight.

To some folks, having their God tell them that they are delusional would be unsettling, but to me it’s merely conformational. Hell, I know I’m crazy, for shitsakes, a fact that I admit, and often. But like a blind boar in an oak forest, I do occasionally trip over an acorn, or two. I do stumble and bumble through the smoldering swill that is my ADHD-addled thoughts and hit a thick vein of Truth.

And here I do mean capital “T” Truth. Truth as in God confirms that both the essence of the thought is spot on, and that it’s importance makes it worth repeating. Now you might be thinking at this particular point—a mere 280 words into this missive—that I’ve lost control of my faculties. But hang tight because first, I’ve never had control of said faculties and, second, what I’m about to tell you was sanctioned by God.

Unh-huh, that’s right, God Her Veryownself authorized that I disseminate this information to the Inet-mosphere. Here I say “Her” as He had morphed from a Western Biblical image of God into the spitting image of Jane Fonda as Barbarella.

God came to see me yesterday evening as I lay on the fishing dock, dangling my legs from the knees down in the water, and a fat doobie stuck in my face. I was maybe eight Carta Blancas into my day and I was alone on the wooden-planked structure. I needed some time to myself to sort a few things out so I had gone down to the lake for some solitude.

Like I said, I was laying on my back and swinging my dangled feet back-and-forth as I tried to grab a single thread of thought from the jumbled mess inside my head. Something has been nibbling at my soul for a week or so and I couldn’t put my hands on it. Some something was bugging me and I just couldn’t figure it out. I had lay long enough to get fully relaxed and I was just stoned enough to have a fully opened mind.

“Are you ready to talk about it or are you too fucked-up to deal with me?”

“Whaaa?” I barked, as I almost leaped into the lake from the flat of my back. “Who the fuuu… Oh, it’s you, God. How’s it hanging, Sir?”

God laughed deeply, heartily. “It’s hanging deep and wide, dude. Deep… And wide,” God told me with more laughter.

“You scared the bejesus out of me again, Big Guy. You’re not quite as funny as You think.”

More deep rumbles of almost demonic laughter and then, “Yes, I am that funny, Mooner. As a matter of fact, I invented funny.”

Hard to argue with God’s logic.

“I stopped by to help you out a little bit here. You’ve had your thoughts all pantie-twisted so tight that its tugging your mind’s pubic hairs into those painful little knots. I’m going to take them panties off your brain and shave you down to clear your head,” God informed me.

And that’s when He morphed into Barbarella. I had to try hard to look in God’s eyes and not at Her stuff. “This is somewhat unsettling, Ma’am. As you are well aware, I masturbated to Barbarella for months after watching that movie.”

God looked at me like I had said something funny. “You saw that movie eleven-and-a-half times, sonny boy, and you still masturbate to Jane Fonda.”

OK, guys, right is right and God was right.

“So what’s this big advice dealio you’ve got for me. I’m sort of busy now trying to be alone. Can you yippy-Skippy things for me so I can return to my solitude.”

“Don’t be boorish, shithead, I’m pretty busy myself. Look, think back on your last trip to Santa Fe and a specific moment of clarity. If you think it, it will come.”

And with that, God flashed me a dazzling smile, flipped Her hair off her shoulder, and vanished. I was left with nothing but God’s memory and a faint scent of Summer’s Eve.

Clarity in Santa Fe,” I thought, “clarity, in Santa Fe?” And it hit me. I was in a store on The Plaza called Santa Fe Hemp—a nifty place with hemp clothing and clever political statements. I stopped by to see if they are a customer of our hemp clothing factory but I never even checked their clothes. I was so enamored by the progressive message bumper stickers and cards and stuff that I never looked. I had spent at least an hour reading and commenting to the Squirt when I came across a postcard with a statement by Laurence W. Britt.

Mr. Britt has studied fascist governments, including Hitler’s Germany and Benito’s Italy, and he determined that there are specific early warning signs when a government or society are turning towards fascism. I was so impressed with this list that I bought the postcard for all of my friends. Here is what the card says:

 

Early Warning Signs Of

FASCISM:

  • Powerful and Continuing Nationalism

  • Disdain for Human Rights

  • Identification of Enemies as a Unifying Cause

  • Supremacy of the Military

  • Rampant Sexism

  • Controlled Mass Media

  • Obsession with National Security

  • Religion and Government Intertwined

  • Corporate Power Protected

  • Labor Power Suppressed

  • Disdain for Intellectuals and the Arts

  • Obsession with Crime and Punishment

  • Rampant Cronyism and Corruption

  • Fraudulent Elections”

 

OK, first, please allow me to say a “Thanks” to Larry Britt. Second, I would like to say,

Wake the fuck up, America!!!”

I wonder if I can rent Barbarella on Netflix. Manana, y’all.

 

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Debate Hangover; It’s About The Truth, Stupid,

Thursday, October 4th, 2012

 

So. Last night before the Debate, I had a premonition about what would happen. I thought that the moderator would not actually moderate and control the action, I thought that Romney would follow Rush Limbaugh’s advice and be a pit bull and attack the President rather than state the facts and specific plans of just how he wants to make things better. I also said that I wished the Prez would call Romney out on his lies.

Sadly, I was right and didn’t get my wish. Jim Lehrer was a non participant, Mitt Romney was an attack puppet, and the President acted like a President with excessive reserve. Sure, I wished that he had been stronger when Romney lied, of course I do. There were several times I was yelling at the big TV that hangs over the mantle in the den here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. “Call him out on his leis!!!” I screamed more than once.

My blood pressure was tipping in at stroke levels when the moderator allowed both candidates to avoid the questions, and in the final analysis, I feel both candidates were winners and both losers.

Mitt Romney won the debate of aggression, of posture, of attractiveness and of volume—a clear and concise victory in all three. Romney won and the President lost, and clearly so. If the election were to be decided by which candidate was louder, stood up straighter, spoke louder and was prettier last night, Mitt Romney wins in a landslide. Hell, if the majority of the American people are so fucking stupid to take that kind of form over substance, we deserve Mitt Romney as our President.

As my buddy Squatlo said in his first post-debate posting last night, “…If this had been a prize fight, the Obama corner would have thrown in the towel…”

To those of you who are all freaked out about the President’s lack of aggression against the Mittster, please allow me to say this:

“Chill out. Take a Valium or two, and chill the fuck out.”

Guess what. This wasn’t a prize fight, folks, it was a debate. It was a DEBATE. You know what a debate is, right? One of those public forums where people with differing views express their views by presenting facts and plans and specific information that supports their personal position on the questions asked by the moderator, a debate.

Even if it had been a prize fight, Romney would have been disqualified in the second round for rules violations. The worst referee in the world wouldn’t have allowed a participant in a title fight to rabbit punch, knee the groin, and hit after the bell like Lehrer did last night.

When the debate was over last night, the Squirt was visibly upset. The little puppy crawled into my lap, sighed a deep and pitiful sigh, and said to me, she said, “Mitt Romney just lied his way into the White House. I think I might go jump off a bridge.”

From listening to liberal pundits and other Obama supporters this morning, that seems to be a common theme. For some reason, even the smart and caring among us have fallen for Rush Limbaugh’s bullshit. But think about this for just a minute. Think of reading the words spoken last night and not about the visuals.

The President presented programs past and future with specifics, presented the positive benefits of his programs, and defended any failures of those plans. He calmly, TRUTHFULLY, and accurately explained his plans and visions. He didn’t call Romney out on his lies and lack of specifics and flip-flopping with the voracity I would have liked, but he did call him out.

Think about the words. The words spoken last night.

Do you realize that Mitt Romney agreed with the President on almost every important issue? Did you hear him say that Romneycare/Obamacare was a good thing? Did you then hear him say that he wants to give that health care design to the states to control using vouchers? Romney wants to give the states control of Medicare using vouchers, folks, he said it last night.

Hello! Hello out there. If the states were to be in charge of our health care, how soon do you think every American with a crippling illness would pack their bags and move to Massachusetts?

Romney agreed with the President to not raise taxes on the great middle class, reduce the deficit and protect education, and create jobs. I heard him say it more than twice. Then I also heard him say that he wouldn’t reduce the military budget, that he would voucher public education, and that he would balance all of these financial balls in the air and create jobs without increasing taxes.

He said he would reduce the middle class tax rate to lower taxes and then turned right around and said that would be a “revenue neutral” act because he would also eliminate deductions. Would someone please tell me how you can either reduce a deficit OR increase available funds for the military with “revenue neutral” budgets.

Please fucking tell me, because I have been a businessman for the better part of fifty years and I need some of that accounting magic. How can he increase military spending $2 Trillion and over the Pentagon-requested budget and give $5 Trillion more in tax cuts without either increasing revenues (read taxes) or deeply cutting program budgets for non-military programs?

Answer: Magic.

In his closing statement, Mitt Romney told us that his number one priority is to make sure America has the greatest military in the world. Really? I thought you said it was jobs—no, wait, you said it was education—no, you said it was to repeal Obamacare—or was it energy independence?

And all that Romney said/promised he would do was said and promised without specifics or verifiable fact. His budget will balance because he will magically create 12 million new high-paying jobs without spending any money and with no identifiable plan.

Really?

States can better decide about our health care and educations, so when we send vouchers to the states, all of those problems will magically go away and America will once again be the Land of the Free?

Really? Have you seen the stupid shit state legislatures in Texas and Tennessee have been pulling?

Just like Mitt Romney believes the magic underwear he wears twenty-four hours a day is going to protect his soul, he expects us to believe that his magical solutions to America’s problems will protect us from further economic and social harm.

OK, stop, Mooner, enough. The President wasn’t as good as we expected and Romney was as aggressive as we thought. Win/win, lose/lose. But please let me say one last thing.

It’s about the truth, stupid.

Manana, y’all.

 

 

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Mooner’s Debate Prayer; Fuck Mitt Romney

Wednesday, October 3rd, 2012

 

So. I sitting at my computer now, an hour before the big debate. I am hopeful that Mitt Romney shows his true colors and that the President shows his as well. I have come to think that Romney might have sand bagged some of his economic policy specifics for an unveiling tonight in an effort to upstage the Prez.

But then, again, I think the Mittster is a puppet and will follow Rush Limbaugh’s advice—blustering and blundering his way for 90 minutes, attacking Obama and making the Tea Baggers proud.

But my main wish for this series of debates is for the moderators to call each of the candidates on their bullshit. If either strays from the truth or refuses to truthfully answer a question, I hope that Lehrer gets all up in their face. I’m tired of bullshit debates wherein the moderators treat candidates with kid gloves.

And I liked what I saw of the recent Mass. Senatorial debate as David Gregory attempted to get straight answers. But one of these TV ass clowns needs to grow a set and piss the parties off if that’s what it takes to get an honest debate. Otherwise, let’s stop having them.

Anyhoo, if I was a prayerful man, I’d pray for those things and for Mr. President Obama to crush Herr Schmidt Rommel’s balls.

Manana, y’all.

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Smarty Pants Silly Phones; Mooner Solves Voter Fraud

Tuesday, October 2nd, 2012

 

So. I got a phone call from a buddy last night who wanted to schedule a visit to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. Since I left my trusty personal assistant, the lovely and charming Mz. Gnat, back to Austin to run our business affairs, I’m required to perform her jobs on my own behalf. Gnat has been with me for over twenty years—a story you can read if you buy my stupid fucking book by clicking over there =====}}} on any of the linksters that mention Full RisingMooner.

I have so many requests for extended-stay visits that I bought a motel software package to handle the reservations and accommodations for my many guests—a task normally performed by Gnat. The software package arrived yesterday afternoon by US Postal’s daily to-your-home delivery system two days after I ordered it.

Which reminds me. Who, inthefuck, would want to kill the United States Postal Service? I mean who other than greedy businessmen who want to privatize it for their own personal gains.

I took my new software program back inside, unwrapped it, glanced at the installation instructions and jammed the round plastic disc into my computer, and began operations. All tasks normally performed by Gnat.

Two hours later, I called Gnat and scheduled her a visit to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. I think she can fix the messes I’ve made in my life the last two weeks in New Mexico in a month, or so.

Which reminds me. This entire Voter Registration business is stupid.

S T U P I D !!!

OK, look, I get it that we need to register voters in some fashion in order to prevent the rampant Republican voter fraud perpetrated by the RNC. I get it that we need a way to insure that our One Man, One Vote system of semi-democracy needs to be a system of ones. What I don’t get is why this shit is so fucking difficult. So, I was sitting out to the portal last night with the dogs but not the fucking cat, drinking Carta Blanca beer and smoking a blunt.

For new readers, a portal is a covered patio and mine is a marvelous contraption with jalousied windows on one of the two closed walls and a fireplace on the other, and the long open side looking out over all the flagstone we laid and looking up to New Mexico’s magical sky.

Last night’s sitting was with the nearly full moon hanging over the big Ponderosa pine tree and a vigorous dotting of bright stars. I was stretched out on the wicker couch with Yoda curled up on my chest and the Squirt settled between my legs, head on my crotch. Squirt was staring bullets at me through the haze of pot smoke hanging in the chilly, dead-still air.

“Answer me this, Bwana Mooner. What is all of this hullabaloo about voter registration? Why is this such a big deal?”

I attempted to explain it and she questioned my answers, and all of a sudden the solution came to me. I, Butcher Einstein “Mooner” Johnson, have solved the entire voter registration problem. Here’s the deal, and I call it the “Mooner Johnson Voter Registration Solution”, or MJVRS for short.

Stop. I need a catchier name than that so that its nickname will be catchier more than that silly shit. MJVRS? Really? Maybe you guys will have a better name after you hear my ideas.

OK, first of all, Republicans are all hung up on Photo Ids, like they can pull more underhanded stunts with a picture of the faces of the people they fuck over. Not a problem with whatever it is my solution is named.

Smart people are concerned that the Republican efforts to make it difficult for a huge portion of our population to get registered and then vote are egregious attempts of unmasked bigotry. Once again, not even a problem for, try this—Mooner’s Voter ID Solutions, or MVIDS.

Is MVIDS better than MJVRS?

Here’s how this dealio will work. OK, for starters, every asshole in America—save for me, Streaker Jones and my Gram—have cell phones with 50-gigabite memories and cameras that make a Peeping Tom drool. Next, those same cell phones are connected to the INTERNET and have keypads and special applications and all sorts of other shit.

Sooooooooo, here’s what we do. Ready?

We register Voter Registration Clerks with each county or parish or whateverthefuck they have in each state. Democrats and Republicans and Greenies and all the rest of the parties can register their registrators to be Voter Registration Clerks. Hell, for that matter any church or Moose Lodge or VFW Post can do the same.

Voter Registration Clerks will have their smarty-pants silly phones loaded with an application containing their state’s voter registration form, and a photograph clicker dealie to take a person’s picture with their utility bill or mortgage stuff or whatever.

It cracks me up when Gram says “smarty pants silly phone”. You try to tell her that we call them smart cell phones and see what happens.

Anyway, the applications will contain security thingies to insure that the Voter Registration Clerks can’t pull any funny business, and they will auto-transmit any application back to Headquarters, whether it was completed or not. That way, some shithead can’t cancel or discard a registering voter for any reason.

This way the County will now have a picture of the registered voter with his proof of residence and the application in their hot little hands instana-fucking-taneously. Then when it comes time to vote, a voter can show up with any damned kind of ID. Got a question? Look on the computer and see the voter’s picture.

Am I brilliant, or what?

This solutions shit is easy when you take the time to look at it with a belly full of beer and THC-lacquered lungs.

Maybe next I’ll take a shot at male pattern baldness. Maybe I need to come up with a good name for this current solution. I wonder how much money I can make with this?

Which reminds me of something else. Why do we men dribble a few drops of urine after we finish peeing? It doesn’t matter how many times we shake and squeeze and re-shake, we always dribble. At least I do.

Last night when Yoda the goat dog and I were re-marking our territorial rights to the back yard, Squirt was watching with a keen interest.

“What’s wrong with your pecker, big boy. Your undies are going to be stained something awful.” Then she added, she said to me, “Oh, I get it. Yellow to the front and brown in the back.”

We all three laughed and then wondered where the fucking cat was. Honor has been missing for a week, and I have absolute certainty that is a metaphor for something political.

Manana, y’all.

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Voting Skills; Learned Behaviours Or Critical Thought?

Saturday, September 29th, 2012

 

So. It’s now fewer than 40 days until Federal Election Day and like most people who actually give a shit about elections, my head is aswim with politics. Maybe aswim isn’t an actual word, but I don’t really give a shit. Should be.

I don’t like to say, “My head is swimming with politics,” when it’s the brain part swimming inside my head, and not my head in the pool doing the backstroke with politics. I make every effort to be accurate herein, as accuracy is my middle name.

OK, my actual true and given middle name is Einstein, the middle reliever on the team of words that were chosen to name me when born. My birth certificate says that my name is Butcher Einstein Johnson, which, had I not become Mooner during the first hours of my first day of First Grade, I’d likely be named “BJ”, like my buddy BJ, and everyone would be confused anytime a blogger mentioned, “I saw this over to BJ’s blog.”

Which reminds me to tell you that when you get a chance, step over to BJ’s place at: http://www.bjsunoriginalthoughts.blogspot.com/

and check out the embedded video clips that show on his first page. The Sammy Jackson clip is an easy fit for whatever theme I had when I started this tome. But look at the others posted to his first page.

Then again, what set me off in the first place was something I read over to Q’s place at

http://www.thankq4commonsense.blogspot.com/.

If you are wondering about the funky spacing in these last two paragraphs, it’s because I can’t figure out how to write text next to an embedded linkster to another site, like I did there with BJ and Q. There isn’t a single fucking button on my keypad I can push to prevent other text from merging with the linkster stuff if I don’t plan ahead and make extra blank spaces before I insert the linking text.

ADHD kills at any speed.

Anyway, what Q was talking about was how people don’t use their own brains to make voting decisions, they use Fox News or MSNBC or Smushed Limburger to make decisions for them.

And, sweet Jesus, how, inthefuck, did Rush Limbaugh ever get so popular? How many bigots still live in America?

I made a comment on Q’s site in response to his thesis that contained the following:

I was lucky. The first time I was old enough to vote–a time when my head was firmly planted in a cloud of pot smoke hovering under young womens’ skirts, I asked my father who I should vote for. He told me, “Pull your head out of your ass and figure it out, son. If not, please don’t vote.” 

Those words between the quote marks would be Daddy’s actual words to me when I asked him for whom I should vote when I was first of voting age. I was in college then and my head was too busy blowing hot pot smoke up young womens’ skirts to consider my voting choices. The candidates of my first Presidential voting decision were Hubert Horatio Humphrey, Richard Millhouse Nixon, and George “Ain’t No Niggers Gonna Roll Tide on My Watch” Wallace.

Wallace was out for me, and without any consideration. I was raised to hold no quarter for racists.

As for Nixon, I remember that I didn’t like him for multiple reasons, but I can’t remember what the specific reasons were during the last 40 days before that election. I liked the politics of HHH, but he was a limp dishrag to me, and for some reason I felt my President should demonstrate some moxy.

But 1968 was a terrible election year. Lyndon Johnson—my first choice—had health problems and chose to not run; Martin Luther King had been assassinated; and then my second presidential choice, RFK, was murdered as well. I had been involved with Johnson’s campaign even before I could vote and took up Kennedy’s banner after that. When the final candidates were known, I asked Daddy who he was casting his vote for out of confusion—I wanted his advice.

And he gave me his best advice.

But he also had already given me his best parenting and that gave me the values upon which my evaluations are made. Once, when I was seven years old, I told a joke at the dinner table that I heard in school. In the mid-1950’s the joke was known as a “Nigger” joke. And don’t you just hate that word? Doesn’t it make your skin crawl? I don’t like it coming from any person’s mouth—my own or even black people.

I think that black people are perpetuating the use of that word by using it.

Then again, I just used it twice to express precision in my words and I think I need to spend some time thinking about the N-word. Maybe I’ll ask God how to deal with it when I’m next visited.

So, we were in the middle of dinner and I had been waiting for just the right time to tell my joke. When Gram asked for a second helping of mashed potatoes, I took the following lag in the conversation to act. I told my joke, then I almost rolled out my chair laughing at myself.

“Go out back and cut a switch, Mooner. Didn’t I tell you to never say that word?”

Oops.

“Wasn’t it funny, Daddy? Everybody laughed when Junior Basher told it.”

Turns out, Junior Basher was killed over to Viet Nam when the latrine seat occupied by his ass blew both him and the latrine across a small chunk of jungle. Seems Lt. Junior Basher couldn’t stop himself from telling racial jokes, even in the company of enlisted men carrying the racial genetics bearing the brunt of his jokes.

Daddy replied, “Never means never, Mooner. That’s the same as when people call you white trash only way to the worse. Now fetch me that switch.”

How willow switches were used on my sister and me depended upon the season. In colder weather, the switch would be used classically as a whip on our asses as we bent over and grasped the edge of the table. But when the weather allowed us to wear shorts, we were made to stand up straight with our legs apart and the tip of the springy switch would be applied to our legs above the knees.

The whippings were always administered there at the kitchen table in front of the entire family, and each family member was given the opportunity to lay on a few strokes. On this mentioned occasion, each person present lay some wood on the tender skin of my thighs.

But I think I might be digressing just a touch. In less than 40 days, we will be making one of the most important decisions for America in modern times. We will choose whether we want to continue as a country towards becoming a Christian theocracy that plunders its working classes for the corporate good, and blunders about the Globe to enforce our desires on others in the name of Freedom.

Will we keep reducing social nets and networks and reducing the paid retirement benefits of people who prepaid for those benefits? Will we give religious zealots control of our country’s reins in much the same way as has been done in Egypt?

Or we will choose to demand social fairness, sanity and civilized administration from our elected officials.

Either way, please think before you vote, or don’t fucking vote. Manana, y’all.

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All Hail King Mooner; If I Only Had A Crown

Tuesday, September 25th, 2012

 

So. I read over to BJ’s place at Dumb Perrignon that Ann Coulter has criticized the Democrats for dropping their support of blacks in favor of courting the Latinos. In Mz. C’s eyes, America’s black population and their issues have nothing to do with Civil Cights and our immigrants from the South are all about it.

Really?

Then at Squattie’s place over to Squatlo Rant I read about how Herr Field Marshall Schmidt Rommel had openly wondered why commercial airplane windows don’t open and suggested that the oversight might should be corrected.

Really?

I’m starting to feel a small sense of relief over the pending elections. I’m starting to feel that the tide has turned on our Nation’s recent nosedive into the swill and muck of extreme right-wing Christian idiocies and back towards the middle where I think our political climate belongs. And while I mixed my metaphors there, I did manage to state—with precision—my current sentiments.

And how confusing must that seem? I’m a liberal-thinking person with the social policies reported in some circles to mimic those of Jesus; I think our military should truly be orchestrated as a Department of Defense only; I think it takes a village to grow a billionaire and that some of the resulting wealth should be taxed and returned unfucking equally to pay for the infrastructures of said village; I think that physical and mental health services are a required product of any advanced civilization; I think that Jane Fonda is still sexy.

But I think our national political systems need to be fair and balanced—middle road bodies of compromised conclusions. While I know that my ways to do things are far better and fairer than those of differing views, I don’t think that my ways should be the only ways, and I don’t think that revolution is desirable when things are only damaged.

Like America. I think we’re damaged but not broken. I think that most of the folks with far-right thinking are misinformed but not evil. I think that for every Rove or Coulter or Bachmann there are thousands of confused citizens who simply are not connecting the dots in the big picture of our country. Likewise, not every liberal thinks we need to stage a revolution of our own.

If I were King and this not a democracy of sorts, I would impose my will on the rest of you, and you would like it. OK, you would like it for the most part. I would enforce equality in every aspect of society and I would share our Gross National Product with a fairness not before seen. I would arrange an accounting system that would judge the cost to produce wealth—the incremental expenses to pay for roads and schools and hospitals and Police and all the rest—and tax all income under that system.

It wouldn’t matter if you were a school teacher or an oil tycoon, a movie star or a $50,000 per year fireman. The infrastructures required to produce your income would have an allocation to your income source, and you would be taxed accordingly. The more you earn, the more infrastructure was used to support the growth of your wealth.

For starters, the first $40,000 of earned income would not be taxed at all. No federal tax, no how. That $40 grand is what it takes to enjoy a basic American lifestyle in most parts of the country and the only taxes allowed on that income would be state sales taxes. And, by the way, all income is earned income. Corporations earn income just as people and religions would be treated just like the businesses that they are.

The only non-profit organizations allowed to not pay taxes will be required to apply 85% of all monies collected to the actual need they serve. If they can’t administrate on 15%, they can kiss my ass. And you’d better not be wasting donated funds, shithead. I’ll send your carcass to jail. Break my new banking and investment laws and I’ll jail you as well. Matter of fact, if you bend or break financial rules for personal gain you, dear friend, will be treated as a murderer. While I’m on the subject, if you are a child molester you’d best consider repatriation.

I’d limit state sales taxes to 8%. With me returning much of the federal taxes collected back to the states, those governments will be able to pay for their services on 8%.

After the first forty thousand, your income will be charged a “Use Fee”. Use Fees reflect what it costs for you to make your money. A fireman will pay less than an oil company. Oh, and in my system corporations will be people as far as taxes go. An oil company will pay for the roads used up by trucks that provide the company services, and all the other affiliated costs required to support their enterprise. The company will pay taxes based on gross revenues, not net.

Fuck your net revenue bullshit. General Electric—watch your back, mother fucker—King Mooner is gunning for your ass!

And holy shit have I gotten ADHD waylaid. I wouldn’t want to be King if elected and I’d likely get sidetracked with my mental illness and fuck things all to Hell and back. I’d be meeting with my Secretary of Defense, BJ, and he’d have set up a demonstration of our new vaporizer weapon and I’d suggest we share a few tokes of weed before we lunch on some pulled pork sammies and Carta Blanca beer, and we’d forget the vaporizer dealie and it would over-charge and blow up somewhere over to Iowa where we kept it hidden in a silo.

I wonder how much of Iowa would need to get vaporized before we’d miss it?

Anyway, I think the mark of a true semi-democratic society is that it compromises its way through its evolution, and I also think that I have spent enough time on this subject. Nobody really gives a shit what I think. When we were sitting out on the portal last night after dinner, I was talking about how I think that the current bunch of far-right Christian assholes are, at least, somewhat fascist.

One-by-one my son, his lady, and then the dogs excused themselves to go inside to pee. When the Squirt excused herself, I told her that I had planted the cute little patch of fescue bluegrass so she could pee outside. In answer, she said to me, she said, “We’re not going to pee, dumbass, we’re playing Scrabble. You have managed to bore the ever-loving shit out of us all.”

Whatever, I made some cogent points. Manana, y’all.

 

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Hello From Santa Fe, or, What’s Worse Than Setting Up House.

Saturday, August 11th, 2012

So.  Here we are in Santa Fe, our newly adopted half-home.  I’m here to set up utilities–the computer internet just now working a week after our arrival–and it and all else hasn’t gone according to my plans.

According to my plans.  Now there is one of those strings of words that is so totally fucking worthless that it should be banned by the grammar police.

Anyway, the dogs and I have been hard at work working and supervising the work of others in our attempts to get our new place livable.  We’ve been camping out inside and sometimes outside with the Squirt and Yoda sprawled beside me on the air mattress.  The fucking cat is something else in the altogether.  Honor has been perched high in the big Ponderosa pine in our backyard for the entire week we’ve been here.  I know she has come down for food and water because I’ve been refilling her bowls.  But save the times she growls at neighbors’ cats to let them know there’s a new kitty on Espinacitas Street, she’s kept to herself.

While temps have been unseasonably warm, the humidity is low and not problematic for me.  The guys helping me bitch about the heat and humidity and have no problem blaming Global Warming.  The one Apache helping with my plumbing blames, and here I’ll quote him by saying, he said to me, “You fucking white assholes done ruined the whole world.  Go back to Europe.”

I must say I think he’s right, but I already purchased property here and I’m a quite small part Native American.  The rest of you white right-wing conservative Christian assholes can follow his wishes.  Please.

Speaking of the aforementioned white assholes, I just heard that Herr Schmidt Rommel has named Representitive “Let’s Kill All Social Services” Ryan as his running mate.  Ryan proposes a Federal budget that would bankrupt half the states with its cuts to state support, and he’s Herr Schmidt’s choice.  Classic.

Then again it’s likely that the Tea Baggers forced the cheesehead down his throat with threats to fight Romney’s nomination in Tampa.  That’s my take anyway.

 

OK, I need to go get some rebar and wire and silt fabric so we can get started working.  I’ll try to get back to these pages soon.  Manana, y’all.

 

 

 

 

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Clarity Of Thought; A God Story

Friday, July 13th, 2012

 

So. It’s Friday and this Friday has started on happy notes. My good buddy BJ from over to Dumb Perignon has posted a pleasing summer ditty, it’s not too hot this am to spend time outside, and God came to see me again last night.

Having said all of that, I’m set to wondering why decent Austin weather and blog posts from Beej are happening less frequently than my visits from God. Visits by God? My deity has been coming around so often I’m starting to think I might be imagining things.

When we were conversing last night, I asked the big Him—He was a him when I asked this question—if maybe it was my ADHD that attracted him to me. It has seemed that I’m more distracted with rampaging thoughts these last few months when God has been stopping by, so I asked him, I asked, “It seems that both the levels of my deficited attentions and the frequencies of your visitations are connected in some way, Big Guy. Have I scratched a scab of truth here or am I delusional?”

“Yes,” was all the response I got and all I needed to gain the requested insight.

To some folks, having their God tell them that they are delusional would be unsettling, but to me it’s merely conformational. Hell, I know I’m crazy, for shitsakes, a fact that I admit, and often. But like a blind boar in an oak forest, I do occasionally trip over an acorn, or two. I do stumble and bumble through the smoldering swill that is my ADHD-addled thoughts and hit a thick vein of Truth.

And here I do mean capital “T” Truth. Truth as in God confirms that both the essence of the thought is spot on, and that it’s importance makes it worth repeating. Now you might be thinking at this particular point—a mere 280 words into this missive—that I’ve lost control of my faculties. But hang tight because first, I’ve never had control of said faculties and, second, what I’m about to tell you was sanctioned by God.

Unh-huh, that’s right, God Her Veryownself authorized that I disseminate this information to the Inet-mosphere. Here I say “Her” as He had morphed from a Western Biblical image of God into the spitting image of Jane Fonda as Barbarella.

God came to see me yesterday evening as I lay on the fishing dock dangling my legs, from the knees down, in the water and a fat doobie stuck in my face. I was maybe eight Carta Blancas into my day and I was alone on the wooden planked structure. I needed some time to myself to sort a few things out so I went down to the lake for some solitude.

Like I said, I was laying on my back and swinging my dangled feet back-and-forth as I tried to grab a single thread of thought from the jumbled mess inside my head. Something has been nibbling at my soul for a week or so and I couldn’t put my hands on it. Some something was bugging me and I just couldn’t figure it out. I had lay long enough to get fully relaxed and I was just stoned enough to have a fully opened mind.

“Are you ready to talk about it or are you too fucked-up to deal with me?”

“Whaaa?” I barked, as I almost leaped into the lake from the flat of my back. “Who the fuuu… Oh, it’s you, God. How’s it hanging, Sir?”

God laughed deeply, heartily. “It’s hanging deep and wide, dude, deep… And wide.” God told me with more laughter.

“You scared the bejesus out of me again, Big Guy. You’re not quite as funny as You think.”

More deep rumbles of almost demonic laughter and then, “Yes, I am that funny, Mooner. As a matter of fact, I invented funny.”

Hard to argue with God’s logic.

“I stopped by to help you out a little bit here. You’ve had your thoughts all pantie-twisted so tight that its tugging your mind’s pubic hairs into those painful little knots. I’m going to take them panties off your brain and shave you down to clear your head,” God informed me.

And that’s when he morphed into Barbarella. I had to try hard to look in God’s eyes and not at her stuff. “This is somewhat unsettling, Ma’am. As you are well aware, I masturbated to Barbarella for months after watching that movie.”

God looked at me like I had said something funny. “You saw that movie eleven-and-a-half times, sonny boy, and you still masturbate to Jane Fonda.”

OK, guys, right is right and God was right.

“So what’s this big advice dealio you’ve got for me. I’m sort of busy now trying to be alone. Can you yippy-Skippy things for me so I can return to my solitude.”

“Don’t be boorish, shithead, I’m pretty busy myself. Look, think back on your trip to Santa Fe and a specific moment of clarity. If you think it, it will come.”

And with that, God flashed me a dazzling smile, flipped Her hair off her shoulder, and vanished. I was left with nothing but God’s memory and a faint scent of Summer’s Eve.

Clarity in Santa Fe,” I thought, “clarity, in Santa Fe?”. And it hit me. I was in a store on The Plaza called Santa Fe Hemp—a nifty place with hemp clothing and clever political statements. I stopped by to see if they are a customer of our factory but I never even checked their clothes. I was so enamored by the progressive message bumper stickers and cards and stuff that I never looked. I had spent at least an hour reading and commenting to the guys when I came across a postcard with a statement by Laurence W. Britt.

Mr. Britt has studied fascist governments, including Hitler’s Germany and Benito’s Italy, and he determined that there are specific early warning signs when a government or society are turning towards fascism. I was so impressed with this list that I bought the postcard for all of my friends. Here is what the card says:

 

Early Warning Signs Of

FASCISM:

  • Powerful and Continuing Nationalism

  • Disdain for Human Rights

  • Identification of Enemies as a Unifying Cause

  • Supremacy of the Military

  • Rampant Sexism

  • Controlled Mass Media

  • Obsession with National Security

  • Religion and Government Intertwined

  • Corporate Power Protected

  • Labor Power Suppressed

  • Disdain for Intellectuals and the Arts

  • Obsession with Crime and Punishment

  • Rampant Cronyism and Corruption

  • Fraudulent Elections”

 

OK, first, please allow me to say a “Thanks” to Larry Britt. Second, I would like to say,

Wake the fuck up, America!!!”

Manana, y’all.

 

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Some Of My Best Friends Are Conservative; Bullshit And Other Lies

Thursday, July 12th, 2012

 

So. I’m sort of back into the grooves after my extended visit over to Santa Fe. I’ve had a knock-down drag-out with Mother, it’s hotter than a two-dollar pistol and more humid than a sauna, and SAC Ellen just called to say that she won’t be back to Austin until next weekend. Maybe.

Maybe. And maybe I’ll have some skin left on my pecker by then. It’s been three weeks since I’ve had any sort of multi-person sexing and I’ve just about gone through a 12-pack of Ivory bath-size soap bars. Why is it that I’m happy with actual sex a couple times a week yet, when deprived of actual sex, I masturbate six times a day?

Whatthefuck is up with that silliness? Maybe it has something to do with the relative levels of satisfaction each variety of sex provides. While I’m quite adept at bringing matters to a successful conclusion when placed in my own hands, I must admit that I’ll never hold a candle to the sexual pleasures provided by a woman.

Which reminds me. Today is comedian/actor/author Bill Cosby’s birthday, which reminds me of Mitt Romney’s visit to the NAACP yesterday. Cosby was the first black man to have a lead role in an American television series when he starred in I Spy. As I recall, the show started in 1965 and it had huge viewership and ratings all across America.

Except in NBC TV stations in Georgia, Alabama and Florida where bigotry and racism were the program directors. As recently as 19-fucking-65 America harbored that kind of racism. Which puts Herr Schmidt Rommel’s visit to Houston yesterday into sharp perspective for me.

In 1965, whenever a white person wanted to prove that he wasn’t a racist, he would say, “Why I’m not a racist, some of my best friends are black.” Recently the “I have a (fill-in-the-blank) as a friend” justification for bigotry has included gays, Muslims and Hispanics, and if the best you can say for yourself is to repeat that stupid mantra, you, dear friend, are a bigot.

For yesterday’s NCAAP meeting, Romney flew in a group of black Republicans to be his cheering section. Since I don’t know who all of them are I won’t call them Republican houseboys. But I will call them hacks. The candidate attended that meeting to get in the face of America’s major minority for the sake of his fan base, and he made inflammatory and denigrating statements to some of America’s finest people.

When the soirée was over, Romney bragged that he was cheered by the members of the NAACP and then bragged that he spoke with several anonymous black leaders who spoke badly of President Obama and said they would vote Republican.

Mitt Romney is a liar. And a bigot.

For starters, the only black folks he spoke with after his speech were his hired hack attendees and then he used the old “I have black friends” method to demonstrate that support.

Mitt Romney is a fucking bigoted liar. I just can’t get my head around the fact that he is the Republican nominee to be our President.

Ugh.

What do you call a man who will say anything to get what he wants? Among the several things that come to my mind, “Mitt Romney” is one. But how about you—what would you call such a man?

Manana, y’all.

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Tuesday Blues; Welcome To Fascistland

Tuesday, June 26th, 2012

 

So. It’s Tuesday and I just got another call from Mother asking if she can come home. She refused to attend the Limbaugh/Perry gay wedding last week so I banished her from the ranch for all of the attendant wedding affairs. That was last week and the threads that connect “wedding affairs” to reality are getting pretty thin.

At breakfast this morning I asked the few others seated around the big table if they were ready to have Mother back among us. They mumbled and grumbled a bit but nobody said anything decipherable. “Well, OK then,” I told them. “Looks like the main activity on today’s calendar will be the Official Limbaugh/Perry Wedding Fishing Trip, sponsored by Carta Blanca beer.”

“Rick Perry does love when you take him fishing, Mooner. Do you think the newlyweds will go while they’re in Costa Rica?”

That was Mr. Dave, the giant-peckered old geezer I hired to service the older ladies of Mooner Manor. “I doubt it, Mr. Dave. Rush Limbaugh has been sex starved for over a month. Me, I’m guessing that Rick Perry will be lucky to see anything but the paint of their hotel room.”

I realized that I had sent all the women but my mother to Costa Rica to oversee the honeymoon and Mother was sent to a hotel over to town. I offered to fly Mr. Dave down to Central America or put him up with Mother in her hotel, either one. He said to me, he said, “Oh, that’s a lovely offer, sir, but I think I’ll spend the time with you and the dogs. I find I’m missing the sound of voices not coming from the mouth of a Johnson woman.”

I didn’t tell him that he had just voiced the main reason he was hired, I simply said in reply, “You stick with me, Mr. Dave. We’ll get you recharged and ready to go. How about we go cut us some calves?”

Mr. Dave isn’t much of a ranch hand. Man pukes when you hand him the big curved blade we use to cut the balls off young bulls—well, that’s what we Texans call a clue. I was talking to the Squirt about it last night and she said it might be because Mr. Dave’s pecker is about the same size as the 400-pound bulls carry. “You’d be queezy yourself, Bwana Mooner, if you were packing the heat same as Mr. Dave.”

Maybe, I thought. “Might also be perspectives, little lady. I was cutting cows before I knew that my pecker was good for more than the one thing, so I never had the mind to do a side-by-side with the little bulls. Mr. Dave was city raised and likely has a city boy’s stomach.”

And that reminds me. Can you believe the fucking US Supreme Court? What part of “not a political body” is so confusing to them. I am embarrassed to tell you that I didn’t think George W. Bush would screw things up too badly as president—I thought he was too dumb to make much trouble. But the justices he put there have formed a coalition that has sent civil rights back at least a hundred years.

A state government can now authorize agents to demand that you prove your citizenship at any time they wish. My thoughts are that to keep from appearing to use profiling with this power, they will start making the demand on people just for the sake of it. As a white American male, I will not prove my citizenship to you, motherfuckers, and I dare you to try to make me. I don’t expect people of color to resist this but I’m asking every white person in the country to stand with me on this one. This isn’t Nazi fucking Germany or Cold War Russia, for shitsakes.

Or is it? I mean really, what’s the difference? Corporations and single rich donors can put as much money behind a candidate as they want, so every elected public official office in the entire fucking country is for sale, we can harass and bully non-whites for no reason, we are legislating control of womens’ bodies, and we are creating the economic environment that imitates a wealthy, ruling class society.

When we speak of Pakistan or Malaysia, we call countries with those attributes “Third World” countries. We are denying our citizens health care and quality public education; we have stripped the funding for support services for the poor; we have sent much of a generation off to fight two brutal, winless wars because of economics and now we deny the returning veterans proper health care to fix their damaged bodies and minds.

Oh, and our greedy financiers almost bankrupted the entire fucking globe while they were gone to war and killed the job market. Many vets have returned to little, or no, employment options.

Ugh. Fucking ugh! Mother fucking ugh!!!

Maybe New Mexico isn’t far enough away to escape the oppression of America’s right-wing Christian conservative idiocy.

America doesn’t need to worry about international terrorists taking our country down. We’re ruining it just fine all by ourselves. I have a buddy who thinks that this might be the time that is The End of Days. If America falls into a fascist state all of civilization will follow.

“And the Ted Nugent’s shall inherit the Earth.”

Fuck it. I promised a fishing trip and we’re going fishing. Manana, y’all.

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***RED ALERT***RED ALERT***RED ALERT***

Monday, June 11th, 2012

 

So. America, please read the following from Katy:

This is Katy from over at Lesbians in My Soup. It is an honor (oh, such an honor!) for me (little old me!) to have been selected (chosen, even!) by Mooner Johnson, in conjunction with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Department of Homeland Security, HUD, and some other agencies I’m not at liberty to mention, to bring to you this OFFICIAL GOVERNMENT DENIAL.

 

There is no party at Mooner Johnson’s house next week.

 

We know what you heard and we know where you heard it and I am here to tell you that it’s just not so.

 

Because, you see, there is no party at Mooner Johnson’s house next week. The people you’ve been hearing that from? They are conspiracy nuts. They are tin foil hat crowd types. At best, they are woefully misinformed.

 

They’re the same ones who believe in UFO’s and in aliens and in the Zombie Apocalypse. They think LBJ killed JFK and maybe worse! And when the government released OFFICIAL GOVERNMENT DENIALS for those things? They didn’t believe us then, either. They won’t believe us now.

 

But you’re smarter than them, aren’t you? You know because you’ve heard it. You know because you can read the words I am saying to you right this instant and you can recognize the truth when you see it.

 

There is no party at Mooner Johnson’s house next week.

 

The government has looked into it. Government workers, whose salaries are paid with your tax dollars and who get up every day and go to work with ONLY your best interests in mind, really, they looked and they listened and they measured several different things. Then they put all of the information they got into a computer. They pressed a button. The computer spit out a conclusion.

 

It was a definite conclusion with no ambiguity.

 

It said, “There is no party at Mooner Johnson’s house next week.”

 

It said Squatlo doesn’t need to bring the keg. It said Brandon from Idaho does not need to book his tickets now. It said you don’t need to charge up your camera, because BJ will definitely not be dancing around with a lampshade on his head come this time next Friday.

 

It said nobody needs to worry about the chips and the dip. You do not need to bring a gift or wear a costume because there is no wedding reception and there is no costume party. Because there is not ANY kind of party. Because there is no party at Mooner Johnson’s house next week.

 

We have the pictures to prove it. No preparations are under way. No salesman will visit your home. There is no party at Mooner Johnson’s house next week.

 

There won’t be a pig in the parlor. No ostrich in the Jacuzzi. These are not the droids you’re looking for.

 

No off-duty police have been hired to direct traffic. Nobody cleared out Mooner’s den for pole dancing. Why would they? There is no party at Mooner Johnson’s house next week.

 

Back when I was a teenager, my grandmother was a lot like you. She was a cynic. Thought everybody else was lying. Never believed what she was told. Saturday nights, I would tell her I was going to the library to study and she would never believe me. She would follow me to the library, all stealth-like. As though I did not know she was following.

 

She would sit out in her car as I walked into the library. Maybe pay some random kid walking by to go in to check and see if I was in there. That I had not snuck out some back door. She wasted a lot of nights sitting around outside of libraries while I was inside, learning. She wasted a lot of time, and that’s a shame, and you don’t want to end up like my grandmother, do you?

 

The good news is you don’t have to waste your time the way my grandmother wasted hers. You don’t have to set up your own spying operations. The government did the leg work for you! They had the drones and they had the wiretaps and they had the spies who went deep (deep! deep!) undercover.

 

You didn’t hear this from me, but there’s even a member of Mooner’s immediate family who is nothing more than a plant sent in to get the inside scoop on these sorts of things.

 

And the drones and the wiretaps and the spies who went deep, do you know what they told us? Can you guess what they said?

 

They said, “There is no party at Mooner Johnson’s house next week.”

 

They said, “Don’t clear your schedule.” They said, “Don’t call your friends.” They said don’t prep your opening line for when you hit on Reckmonster. They said there will be no band and there will be no strippers and there will be no pony rides.

 

They said we’d be wise to deny everything because there is nothing to deny. They said they’re your government and you believe your government, don’t you?

 

THERE IS NO PARTY AT MOONER JOHNSON’S HOUSE NEXT WEEK!

 

THERE IS NO PARTY AT MOONER JOHNSON’S HOUSE NEXT WEEK!

 

THERE IS NO PARTY AT MOONER JOHNSON’S HOUSE NEXT WEEK!

 

This has been an OFFICIAL GOVERNMENT DENIAL by Katy from Lesbians in My Soup. We now return you to your regularly scheduled blogging.”

 

 

FINIS

 

Thanks, Katy.

 

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Reflections On Memorial Day 2012; Diddling The Fiddler

Tuesday, May 29th, 2012

 

So. Memorial Day 2012, the day of this year we honor the brave men and women who have died in the service of our country, is in its last hour. This has always been a confusing holiday for me because it took me until I was a semi-adult man—facing the military draft an possible deportment to Viet Nam—that I fully grasped what it is that Memorial Day memorializes.

The root cause for my confusions was the simple fact that we had Memorial Day, July 4th and Veterans Day where each was, at least in my eyes, a military holiday. Marching bands played all the same J.P. Sousa marches and service anthems at the parades, veterans would wear their old uniforms, and silly-assed politicians would make mostly the same speech at each holidays’ events.

Now, before I go on I need to once more credit Squatlo for planting the seeds of irrelevance that connected the following divergent concepts. He printed a story about a congressman from Arizona who has received repeated endorsements from a faux Nazi organization that he repeatedly refused to comment on those endorsements. He wouldn’t say he didn’t accept Nazi support, wouldn’t say he disagrees with their principals or even acknowledge that he had their support. He simply repeated the same candidate’s talking point over and over. Like a Chatty Kathy doll with but one phrase on call to it’s pull string, this man sounds stupid. And mean.

His refusal to acknowledge negative personal issues with the re-puking of talking point vomit is becoming a trend with the far-right lunatic fringe. Go over to Squatties place and check out the videos of the Arizona and Colorado pols I’m talking about. Be sure to file your nails first—you don’t want to scar your scalp from the ensuing head scratching.

Like I was saying, it took me awhile to be able to distinguish between the three military holidays because politician’s speeches were identical at each holiday’s events. My daddy and granddaddy were each veterans of one the world’s two big wars and we attended every veteran’s holiday event while they were alive. Of all those speeches only one ever stuck in my head. I wish I could remember the man’s name but I can’t. He was a WWII veteran who had fought in Africa and then through D-Day in France and the Battle of the Bulge. I remember that he was a hero whose uniform was covered with medals. He was fiercely American and as anti war as am I. I guess I can’t remember his name because he lost his election.

I remember his speech was different from all the others. He didn’t boast of American military muscle and make bully pulpit threats at our “enemies”[,] and he didn’t promise an ever-increasing budget for the Pentagon. What he said that stuck with me were his personal reasons for fighting in WWII. He said he fought because:

 

  1. His country was attacked by outside forces that wanted to impose their will on America.
  2. The leaders of those attacking countries were fascists who viscously oppressed any opposing views, used religious-based laws to regulate morals and developed a ruling class populated with a small number of politicians and industrial executives. Hitler and the others murdered their detractors, and brutally so.
  3. The invading countries’ common citizens—those masses not belonging to the ruling class—were all relegated to be non-union worker bees with fixed wages, and were destined to fuel the wealth of the ruling class and to be the cannon fodder of war.

 

On the way home from the parade and speeches, I asked Daddy what the man had meant about oppressing opposing views. He told me that the Nazis would go so far as to kill anyone who didn’t follow their rules even if a person couldn’t follow the rules if they wanted to. Jews and homosexuals were killed just for being what they are, and communists and Jew sympathizers were killed for what they believed. He said that German school kids were were immersed in the government’s religious-based propaganda. Schools were required to teach one curriculum, and children were encouraged to participate in “Little Nazi” clubs and organizations. There was no teaching of differing views.

“Free thinkers were considered to be criminals, Mooner,” my father told me. “If you didn’t follow the party line in every phase of your life, you’d be ostracized or killed.”

To conclude his speech, the anti-war hero veteran said this: “What makes America great is our inclusive society, our acceptance—hell, our encouragement—of differing views. Christians and Jews, Democrats and republicans, black and white, hawks and doves—we all have the same, identical opportunity to live freely in America. No one of us can tell the others what to think, what to worship or how to act. The majority can’t oppress the minority on the basis of race or religion or political affiliation. A lone man with a different religious belief can’t be burned at the stake in America.”

The last of this man’s words that rang in my head were: “Hitler and Hirohito and Mussolini were fascists. Those men sought to invade the United States of America and eliminate our freedoms of choice and speech, and then impose their control over our every thought and act. It is only when faced with such invaders that we should ever again go to war.”

As I reflect upon Memorial Day 2012, I think that hero’s words are as powerful today as when I first heard them forty years ago.

Historians will tell you that the Roman Empire didn’t collapse and die from outside invaders. Rome died because its ruling class became so self important and corrupt that its citizens and slaves couldn’t, wouldn’t continue to feed its wanton desires. The men at the top became so greedy and self absorbed that they had no empathy for the common man, the sick or the elderly. They didn’t care about the education of Rome’s masses, only that the privileged got the best education available. They only provided health care to common citizens when they served in the Roman Army. If you had no family to care for you when you got too old to work or too crazy to support yourself, you begged on the street and died a pauper’s death.

Rome was conquered by home-grown invaders, men without empathy to other men with different beliefs or situations or conditions. Rulers who only wanted to impose their will.

I doubt that the WWII anti-war hero veteran ever expected America to be invaded by homegrown fascists. I doubt he could have envisioned an exclusionary America where a strong education system goes severely under funded and begins to fail our children. He didn’t envision our returning vets living homeless in the streets because there aren’t adequate mental health and reentry programs to serve them. I know he didn’t see a future where, on purpose and with educated forethought, we denied quality health care to all Americans and our sick and elderly are facing routine cuts to their life support services.

What brought this hero’s speech to mind yesterday was the speech a Texas congressman made yesterday. He bragged about American veterans and praised their patriotism and thanked them, “From the bottom of my heart,” for their faithful service. He told the rest of us that we need to be grateful to our vets and that we should NEVER forget to show our thanks to our vets for their service to our country.

The congressman from Texas who gave that speech is a tea bag right-winger from the Dallas area. Since his election to the US Congress he has banded with his brethren to vote for every increase in military spending and voted for every reduction to veteran’s benefits to hit the floor of the House. That two-faced motherfucker has the balls to tell veterans how much he appreciates their service while making the decision to put them on the streets.

Look, I’m tired and losing the ability to better-connect the dots on this and I’m going to bed. I’ll stop by saying this one more thing. America is under siege from within, our social fabric is unraveling faster than a $3.00 sweater. Our right-wing christian politicians have grabbed the loose thread, and with their eyes pinched shut to the consequences, they are pulling with all their might.

God bless our veterans, our elderly and infirm. How about we Americans bless them too.

Manana, yall.

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