Archive for the ‘Psychotherapy’ Category

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Rename Sandra Contest Day 2; I Think I’m Better

Friday, October 29th, 2010

 

So. We’re but a few hours into the first day of our contest to re-name Sandra, and you guys are amazing. I remain unsure, at this point, why you are amazing, but you are amazing none the less.

Entries to date include: Samantha, Bruce (3 entries), Sandie, Grace, Hortensia (even after I told you it was rejected), Ninja Butt Operation Girl, and my personal favorite- Gladys.

Now that this thing has gotten some legs on it, I guess I’d better work out some arrangements with Sandra to see how to pick a winner. Does she get to choose her new name, will we have another contest and let readers vote the best selection, or do I simplify things and use my autocratic tendencies and just make my choice?

Details.

The dealing of with, which are not my best attribute.

Holy shit was that an awkward sentence structure.

Allow me to try again. I have ADHD, and one of the many symptomatic tendencies of its sufferers is the inability to pay attention to details. Fact is, the paying of any kind of attention is the major symptomatic tendency.

Like the instructions that come packaged with a replacement fluorescent light fixture to go in the master vanity area over to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s house. A made in Indonesia replacement fixture.

Here’s the back story. For you non-authors, a back story is history on a person or event that provide a foundation for understanding a character’s actions, or the importance of an event.

So. I was in therapy last month, and I was bragging about how much better I have been feeling, even though I haven’t been feeling so hot.

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson says to me, she said, “Oh for shit sake, Mooner. Are you telling me that you feel better because you’re crazier, or are you saying you’re crazier because you feel better?”

I hate when she gives me complex questions and any of my answers is going to end badly for me.

“Neither,” my smart reply. “All I’m saying is that even though I can’t concentrate on anything, I feel like I’m concentrating better.”

She seemed ready to laugh- her face got all screwed up like when your child says something they think highly serious and profound, and you’re ready to bust a gut laughing. Sam gives me this look often in therapy.

Once she composed her features, Sammy said to me, she says, “OK, Mooner. Let’s put that insight of yours to a test.”

Then she tells me she needs a new light fixture in her vanity area, and gave me the make and model number. “They carry it in stock at Lowes. If you can get it installed anytime before Thanksgiving, without an electrician, I’ll give you a free session.”

“Deal!”

I’ll do most anything to save $150.00, so I go to Lowes but forgot the paper with the model number, so I bought the fixture I thought best. That didn’t work out so well so I went back with the paper.

“How does this dealie work?” I asked the helpful Lowes electrical partner.

“Simple, Sir. You just snap a few parts in place and install it.”

Now if I truly was better, I’d have known to unpack that fucking light fixture right there in the store, and make the little snivel shit assemble it for me. Being delusional, I thanked him for his help, paid for my purchase and headed to Dr. Sam’s place.

Squirt greeted me as I unlocked the garage door and punched in the alarm code. “Salamu, willcommen and bienvienda Senor Mooner.”

“And a big hello to you my mixed breed cupcake.”

Squirt asked me what was on our agenda for the day and I said, “This light fixture, kid. You wanna help?”

Of course she did, but we decided to have lunch first. We relocked and alarmed the house, and I put the light fixture away and out of Sam’s sight. I was determined to surprise her with my accomplishment.

Anyway, we went to What-A-Burger where I had a Number One Combo, with a Coke. Squirt had a breakfast taco, a bacon cheese burger combo, and a fish sandwich. I had to refill her Dr. Pepper three times before she finished.

Since I was feeling so well, and good too, we decided to go fishing. I carry everything required for a fishing trip in each of my vehicles, so we headed straight to the lake. Our only stop was to fill the cooler with ice and Carta Blanca beer.

Look, I’ve got to make some phone calls. Manana, y’all.

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Commonality of Interests- Uncommon Ground

Friday, October 22nd, 2010

 

So. I stopped by Shoal Creek Loonie Bin this morning to visit sweet Mrs. Plunkett and Marvin Travis-Kensington. They are the two lunatics that got wacky in Dr. Sam I. Am’s office yesterday. Actually, I think Marvin is a raving right-wing religious lunatic and Mrs Plunkett is more misguided than anything else.

Turns out she was married to Professor Plunkett from down to Texas State University in San Marcos. He taught in their paranormal sciences department, and she tells me that he used her as a guinea pig for many of his experiments.

“Well, Mr. Johnson,” she sweetly told me in answer to my question. “If you must know, I’ve had sex with alien creatures from across the universe.”

Now, don’t be pissed at me because I didn’t ask her if she’d had sex with aliens, I simply asked in what kinds of experiments did she guinea pig participate.

When I then asked her to elaborate, she said, “Professor Plunkett,” and she always calls him Professor Plunkett, “dear man, would medicate me with special potions he obtained from from a medicine woman, and then tie me naked to trees, or rocks, during each Fall’s harvest moon.”

She got this dreamy look on her face and continued. “The medicine made me so happy and relaxed. And lustful,” she whispered. “Oh my heavens, I couldn’t wait for those savage aliens to come and take me.”

Me, I’m now starting to wonder just how small the world truly is. “When the good professor gave you these medications, what were they like?”

“Well, each one came in a small tincture bottle made of brown glass. The brown cap held the clear glass dropper, which was topped with a black rubber bulb.”

She scrunched her face up in thought, the went on, “I remember that each little bottle had a paper label with an illiterate handwritten name.”

Now the dreamy look again, and, “Names like This ain’t yer momma’s elixir, and Party potion number nine, and my favorite, Who gives a shit when ya got this potion?”

Like I said, small world.

I wanted to ask more about the alien sex because I think it’s happened to me, but it was time for her electro shock therapy.

I did tell her that a dose of direct current was all the elixir I need to promote healthy sex. She asked me if I wanted to go with her, but I passed.

Anyway, when I stopped by to see Marvin, he tried to arrack and head butt me. That’s difficult when you’re tightly bound in a straight jacket and pumped full of psychotropic drugs. The times I’ve tried it, I ended with nothing but frustration for my efforts.

I tried to sit with him and tried to find some common ground, but it was fruitless conversation. In my endeavors to find commonality of interest with everyone I have conflict with, and thorough that congeniality reach some common ground, I have discovered that some people are just too fucking crazy to have commonality of interest.

Except with other really crazy fuckers. And that’s another way I can justify my claim that I’m not really all that crazy.

Which is a good reason to celebrate, so I’m gonna crack a cold Carta Blanca beer.

Salud! Manana, y’all.

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My Name is Mooner and I Pee In Sinks!

Monday, October 11th, 2010

 

So. Now that cat’s out of the bag, maybe I need to explain myself.

It’s true, I pee in sinks. I pee in the sinks out to the ranch; I pee in the sink at my office over to Mooners Compost Plant; I pee in the sinks at restaurants; I pee in the sinks at Public buildings; I likely have peed in your sink if I peed at your house or place of business. I peed in the sink at the Louvre Museum in Paris, I peed in the sink at at the Texas State Capitol, and I peed in the sink at Vivo.

That’s right, my name is Mooner and I pee in sinks.

So what?

And don’t start with the, “But that’s illegal, immoral and just plain stupid bullshit.” I’ve done the research and it is not. Jeff gave me a legal opinion, and save the routine caveats, I’m approved to pee in sinks ad nauseum. That’s tight, as long as it’s appropriately done, sink peeing is legal.

As for immoral, a man’s got to pee somewhere, and the water that drains from a sink ends up in the same pipe that carries the water flushed from commodes. So like Gram says, “Who gives a shit as long as ya clean after yerself?”

And you can just forget the stupid part. If I can flush a pee with less than one cup of water, and it takes the average American 2.2 gallons- who would be the stupid one? Even if you have one of those great Toto one-gallon flushers like I have, the math is fairly simple: one gallon per flush or less than one cup. And think about this- if you wash your hands after peeing in the commode, my way is a Zero water cost method.

Like I say, simple math.

“But Mooner,” Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson scolded me. “Don’t people notice the smell when they use their sinks after you?”

“I don’t know, Sammy,” I started with a grin, “have you?”

I’ve been peeing in Sammy’s sinks for over a year and she never caught on. Now, of course, she’s trying to catch me and say she can tell. But she can’t. Nobody can because it’s a sanitary method I use.

Nope. If I pee in your sink you’ll never know unless I tell you. OK, maybe CSI Miami could dead reckon me to a guilty verdict, but you know what I mean. The act of washing my hands rinses and sanitizes my ritual, and I wash-up with one cup of water.

My name is Mooner and I am one WaterWise, water saving sonofabitch!

Makes me wants to drink Carta Blanca beer so I can pee some more.

Manana, y’all.

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My Name is Mooner and I…

Sunday, October 10th, 2010

 

So. My psycho therapy sessions have become problematic over the last week because, as Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson puts it, “Mooner, this is another of those things you must face if it is to be cured.”

Then I reply, I say, “I don’t want to cure it, I’m perfectly happy with my behavior.”

And then she says, “Listen to me you crazy redneck sociopath, what you are doing is illegal, anti-social and just plain stupid. If you don’t stop, I’m going to commit you to Shoal Creek for a few more months of re-programming.”

“Bitch,” my best reply.

“Look, Mooner, the best way to change your habits is to start by acknowledging that you have a problem, like an alcoholic at an AA meeting.”

This sounded familiar. “You mean like when you made me admit I’m crazy and start a journal?”

“Yes,” she said brightly, smiling like I’m a first grader who just grasped the concept of one-plus-one.

“Oh, like that turned out so fucking great.”

I can’t tell you any more about the crazy journal business because it’s in my book.

Sam gets this exasperated look on her face and says, “Your poor implementation caused the failure of that good plan. Now do this, Mooner. Say it.”

I think my ADHD must have wandered my mind a bit because Dr. Sam I. Am yells at me, “Mooner! Pay attention, and say it.”

“Ugh,” I grumble, as now I’m exasperated.

I take a deep breath and cap it with a deeper sigh. “My name is Mooner and I pee in sinks.”

Sam gives me another bright school teacher smile, and, “Now that didn’t hurt, did it?”

“Yes.”

“Then do it again.”

Bitch.

“My name is Mooner and I pee in sinks. And I need a Carta Blanca beer.”

Manana, y’all.

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What the Hell is a YA?

Thursday, September 9th, 2010

 

So. I went to a writers’ group here to Austin in an attempt to connect with that whole commonality-of-interest dealie. Both Dixie and Dr. Sam I. Am preach at me to understand and practice the concept in its full width, and breadth.

They seem to feel that I spend too much time with my own ADHD-addled thoughts, and don’t put enough effort into understanding other people. They have been beating this concept into my head for months now, and I think I’ve got it.

If I grasp the practical aspects of the concept, they are that:

  1. Commonality of Interest is the foundation of human nature which says that people will connect easier and quicker, and form tighter bonds, with other people who appear to share their same interests.
  2. Finding common ground with another person, and therefore the implicit support for your own thoughts and ideas, helps with your sense of self worth. This is the basis for Dr. Sam I. Am’s psycho therapy support groups.
  3. As a salesman, you can get prospects to feel comfortable with you if you can find some common ground to discuss. Show the prospect that the two of you could be buddies.
  4. Said another way- people like people who are like themselves.

I think I get the idea. The problem I keep having with this commonality dealie is this: the harder I try to find things I have in common with other humans, the more differences between us crop up; the more differences I discover between us, the more likely it becomes that a situation could unravel; the more things unravel, the more likely it becomes that I will spend some time in jail.

Take last night, for instance.

I was excited to be meeting with a group of local writers, and some of them actual authors. I distinguish the two in this way. I am a writer- I’m full of shit and find myself compelled to put thoughts to print. An author is a writer who doesn’t realize he’s full of shit, and feels compelled to use big words and confusing literary concepts to distinguish himself from us writers.

But, I harbor no resentment for writers or authors, either one. I can either like or dislike both with an unprejudiced eye. Same way that I like Carta Blanca beer and detest Dos XX.

However, I think I’m an amateur at getting along. For starters, as soon as I arrived at the meeting, the commonality of interest I sought was divided down the middle. Half writers and half authors. Then, I discovered that we word-smiths require additional layers of separation beyond writer vs author. Are we fiction, non-fiction, self-help, memoir, biography, children’s or young adult? Young adult is the infamous YA category.

In last night’s group, we had four writers and four authors. We had one fiction writer, me, and seven non-fiction. I have always thought of myself as a biographical memoirist. The group decided that I am a fiction writer after reviewing my webber and bloggie.

Of the seven others, one was self-help, four were memoirists (memoirators, maybe?), one historian, and the last a biographer. And each and every one of the seven was a Young Adulterer. Young Adulterator? I’m something like two minutes into the meeting and I realize that I have almost nothing in common with this group.

So, basically, I was a group of one, and segregated from the others by several invisible barriers. Confused? You should have been there.

These guys were all in their late twenties and older. Average age, I’m guessing, was maybe forty-three. And even with all of the commonality of interest they shared with their YA cohorts, these silly guys are fighting over everything.

“You simply cannot categorize vampire themes as anything other than YA,” this one guy says. “I’ve done the research.”

He was maybe fifty and was dressed like my college lit professor back to 1967. Long mop of stringy hair, thick black eyeglasses, tan cord pants with those shiny spots where they get rubbed with use, and this vintage wool blazer with elbow patches. This guy I had pegged as an author.

Now me, I’m thinking, “What research?” and, “This yahoo has his head totally up his ass.” That’s when I hear, “Oh, pull your head out of your ass, Johnathon. Last year when you were writing adult sexual fiction, vampires were for adults only. I appreciate your attempting to fit in, but try to say something smart. Stop being such a yahoo.” This from a writer, a handsome younger woman who said she writes for the lesbian and gay YA audience.

I have met her several times before, when I attended Sister and Anna’s lesbian meetings. Lisa is her name. I think she was the date of the lady who hit me with my own Carta Blanca beer bottle in that little scuffle we had over to Guerros Taco Bar that one time. That last fight- the one I didn’t start.

I have been accused of starting several fights while attending my Sister and her wife’s lesbian support and action groups. Once I actually said something I wished I hadn’t said. All the other skirmishes were caused by simple misunderstandings.

Like, for example, the difference between “more manly”, and “manly more”.

Lisa then turned to me and said, “Yo, Mooner. Of everyone here, I think you have the best perspective since you’re the oldest.” Her look was challenging. “Give us your erudite thoughts on the subject.

Maybe she’s an author.

Now all eyes are on me. “Tell us, Mooner. Are vampires the exclusive property of Young Adult writers?”

“Well,” I started. “I watched my first vampire movie to the drive-in theater back in 1958. Scared the shit out of me and gave me bad dreams. Then last Sunday night, I watched True Blood over to HBO with SAC Ellen. All of that neck sucking gets the SACster all randified, so I know vampires are in her wheelhouse.”

I took a sip of coffee, then added, “But who gives a shit anyway? Don’t you want a broad range of people to read your stuff even if you do write to a target audience?”

Am I wrong?

Of course Mr. Elbow Patch pipes in, “Well, I can only speak for the serious authors among us, but missing your target audience is a sign of immaturity and failure.” He sniffed, adjusted his cuffs and added, “A dismal failure, Mis-ter Johnson.” He emphasized the “Mis” in Mister and this little bubble of spittle flew from his mouth onto his sleeve.

Then everybody starts opinionating and the conversation turned to shit.

It seems to me that, as a group, we’re one angry statement away from a fistfight, when this little lady sitting across from me starts slapping her hand on the table. “Stop it. Stop it right now!”

Things got real quiet and she says, “Now listen to me, everyone. We had a nice group here before this fiction writer barged in. I know who he is.” Here she looks me dead in the eye and says, “I know you Mooner Johnson. I go to church with your mother and Gram.”

Now, she stands up and points her finger at me. “You are a heathen and a disruptive shit. Go away and leave us alone.”

“And you, Mrs. Ellis, are a right-wing Baptist religious fuckball.”

How’s that for erudite?

That’s when little Mrs. Ellis came across the table at me like she was a rabid raccoon and I was last week’s leftover chicken carcass.

I held my hands up and backed away. “No need to get violent, Mrs. Ellis. I’m thinking that maybe I need to find myself a different group to bond with.”

They clapped, and I left.

But it wasn’t a total waste of time. I got to thinking about this YA business. If seven out of eight writing persons are focusing their works on Young Adults, that sounds like a marketing trend to me. Maybe I can start slanting some of my content their direction and get more readership.

I’m going to call John Egloff and set a meeting. I bet he can help me with this. But answer me this if you will. What, precisely, is the definition of a Young Adult? I’ll twitter tweet that one.

Manana, y’all.

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DrLaura F-ball! MoonerJohnson F-ball?

Saturday, August 28th, 2010

 

So. I’m up early this morning and reading the Austin American Statesman, our local newspaper. I’m an old fart and I love the newspaper, as an actual pile of paper. I love the smell of it, the feel of the paper between my fingers and I adore my clumsy, fumbled attempts to fold its sections for my most comfortable reading.

I can read it sitting at the kitchen table, out on the porch, while sitting on the pot, driving the little farm tractor, on a plane or a bus or a train. I like to read it anywhere, Sam I Am.

Dr. Seuss’ Sam I Am, not mine.

I love washing the ink off of my fingers when I’m finished. I inspect my hands before each washing to see how much ink has stuck to me. Usually, the amount of deposited ink I wash down the drain confirms how much joy the paper gave me at that day’s reading.

Because President George W. Bush and his fuckball associates ruined our economy, my newspaper carries maybe half the weight that it had before. I enjoyed more pages of print, more stories, stronger smell and more ink down the drain before Bush crashed our economy with his silly war and blind eye to Wall Street.

I miss ignoring all of the ads stacked into a full newspaper, and I miss my investigations to determine precisely how an advertiser had managed to get me to read the few that caught my wary eye. With a four pound Sunday addition, a couple of ads would trip me up and make me read them. A two pounder can’t seem to manage an override of my efforts to ignore advertisements.

I love a newspaper printed on paper. I love everything about it. It is my source of news and information, and the place I gain insight about the world that I cannot obtain from my family and circle of friends. I don’t want to ever give it up.

This is a problem for me

I am an environmentalist. Not a saboteur-tied-to-a-tree-or-chained-to-a-rock environmentalist, but rather I consider myself as what I call a practical environmentalist. I understand that we can’t change ten thousand years worth of civilization’s bad habits overnight. I think we need a conscious, planned restructuring of wasteful and damaging habits.

However. My insisting that I read a paper newspaper that then requires me to waste water to wash ink into the drain- adding chemicals into our water system, is beginning to bother me. I have always justified this personal indulgence because of everything else I do that exemplifies my planet-saving mentality.

I became an environmentalist many years ago, when I first realized that we would run out of potable water with our wastefulness, and polluting, of every body of water and watershed on the planet. I’m somewhat of a water maniac if truth be told. Like my constant scoldings of automatic sprinkler system owners.

But I’m becoming torn by my justifications to break my own rules just because I keep so many more. Can I justify my newspaper habit because I recycle everything possible, and pee in the sink to save water? I think this is what Dr. Laura would call a, “Moral dilemma.”

I’m going to need some extra psycho therapy to work my way through this one.

And speaking of the good Dr. Laura….. Are you fucking kidding me? It’s 2010 you psycho right-wing religious shitwad. You preach your “always-take-the-moral-high-ground-and-do-the-right-thing” dribble day after day, and yet you feel free to pitch the N-word around like it’s your favorite new toy?

Shame on you.

Holy shit but my ADHD is fritzing my brain to distractions! I think I had a point when I started this bloggie dealie, and I better make it before I get off track again.

OK, let’s look at it this way. Is my justification for reading a paper newspaper the same thing as Dr. Laura’s justification for her idiotic usage of the N-word? Am I a fuckball- granted, a fuckball of a totally different nature from her, yet am I a fuckball like Dr. Laura just the same?

I think I want to puke. Is it too early for a Carta Blanca beer? I will be back when I finish mission incommunicado, y’all.

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RushLimbaugh and RickPerry Destroy Garden; Gram Gets Bent

Friday, August 20th, 2010

 

So. An unexpected pleasure that became a benefit of my rescheduled incommunicado event, and return to Austin, was for me to be able to spend time with the SACster’s sister from out to the Pacific Northwest. Her sister, let’s call her Kathy, is a research scientist in the behavioral issues field. She and Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson have become fast friends, so when we made dinner plans for last night, Sammy was on the list.

I am trying to get more in tune with the whole “commonality of interest” syndrome. Since Dr. Sam I. Am and Kathy both work with human behavior, they have much to talk about. I must admit I was a touch taken aback when they started discussing a joint research project that would entail scientific observations of me.

Maybe it’s not a syndrome but simply a dealie. But like Gram says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit Mooner?”

Kathy wanted Mexican food, so of course we went to Vivo, and for the first time ever we had wait staff not named Caitlin. We did have Katelyn’s husband, Garrett, and his pal Kyle, and still no Carta Blanca beer for me. Caitlin and Katelyn were working inside but we, of course, sat out to the patio.

We’ll call SAC Ellen’s sister Kathy, because she remains uncertain if she is comfortable having a close identity with my rantings. She and I share mutual leanings on most important issues, she is smart as a whip- which seems to be a family trait, and she laughs at all of my jokes. Well, she laughs at most of my jokes.

Some of my jokes.

Anyway, she’s smart, well read, thoughtful and compassionate. When we first got seated for dinner and our drinks arrived, I asked her if I could use her name here to the bloggie. She thought long and hard, with her pretty facial features scrunched studiously.

“Well, here’s my evaluation of the available evidence, and my unscientific conclusion. I say unscientific not because I lack the skills to evaluate, but rather because I don’t have any baseline data to use for comparative analysis.”

Deep breath, then, “In my rural home area, the bulk of the settling populations who migrated from around the country, did so in the 1960′s and 1970′s. And in a strangely unscientific way, that census was a distinctly dichotomous array.”

Deep breath, re-scrunching of pretty facial features, and slow exhale. Then, “These war baby pioneers were either Hippies, like me, or persons holding opposite world views.”

Stare blankly into the distance, deep breath, adjust reading glasses and take a deep sip of Eastside Margarita. The Margarita was on the rocks, with a lightly salted rim. “The old timers in town call my group the Hippies, and have named our opposites the Hicks. I don’t approve of that name, Hicks, Mooner. I think it’s disparaging. Let’s call the others Them, shall we?”

Breath, scrunch, gaze and another long sip before, “However disparaging I might find the old timers’ name for Them, their politics are distinctly revolting. And often unnerving. More guns, no taxes, no public schools, kill abortion physicians not babies, Jesus is my co-pilot and let’s have a whale for lunch are but a few of the many mantra of Them.”

Me, I’m thinking maybe it should be “…many mantra of the Them.”

Now I get an expression-less look followed by, “I wouldn’t want to be hunted by my crazy neighbors for anything you might say, Mooner. I can put my face on a wanted poster any time I choose to, and without your assistance.”

See, I get that. And I love when a scientist talks science to me. Maybe I can get SAC Ellen to dress-up in scientist clothes before she zaps me with her stun gun.

So, we’ll call her Kathy had the Enchiladas Verde and fell in love with Vivo. Me, I still love Vivo, but I’m getting testy about the entire Carta Blanca beer thingie. Maybe I should offer to bring my own beer and pay them a bottle fee. I’ll need to research the records of the Texas Alcoholic Beverage Commission and their archaic rules. Wouldn’t want to put the Vivo’s liquor license to risk.

Which reminds me to tell you that Rush Limbaugh the Pig and his sidekick, the ostrich Rick Perry, got into more trouble with Gram while I was gone that short period of time. I told the two of them to stay in the closet and out of Gram’s sight while I was incommunicado.

But you guys know Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh. They want to stay hidden in the closet, but just cannot control their impulses if their lives depended on it. Those two shitballs headed out to the garden in the middle of the night, because Rushie felt, and I’ll quote him here, “Ricky and I felt we deserved to take what we wanted as long as we left a little for everyone else.”

And armed with that asshole demeanor, they ransacked the just ripened sweetcorn.

To quote my Gram, she said, “Tha pig is gonna be a hulie how with a apple up his ass Mooner. An that fucking bird a yurs ul make me a nice chickin dinner.”

When I corrected her to the fact that Rick Perry is an ostrich, she says to me, she said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. By tha time I roast ‘im alive he’ll be squawkin lik a chicken.”

I decided not to risk telling her that pigs are the guest of honor at a luau. I did tell her, “I love you,” and, “I’ll plant more corn.”

When I inspected the garden, I once again realized that we had named these two animals correctly. Our big garden has, well had, four long rows of Silver Queen sweetcorn. Maybe a hundred big stalks of corn with just browning tassels when I last looked Saturday night.

Now, what we have are six lonely stalks, standing tall, and what appears at first glance to be the aftermath of a tornado. Uprooted corn stalks and empty corncobs strewn all over the place. At least they cleaned the cobs. Hell, they ate many of the cobs.

And let me ask you this. Have you ever smelled when an ostrich with a distended belly full of fresh sweetcorn takes himself a big old number two? Holy shit! Maybe the sixty-something feet of intestines in that bird might help to get that meal to sustain him for a month. However, the pile of ostrich poop resulting from the digestive process can only be called foul smelling.

I wonder if that smell is the origin of the word foul?

Just thinking about it causes me to need a Carta Blanca.

Manana, y’all.

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Vatican Scews Child Abuse Problems Again

Tuesday, July 20th, 2010

 

Well- here we are again, in that place where I have way too many topics to discuss and not enough room at the Bloggie Inn. Just so you know, my fancy pants Editorator spent the last three hours reaming my ass out about the volume of content I have been posting here.

“Oh for God sakes Mooner,” she started. “You have placed 190,000 words on your website since the middle of March and that is almost two full books-worth of words.”

Two fulls book worths?

Then she got that sour look a person gets to their face when they realize that their mouth full of “mountain oysters” did not come from the sea. “Mooner, you write down so many thoughts, your readers are going to start thinking you’re crazy!”

Well fucking duh!

“Poppy-Cock,” I told her. “If readers are just starting to realize that I’m a nut case, I’ve still got Republican readers. Intelligent visitors to my site know I’m crazy right away.”

Then she called me a brain dead shit head, and I reminded her one more time that she needs to use fewer curse words, and exercise that big Dartmouth College brain of hers. Then she said to me, she says, “I must be crazy for putting up with you. Call Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and authorize her to bump me up to three times a week on your dollar. I need help.”

Yes, I pay for my professional word smith to attend therapy sessions with my ex-wife. If I didn’t, she would want to edit (read censor) all my bloggie postings.

But look, I have a main thing scorching my ass besides the recent medical malady that will be the subject of my next bloggie. This butt burner is the Holy Roman Catholic Church, the subject of today’s thoughts.

Before getting into the mess that is the Catholic church, let me disclose that my most trusted advisor has asked me to not post this to the bloggie. “Too much disclosure, Mooner. You will open yourself to public ridicule, and maybe worse,” were the precise words. And then, “This is not in the spirit of your other writings.”

I have spent some time cogitating the matter and decided that I agree with Gram. My Gram said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. You are…. you.”

Gram’s right, I am me, and you can bite my butt if that’s a problem. I think you will see that I have a unique perspective on this subject. For certain, I have well-thought-out opinions. So enjoy, or not:

As a victim of child rape, I keep a sharp eye tuned to any news related to pedophilia. My personal rapist was a Baptist Deacon to my own church, and he was the Boy Scout Troop Leader of my troop. Rotten fucker. But even though my particular shitball rapist wasn’t of the Catholic species, he was a trusted religious leader who vilified me in the same way that priests abuse alter boys.

Have you read that the Holy Roman Catholic Church has issued new guidelines for pedophile priests? Oh yea, fancy new, far-reaching rules. Now, instead of a child-raping starched-collar wearing fuckball getting the protection of a protracted, full ecclesiastical trial, they can be disciplined with a judicial procedure. Same bunch of possible/maybe/probable child rapist upper management priests will do the judging, but several fewer layers of red tape and hand jobs between bad acts and punishments. Maybe this will get some action to remove offenders within years instead of decades. Woo-hoo.

However, they still will not feel compelled to notify civil authorities when they discover one of these bastards, which means prison time will be rare. Nor will they hold accountable the offender’s main boss, the Bishop, for allowing his priests to be bad boys. Even if he knew. Even…if…he…knew!

And by the way, there are no new rules providing for guaranteed reparations to the abused. Hell, they don’t even have suggested guidelines for reparations.

Now, and again I’m not Catholic, but this pisses me off. These SOB’s to the Vatican claim to be the moral compass for the hundreds-of-millions of Catholics worldwide. They sit around in their gold-gilded chairs, hoarding the unimaginable riches their Church has stolen from conquered peasants over twenty centuries. They sit in judgment of the Catholic masses, holding the moral compass of their faith.

But after decades of public exposure from literally thousands of confirmed cases of child rape by priests, the high and mighty Vatican is still cruising the waters of the Morality Sea with a broken compass. They stick their heads in the sand and poke their fingers in their ears for fifty years. Deny, deny, deny, and deny again, the reports of abuse. When they get caught with their pants down and a pedophile priest is caught red handed, they just move him to another parish so he can build a new stable of wrecked lives.

The Vatican would have you believe that these new rules are bold actions to end child rape in their church. But until the rulers of the church stop acting as if they are guilty of those same crimes themselves, no real changes will be made.

My Catholic friends accuse me of spoiling the entire barrel of priests because a few are rotten. I will admit that I don’t think that all priests are pedophiles. But if those rotten apple traits are not the prevalent nature of priests, why are offenders still getting treated as if they did nothing worse than break priest curfew?

These men rape children. Is that such a difficult thing to get your mind around? They rape children, yet the Vatican moral compass does not see the need to report them to civil authorities, where society’s moral compass gets to point directions. In my world, if you rape anyone you need to be put in jail for a very long time, and maybe worse. And the rape of a child is the most egregious rape. You don’t deserve probation for rape.

Unless you are a Catholic priest.

Again, my only logical conclusion to the Vatican’s actions here is to assume that so many priests are infected with the pedophilia disease, that they fear an epidemic should they make a truly serious effort to identify and punish. An epidemic that could lead to the collapse of their institution. My sense is that the problem is systemic.

And get this. Vatican leaders felt that along with this bold overhaul of their child rapist policies, they want to announce that they put women priests on the same Sin-O-Meter level as child rapists.

That’s right, to make a woman a priest is just as bad as raping a six year old boy. But the punishment is worse than for a child rapist. If a priest ordains a woman, he will be defrocked and excommunicated from the church. If he rapes a choir’s worth of adolescent boys, they will simply move him to a place with fewer pressures and temptations.

And you want to tell me that your religion is better than that of a Muslim extremist.

Where in the Bible are you granted the right to treat women as inferior, and children as your sex toys? You don’t place any more actual weight of guilt on a pedophile than you do for committers of those other mortal sins. Terrible sins like cowardice, envy, greed, fornication and liars. Terrible, scary sins. Ooooooo, you’re going to hell because you like my car, you envious bastard.

And those Vatican bastards want us to think that they make these decisions because they have been anointed by their God, and they only follow His orders. If that is the case, then it’s their God to blame.

Do I sound bitter? Do you get the feeling that I would have had a different punishment in mind for any person I discovered had raped one of my kids?

But you know what? I just had a thought, and I don’t like it. I’m starting to think that the people at whom I am really mad, are those hundreds-of-millions-of Catholic parishioners who continue to tithe and fund the lavish lifestyles of their church leaders. It’s the blind followers of Vatican edicts who continue to breed new children to put into the priests’ hands. I now realize that you are the most guilty Catholics. You should be ashamed enough of your church to fix it.

All of you Marys and Catherines and Agathas and Josephines- stop raising livestock for these asshole priests to slaughter. Send your Mathews and Marks and Johns to the cathedral and kick somebody’s ass.

Fuck the Vatican.

Me, I’m one of the lucky victims of child rape as I have come to adulthood relatively unscathed. Luckily, I remain a victim only and did not become an adult perpetrator, committing the same horrible act as so many victims do.

In my thirty years of psycho therapy with Dr. Sam I. Am, she is always careful to avoid casting blame for my lunacies on anything other than me. Sammy doesn’t let me tie my thoughts or actions to external events closely.

But I sometimes wonder- if I hadn’t been child-raped, would I still have ten ex-wives, would I cuss like a sailor? Would I have killed a man and needed a nationally-publicized trial to be acquitted? Would I have an arrest sheet that reads like the encyclopedia, or would I still enjoy getting stunned by a tazer as sexual foreplay?

Would I need periodic lodging over to the Shoal Creek loonie bin to get re-grounded, or would my best method of communication be the flashing of my adorable ass in public?

Would I be the most inappropriate man in the world?

I’m unsure if any of those questions are related to my rape. Psycho therapy can’t provide guaranteed answers to much of anything. Psycho therapy has no certainties.

However, I am absolutely certain that I need a Carta Blanca beer.

Manana ya’ll.

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Squirt Kicks Environmental Butt, Polluter Might Live

Friday, July 16th, 2010

 

So. I think I’m tired of talking about the many things I do wrong here to my webber and bloggie, so we’ll just drop that subject. Like my Gram said to the dinner table last night, she said, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Us Johnsons make tha rules, we don’t foller ‘em.”

While Gram’s logic is faulty at best, even a blind boar hits on an accurate thought every now and then. When I signed-up with Word Press and Go Daddy to do this nonsense, they didn’t have me sign any promise to obey rules about word count or any of that other nonsense. I’m really starting to wonder if those guys are all Republican.

Republicans are a pain in the ass, by definition.

Anyway, I was late to my dinner last night because I was over to Dr. Sam I. Am’s house to mow her lawn for her. She’s at some big brain doctor conference and I’m watching the Squirt while she’s away. I’m also doing chores like mowing the grass, cleaning the swimming pool and watering her plants.

When I finished with the grass, Squirt asked me to take her on a walk around the usual route she walks with Sammy. She wanted to see if her nemesis was around and available to be chased.

“Maybe Herr Squirrel es in los arboles up by la golf course. Yo es dying to estrangle der squirrelenbastard mit mine own deux hands.”

Squirt thinks that there is only one squirrel in the world and said one squirrel lives in her neighborhood. The tree-climbing rat moves around the neighborhood as Squirt walks her route- popping in and out from different locations to posture. And making the Squirt maniacally nuts. I keep telling her that it’s more than one ratlike varmint that tortures her, but she won’t buy it.

“Same uno, Mooner,” she tells me.

“Not the same one, sweetie,” I try. “It’s just that all squirrels look alike. That’s how you know they’re a squirrel.”

Too bad all Republican right-wing religious shitballs don’t carry the same genetic features. That way you could see them for what they are before they open their big yaps. Give you time to escape.

Anyway, I cleaned the rechargeable electric mower I gave Sammy for her last birthday, and placed it back in its spot in the garage, and off we go. Maybe three doors down from the house, and after Squirt has pulled me to the grass so she can dribble one drop like maybe a dozen times- Mister Squirrel shows for the first time. He runs a few feet into the street ahead of us, stops and turns to look right at us, and does that tail twitch thingie that squirrels do just to piss you off.

“Arf, arf, grrrrrrrr, you varmint die uber pain en la ass!” And then, “Grrrrrrrr, matako volmas!”

Now me, I know exactly what the Squirt just said, she called him an asswipe. Matako is Swahili for ass, and volmas is Lithuanian for wipe. This I know because it is one of Squirt’s favorite expletives. The squirrel obviously misses the threat in Squirt’s outburst and lazily runs and bounds up a tree.

The miniature dog and I have the same, “It’s more than one squirrel,” talk we always do on these walks, and I don’t make any more progress with her than the hundred before this. So, we’re walking along and we can hear the buzz of a landscape crew working a few houses ahead of us. We walk past four houses, and while the noise is louder, we still don’t spot the crew. We get to the corner and turn left, and two houses down is this beehive of activity, an almost deafening level of gas powered lawn equipment noise. And smoke.

Giant billowing clouds of dense, gray two-and-four cylinder lawn equipment smoke.

“Que en la inferno est dies?” Squirt started that full-body vibrating things she does when scared or angry. Trust me, it pays to know which, and the Squirt wasn’t scared.

“Assholes, baby. That hell is assholes,” I told her. “Small minded, air polluting fuckballs.”

OK, let me stop here to provide you with some background information that just might help you to understand what happened next. See, I am a firm believer that our delicate planet is under attack from many directions. Other than if religious terrorists were to get a hold on some nuclear weapons, I believe that the most serious of those threats comes from our consumption of fossil fuels as we burn them for energy.

I’m not stupid enough to think that we can just pull the plug this afternoon and never burn another barrel of oil or ton of coal. But I know with absolute certainty that we can pull the plug on certain fossil fueled devices.

Like lawn equipment.

I am what I guess you would call a madman on this issue. Battery powered lawn equipment is already a proven alternative to old fashioned gasoline varieties and if you still use gas-powered devices at your house, you are an uninformed moron. You are uninformed or you’re Republican, which makes you a moron, once more by definition.

Rechargeable battery technology surpasses the requirements for lawn care, and did so years ago. If you are using gas powered lawn stuff, I think you should be warned once, and then handcuffed to a bed that sits in the jail cell occupied by only you, and my Gram.

Gram is a big role player when, as she puts it, “I’m all randy an sexilated.”

I share my feelings about environmental issues with anybody who will listen. Since Squirt has been with me for a few days straight, she has had a pretty thorough indoctrination. When I start going off about the smoggy, noisy demonstration from this lawn crew, Squirt springs into action.

She yanked free the leash I held loosely in my left hand, and took off. She’s yapping and flashing her mouthful of tiny razor sharp teeth at the workers, actions seen as harmless by the men polluting our world. I’m not at all unhappy by her rants so I just watch to see what happens.

Why do I seem to get into as much trouble for what it is that I don’t do, as for what I do do?

After a minute of them ignoring her, the Squirt has figured a new tactic and she starts getting in front of the workers, putting herself between the men and their work. Me, I’m thinking to myself, I thought, “Mooner, this might require a little personal intervention.”

But, by the time that particular thought fought its way through my ADHD-addled brain- it was too late. This one worker got this pissed-off look on his face and decided to take a kick at the Squirt. I know he didn’t mean it to be a cause-harm kick, but Squirt is still young and misses many of the nuances of body language.

I have told you before that Streaker Jones is a martial arts and self defense guru and that he trains all of our family, blood and extended family both, how to fight.

And kill.

The gas-powered, environmental asshole takes this exaggerated kick at Squirt, and just as his boot reached its apex- she leaped and attached those tiny razor-sharp teeth to his crotch.

Let me say something before I end this already 1,200-word bloggie posting. I now know how to encourage a man to stop polluting. Clamp a rat trap to his nuts.

So, that’s why I was late to dinner. What with the incident report, and the proof of rabies vaccination and trip downtown for booking. Maybe I can get a copy of Squirt’s mug shot and post it to the bloggie. She’s a cute little shit for sure.

Anyway, it’s Friday and all of my full-size tomatoes have burned out in the summer heat. We’ve got an entire pantry crammed full of canned red goodness, but they just don’t cut it at Carta Blanca beer time. It’ll be a few weeks before my system adjusts.

I always get kind of weepy with the last big tomatoes of the season, morose even. I’ll need to call Doctor Sam I. Am for a psycho therapy session tonight.

Manana, ya’ll.

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Freedom Means Never Having To Say You’re Sorry

Wednesday, June 30th, 2010

“Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow, oh wow.”

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

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

Again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And responsibilities.

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

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

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

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

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Will Rush Limbaugh (The Pig) Come Out of the Closet?; Mooner Tells All

Saturday, June 12th, 2010

It’s Friday folks and time to clean-up a few loose ends. I’ll start by finishing the part about when I was over to the Barnes and Nobles and this one woman started a big scene. I know I broke my promise to finish yesterday but you just need to get over that. I’m doing the best I can with limited time and resources.

Besides, I’m not charging you yet and I think I have the right to disappoint you until you’re paying customers. If you are a Republican or a Baptist and that’s not acceptable to you, go fuck yourself.

As you recall, I was researching for Dixie in the kids section and the kids all started misbehaving and this one severely obsessive/compulsive woman had this book with the mug shots and criminal histories of all child molesters reported to be living in the area.

I think the woman is bi-polar, like Bi-polar Bob over to Shoal Creek loonie bin. It’s all ups and downs with Bob and I was sensing some of the same from this lady. Mental health professionals call the two extremes Manic, the upsies part, and Depressive, which is definitely the downers. These extreme mood swings typically last days and longer as the pendulum swings back and forth.

Not for this lady though, no siree Bob. This gal could go from sweet neighbor lady to the Devil’s right hand man in what seemed to me to be two seconds. Maybe less.

When she comes up to Bert Massey, he’s the head of security for the Arboretum, and holds a picture of Clovis Williams up to my face, the lady was all triumphant smiles and confidence. However, when Bert points out that said Clovis is nearly a foot shorter than me, and that I show no evidence of ever having a Popeye tattoo on my forearm, she went ballistic.

“He only looks six feet four inches tall,” she yells angrily. “It says right on the bulletin that he uses disguises.” Then she starts stabbing at me with the pen she’s holding. “Gotta be body putty or something stretching him out.”

Body putty?

After maybe a dozen pokes I took the pen away from her.

“Don’t you dare touch me mister. I know your not you, you’re Clovis Williams.” Now spittle is flying from her mouth so I know she’s off her medications. Bi-polar medications give you the dry mouth something fierce.

It would take seventeen properly medicated bi-polar patients to lick a stamp.

This I know to be a fact from this one time when I was locked up over to Shoal Creek. But, my ADHD is digressing us. Let me just say this about that. The new no-licky sticky stamps are one of those, “Why didn’t I think of that?” kind of dealies.

So. She’s being restrained by mall cops now and she starts staring at my shoes with her just arrived crazy eyes almost spinning in circles. If you know a bi-polar person you know those eyes. She says, “Check his shoes for elevators,” and then she starts snapping with her teeth and kicking and writhing around trying to get at me.

Now, let me take a breath here and explain something to you. I’m not that crazy, like this lady, but I am crazy. Having spent many months locked away to the loonie bin myself, I have a unique and experienced perspective on crazy folks. I always try to err to the side of compassion anytime I encounter one of what Dr. Sam I. Am calls, “Your people, Mooner.”

So I tell Bert, I say, “It’s OK Bert. You can let her go. She just wants you to listen to her. Crazy people don’t often feel well heard. I can handle this.” This is something I am sure about.

“OK Mooner, if you’re sure about this.”

I said, “I’m sure,” and he said, “OK,” and his guys let her loose.

She just stood there crazy-eying me for a minute, looking me up and down at the same time. It was like she had lizard eyes- you know where they kind of pop out and can move independently? Then both eyes latch on to the hemp tote bag that serves as my portable tomato kitchen and she says, “What’s in the bag buster?”

“Just my stuff,” I told her. “Not your business.”

I mean really, this was not her business.

Her eyes started that lizard dealie again, and then she says, “Make him open that tote bag Sheriff. He’s got kiddie porn inside.”

Now with her eyes doing that independent action she was looking at Bert and me at the same time, he and I answer at the same time. “I’ve/he’s got no warrant,” the I’ve from Bert and the he’s from me.

And then, again together, “And I’m/he’s not the Sheriff.”

“I don’t care whose who’s or what’s your problem, I’m looking inside that tote bag.” And with that, she grabs my tote by a strap and gives it a yank.

She was stronger than she looked so as I defended myself and the integrity of my private property, I yanked back and maybe just a little too hard. I pulled her clean off her feet, her still latched to my bag, and she smashed into me with my tomato-filled tote between us. I felt my precious reds get squished from the impact and felt a few squirt as vine ripened tomatoes will do when exposed to significant pressure.

When the lady pulled away from me still trying to steal my tote, her pretty white blouse was covered in deep red goo. Blood colored goo because of the mini plum bias to the varieties I was carrying that day.

The woman felt the wet through her blouse and when she wiped her hand across her chest and looked at the gatherings on her fingers, she screamed and said, “He stabbed me, somebody call 911!” and promptly fainted like an empty flour sack to the carpeted floor.

I opened my mouth to say, “It’s OK, it’s just tomato goo,” but all I got out was the “It’s.”

ZZZZZZZZZZZZAAAAAAAPPPP!!!

I love the smell of ozone and fried synapses in the morning.

One of the silly mall cops got excited and blasted me with his tazer. I came to in the back office area of the store with Bert looking over me as I lay on the floor with my head in the lady’s lap. Bert’s just shaking his head as I open my eyes and says, “Can you focus Mooner?”

“Oh wow, oh wow, oh wow,” is all I can muster. “Oh wow,” is all I can ever muster when I first come to after getting tazed. “Take my cell phone and hit #1 on the speed dial. Tell the woman who answers that I’ve been hit with a stun gun and I’ll meet her to the La Quinta near her office in thirty minutes.” That would be the SAC Ellen. She won’t pass on this opportunity.

Now the lady speaks up. “I’m so sorry Mr. Johnson, I had no idea it was you.” Then she eyed the boner that is the major attraction in the aftermath of all of my stunnings. “Would you like me to take you home and fix you a drink?” And then she whispered in my ear, “I’m not wearing any underwear- want a little peak?”

What a nice offer. “That is a very nice offer, Miss, but I’m spoken for.”

The crazy eyes came back and she started getting surly again when the manager walked in.

He surveyed the scene for a bit and then said, “OK Bert. I’ll take this nice lady out the front way and you take Mooner out the back and put him directly into his car. You, Mooner, will drive away and stay away.”

He helped the lady to her feet and as he walked her out he said to me, he says, “You are one disruptive asshole Mooner. Please stay away from my store.” And then after a beat he pleaded, “Please.”

“Stop whimpering Stanley, I got what I need for now. Just call me when my Jeff Hwang poker book comes in.”

“Someone will meet you at Sprouts to deliver it to you. I’ll let Harry know when it gets here.”

Harry is the manager over to Sprouts and my buddy. And I just checked the word counter and we’re at 1,600-plus words.

Fuckballs.

The 400-word limit is basically one double-spaced page with 12 point type. I guess I do four or more pages with each posting so I’m giving you an entire week’s worth of postings for the price of one.

What a bargain. But I do need to get back to the ranch and spend some time with Rush Limbaugh the pig. He’s been in the closet and I’m trying to talk him into coming out. Hiding in the closet is never a good idea especially when everyone knows that you are in there and why.

I asked Dixie to translate for me and she says that Rushie said, “Tell Mooner that Gram will kill me if I come out of the closet. Gram just doesn’t understand me.” Dixie speaks pig.

Actually, Dixie speaks the Southern United States Porcine dialect, which is our version of the original Chinese piggy speak. But like Gram says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit Mooner. I’m gonna Louie Louie that fuckin pig if he furts my ass agin.”

I hope Gram means she’ll Hawaiian luau Rush Limbaugh if he sticks his snout up her butt- you know roast him in a hot rock BBQ pit.

I told Dixie to tell Rush that Gram will be hurt and maybe angry at first but she will eventually get over it. Then I said to her, I said, “Dixie, tell him I’ll gather a support group and grill some ribs and sausage and make it a coming out of the closet party for him.” That hog does love his pork ribs and links.

Streaker Jones said he’ll come and SAC Ellen has said that she’ll introduce him and make a nice speech in support of his decision to come out of the closet.

It is a terrible waste of your life to live it cowering in the closet. I just hope that Rush Limbaugh can muster the strength to come all the way out.

Just hit 1,750 words and I need a Carta Blanca.

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Juli, I’m Sorry; Don’t Drink Beer At Barnes and Nobles; Psycho Therapy Is Frustrating

Monday, June 7th, 2010

I just got finished with my morning psycho therapy session and the topic of discussion reminded me that I still haven’t told you guys about what happened when I went to the Barnes and Nobles Bookstore over to the Arboretum.

I was doing some research for Dixie because she wants to write a children’s book and needs formatting advice. I guess she wants me to do it for her because I’m already a successful author and I have kids.

Anyway, I was in therapy this morning and Dr. Sam I. Am asks me, she says, “OK, Mooner, let’s talk about your latest fuck-up. It’s been more than a week and you haven’t spoken a word about it.”

I just sort of stared at her like she was the moron because I truly didn’t know what she was talking about. Then I remembered and I said, “Oh yea. I was up to the Sprouts yesterday to get some organic lettuce. It’s been so hot that all the lettuce burned out and the big ranch garden has only summer crops. Sprouts has the best price on a three-pack of organic romaine anywhere to town.”

The good doctor is just staring at me so I continued. “I got my lettuce, some apple cider vinegar for salad dressing, and a big bag of turbinado sugar. Then I saw that they were selling berries for $.99 per half pint and I loaded up on those. When I checked out, Juli, one of my favorites, was my register person and she was sort of pissed at me.
Doctor pain in the ass is still just staring at me so I say, “OK, look Sammy. I know I told Juli I wouldn’t name her by her real name to the bloggie in that posting last week but I forgot. She was hurt that I mentioned her name and was obviously embarrassed by what I had written.”

Now the bitch doctor’s steely gaze is getting under my skin. “Oh for shit sakes Sammy, I told her I was sorry and would never do it again.”

I decided to return the cold shoulder and not talk to her so I started looking around the office with my lips zipped tightly shut. I grew tired of counting the little holes in the ceiling tiles when I got to 13,188 and glanced at my watch to see how much more silence I had to endure until my time expired.

“Fuckballs!” I said. “My watch has stopped.”

And after I spoke, “Oh fuckballs twice. I was gonna make you talk first.”

“You will never learn Mooner.” said Dr. Am-Johnson. “I am strong of heart and will and you Mooner are, simply put, still you.”

I keep telling you guys she’s a bitch.

“I need to call Scotty and get him scheduled to fix my watch,” I said with manly concern.

“Stop whining about your watch Mooner. You’ve got bigger problems than knowing the time to the exact second. Now, tell me about the incident at the bookstore.”

Have I told you guys about my buddy Scott? He retired from the TCEQ awhile back and now he does a little consulting but mostly he does retiring and watch/clock repairs. He is one of the few good men I know from my entanglements with government officialdom and he has become a friend. Maybe he does retirementing.

Anyway, he is a watch and clock collector/seller and a terrific repairer of timepieces. He can fix anything and he is honest and trustworthy. He has a large collection of military watches and he is quite active in that market, I understand. If you need a repair or you want to buy an interesting timepiece, contact him at smccoy26@austin.rr.com . He might not get right back to you because he is after all, retired. But you will be glad you waited.

Have I ever told you guys that I like my watch to provide me with the exact time? I don’t know why and I can’t place a single event in my life that was crucial in a to-the-second sort of way. Except for a few fireworks dealies and maybe the one time Streaker Jones and I decided to see who could hold his breath the longest.

But I should have known that Streaker Jones could beat me in a breath-holding contest. He beats me at everything except wifing and the whole ex-wifing thing. Maybe that might need to be wivesing and ex-wivesing thing. And it would be things, plural.

Oh for shit sakes. They would be things.

“Mooner!” Dr. Sam I. Am yelled at me. “De-glaze your eyes and look at me.”

I snapped out of my watch thoughts and looked at her. “What, Sammy? What, what, what?

“Lower your voice buster, and tell me about your problem at the bookstore. Tell me now or I’m calling for the ambulance to haul you to Shoal Creek Mental Hospital where I’ll book you a three-week engagement.”

And then she added, “Maybe that will improve your focus.”

“OK, fine. First of all, it wasn’t my fault. I just want to get that straight from the start,” I began. “Well you know that Dixie wanted me to do some research for her and it was Friday a week ago. Not last Friday three days past, but the one before that. It was the Friday before Memorial Day, whatever day that was, maybe the 28th of May, I think.

“So, since I was going to Sprouts anyway I decided to stop at the B&N books to look around since it’s so close and they have a big kids section.” Now I took a big breath and continued, “It was early and I didn’t shave and I had dressed myself so my outfit wasn’t fully coordinated, and I was wearing a greasy auto parts cap because I forgot to take it off.”

Maybe I was providing too much detail because Sammy says to me, she said, “Mooner, get to the point.

“OK, the point was this. I walk into the store and spy the kiddies section straight to the back of the store. I was headed back and remembered that Jeff Hwang has a new book out on Pot Limit Omaha and I’m trying to learn to play that game better to broaden my poker horizons. I walk over and they don’t have it on the shelf. There’s this guy standing beside me at the Poker Section and he’s holding the last copy.

He says to me, he says, “Look here,” and he shows me the inside of the book. “You can order right from Jeff at www.jeffhwang.com .”

“Thanks, man,” I told him. “But I wanted to get started right away. I’ll just see if another store has one.”

“So. I go to the information desk and have to wait in line behind this shitwad who’s asking about do they have the new inspirational book by that TV evangelist Tupac Shamir or whateverthefuck his name is. You know, the Indian guy from India except that he sounds like a Harvard law graduate and dresses like a TV talk show host.”

Maybe that guy’s name is Shupok Darfur.

I took another big breath and continued to Sam. “I had my portable tomato kitchen with me and since this was looking like an endurance kinda conversation ahead of me, I sliced off a couple slabs of Early Girl and passed them to the folks now crowded in line behind me. I didn’t give one to the guy in front so’s to not disturb his already trackless train of thought.”

Now I’m getting into my story when Sam interrupts me. “Get to the point before I kill myself, Mooner. You are driving me to distraction!”

“The point is, you can’t drink alcoholic beverages at the bookstore. When I popped the lid off the frosty Carta Blanca beer from my little kitchen and passed that around, the information lady working with the brain dead questioner ahead of me got snippy.”

“ ‘Put that beer away, sir.’ This was loud whispered like a teacher telling you to stop pulling on Susie Ashburn’s pigtails back to first grade. The teacher is whispering because you are supposed to be taking the spelling test that all the other students seem to be managing without distraction.”

“Anyway,” I continued, “I just downed the rest of the beer myself, stashed the bottle back in my hemp tote bag, and headed to the children’s section to begin my research. When I got back there…”

“Oops, sorry Mooner,” Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson interrupted again. “Your time’s up. We’ll continue in this afternoon’s session.”

I really think psycho therapy helps. I really think psycho therapy helps. I really think psycho therapy helps.

Gram says that if you can say something three times in a row real fast it will become true.

I love my life. I love my life. I love my life.

Fuckballs.

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99designs Logo Contest- Help Mooner Judge The Winner

Friday, May 28th, 2010

I have got way too much to tell you today so I’m going to do two separate posts. This one is about the logo contest I’m doing on 99designs. Holy chuck-a-fagoli folks, have you seen this before?

I told you that I was going to get off my fluffy butt and get things going here to the bloggie and website and I have. The first tangible evidence can be seen if you click at www.99designs.com/logo-design/contests/mooner-johnson-logo-45150 and connect to the 99designs site. Once there, you can see the many logo entries in my “contest”.

I decided a budget, did a profile that you can read if you want, and then the designers started making submissions. That was the easy part for me.

Now the hard part. I am required to make intelligent replies to critique each entry so that they know what I like, don’t like and what they can do to improve the design to suit me. I was up all night last night making those replies.

My ADHD got all fritzed-up because I basically like everything submitted and my mind was wandering, and wondering as well, and I’d had a few cold Carta Blanca beers and an acid stomach from eating too many homegrown tomatoes. I always overeat and drink when special events occur in the tomato season. Yesterday’s special event was the ripening of my first one-pounder.

Anyway, I need help. Not psycho therapy help, which is a given, I mean help in choosing my design. I have two most favorites, but since I know I am one biased, opinionated sumbitch, I’m looking for other opinions.

So- who better than you to give me some opinions. Please log on to my 99designs contest and then tell me what you think.

I love this entire process and highly recommend it to anyone looking to get a great design on a budget.

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Respect Thine Ownself (Part 9)

Tuesday, May 11th, 2010

So, I’m having my therapy session this morning with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and as usual, I’m catching a full load of crap because I am, as Sam put it,“…an inappropriate, childish, crazy old coot.”

And then she added, “And you stink!”

I really hate it when women say something mean to you and then feel that the initial insult left some vital aspect of the insult left unsaid, and then they add-on that specific extra layer. Like when I was a kid and I’d be doing something my Gram thought was foolish and scraped my knee in the dirt and was then actually foolish enough to seek her out for first aid and mothering.

“Sit still while I wipe tha grit outta this cut. I told you not ta be messin with that young bull.” This would be said with each word spit from those leathery old lips in perfect unison with a hard wipe of a dishrag over already abrasioned knee skin.

“Ow, Gram. Ow, ow ow.” I always took my Gram’s ministrations like a man.

“Stop cryin lik a baby, Mooner.” And then she added, “An lemme tell ya this little man. Nex time I ain’t cuttin ya loose.”

Have you ever accidentally strapped yourself to the back of a 1,500 pound bull?

Anyway, so I say back to Sammy, “Bite me you brain killer. You can’t even tell me what color my shirt is.” Now it’s my turn to fuck with her.

We’re doing all of my therapy sessions by Skype these days on a count of the fact that I smell so bad. Last time we did a live-to-the-office session, Dr. Sam had to burn the sofa and chair that I sat on in reception and her office and I had to pay for her to have a special air filter installed on her air conditioner unit.

“I know what color your shirt is supposed to be Mooner because you aren’t wearing one. If you were clean I’d report to SAC Ellen that you have been flashing me. But you’re so filthy you look like you’re wearing a grease covered mechanic’s uniform.”

I told her, “For your information little missy, I’m wearing the same hemp tee shirt and socks I had on when I started my protest.”

What I didn’t tell her was that I had dreampt that my jockey shorts attacked me and I ripped them off and set them on fire. But she could only see me from the waist up.

“Look Mooner,” she starts in on me. “No self respecting adult human would put himself through what you are doing to the rest of us. One of your neighbors has petitioned Governor Perry to designate your ranch as a disaster area. He’s worried that when somebody gets desperate and hoses you down, the runoff will contaminate his water wells.”

That could be a problem. The Governor and I don’t get along all that well. Did you hear that little shitball is so afraid of snakes that he carries a big pistol when he goes jogging? Give me a fucking break. No snake alive would bite Rick Perry, professional courtesy being what it is.

Then he says he’s out with his son’s dog for a run and feels the need to kill a poor coyote that looks them over. What a pussy.

Maybe I ought to try to mend fences with Governor Perry, you know, find some sort of common ground and make peace with him. I could have Gram formulate some special potions for him. She could do one to restart the left and right sides of his brain functions, one that makes him care for other people and maybe one that makes him stop lying and cheating the people of the fine state of Texas.

Likely it would help if I stopped calling him a brain-dead Baptist Republican shitball and latent Nazi asswipe. I really don’t think he’s a Nazi but I like to say so. I don’t think he could pass the Nazi’s intelligence exam.

But I could try to be nice.

Or I could take a bath and brush my teeth.

Wait a minute. What did Dr. Sam I. Am just say? “Sammie, what did you just say?”

“I said that if you had any dignity or self respect you’d take a bath you crazy fucking redneck. I’m going to lock you up at Shoal Creek if you don’t get your act together Mooner. And pronto!”

That’s when I stood up and showed her my ass play I called Guess What Came To Dinner?

“Oh sweet Jesus Mooner. Have you been sitting in a tar pit?”

“Take that,” I said back. “It’s not tar, it’s a new weapon for the Department of Defense.”

She bitched and called me names for another twenty minutes but I hardly heard a word. Instead, I formulated how I was getting myself out of this mess.

Think through my logic with me. So, I have been on a no bath, no tooth brushing while on a garlic and onion diet to get some respect, right? What if I show some respect to myself, would that count? And it takes a big man to stick by his guns for eleven days and never flinch, right?

Therefore, it will show self respect if I brush my teeth, take a bath and eat a buffalo. Ipso, facto smackto!

Respect administered from the one person who most respects me.

Hell, now that I think about it I deserve some kind of award or something.

So- fuck Rick Perry.

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Sarah Palin Wants to Taser Mooner Johnson (Part 7)

Thursday, May 6th, 2010

I have just awakened from a dream or maybe it was an hallucination where I was being chased by a pack of crazed women with Taser guns. SAC Ellen was there with Chelsea Handler, Sandra Bullock, Kathy Griffin, Sarah Palin, Oprah, Sarah Silverman and some others. All of the women are women I would have sex with if I were unencumbered, and all of the women obviously wanted to have sex with me.

Otherwise they would have chosen a weapon different from a Taser. Please don’t make me tell you the whole story about the world class boners I get when a woman Tasers me. I’m too weak to tell the whole thing.

And don’t start in on me about Palin because there is no reason. I don’t like to admit it, don’t like that it is true and I plan to get some extra therapy to try and understand why I would have sex with a brain-dead, right-wing religious shitball. One who can’t string ten words together without tripping over her own feet at that.

I am embarrassed to know it about myself but this bloggie is all about truth and full disclosure so I’m truthfully disclosing that I might boink Sarah Palin. Like Gram always says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit Mooner. Truth is as truth is.”

Besides, my hope is that this was not a dream and that I was simply hallucinating about the Palin sex part. I feel less responsible for my thoughts in hallucinations than those in dreams. Like the story I was telling yesterday when I conked out on you. You know, from when we were down to central Mexico that one time.

So, we were served this fermented liquid agave juice by the barkeep/sheriff and after a few jelly glasses of that and the cold Carta Blanca chasers required to wash away the slime coating our mouths, we were led outside to join the festivities. Our host drags us all over the little town introducing us to each group of people- mostly large family units with generations of grandparents down to grand babies. In some cases there were great-grand babies. He started with the first grouping, which was camped at the side door to the bar/cantina/jail/post office/general store and then wormed our way in a big circle through town.

As we walk from group-to-group and we have an empty glass, someone refills it with the sticky goo. And luckily, every Igloo cooler we encounter has Carta Blanca chilling on ice. Everybody is happy and festive and getting just a tad drunk. Of course we boys have been eating mushrooms for the last few days so the alcohol is providing us a layered high to add depth to our already magicalized central nervous systems.

So, we walk and walk and drink and drink and meet and meet and meet some more, when we get to the last family group, a herd of maybe twenty people set up to the front porch of the main building. Three elders, a handsome woman of maybe forty years- the sheriff’s wife, two young husbands and their wives with four kids, and eight young girls. The girls, I think they were from maybe twelve through nineteen, were all dressed in peasant blouses, rainbow colored skirts and sandals.

None wore makeup but each had a bright bow in her hair, dangling silver earring’s and a beautiful smile. They were stunners to a one, and one look left no doubt that they were their mother’s daughters.

And their proud papa left no doubt that he was just that. Papa.

We were welcomed to their camp with hugs and kisses, and then each of the three older girls took one of us boys by the hand. I think I got the second youngest of the three and she led me to the cooler where she refreshed my glass of slime and got two fresh bottles of Carta Blanca.

Her name was Blanquita, I’m reasonably certain, she was eighteen, I pray to God, and she liked me. At least she was enamored with me. She walked me back through the little town while holding my hand and pointed things out with glee. She yammered and yammered away in Spanish and I got maybe every eighth word or so, but I was becoming likewise enamored with her and didn’t care what she was saying.

I only cared that she was saying it to me.

After awhile she started sipping my drinks, slowly at first, and finishing the last of each glass and bottle as we neared the next refueling stop. I though it was cute the way that she would drink the dregs of each serving and then offer-up the fresh ones to me with a, “Salud!” and a kiss.

As the evening went along, her sips became gulps and the kisses morphed into gropes. We ate copious quantities of goat and pig and rabbit, all of which was perfectly roasted. People who grow animals to roast know best how to do the roasting. It was a dream date.

Somewhere along the line I must have passed out because the next thing I know I’m dreaming I was getting married and I’ve got Streaker Jones whispering in my ear.

“C’mon Mooner, wake it up.” This accompanied by a sharp shake of my shoulders.

“Wake it up damit!” And more shaking.

“Leave me alone Streaker Jones,” I told him. “I think I’m in love here. I do, really I do.”

“Thas tha problem Mooner, now git it up. And don’t be wakin tha girl.”

Tha girl would be the mostly naked Blanquita who lay comatose and wrapped around me like an octopus on a sea urchin. “Help me get untangled here and I’ll get up,” I told Streaker Jones.

“An be quiet Mooner. Can’t wake tha Sheriff.”

So I got untangled and stood on unsteady legs. When I started to speak, Streaker Jones shushed me, and that’s when I noticed that he was carrying the unconscious body of Woozie over his shoulder.

“Git yur keys out yur pocket and let’s hightail it to tha Paller.” Streaker Jones called my 1963 Impala Super Sport the Paller.

My God I’m getting weak and dizzy again. I better take another break and eat some garlic. You guys check with me later.

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Dixie and Squirt (Part 5)

Tuesday, May 4th, 2010

First of all allow me to apologize for making a mess of yesterday’s post. My ADHD does not seem to work well with my body odor and I fritzed the first page and didn’t post it. I caught the mistake this morning and corrected it. I think.

Anyway, if you read yesterday’s post and it seemed like you were walking in in the middle of a conversation- you were. Please try again.

March To Respect- One Man’s Struggle For Appreciation is making no headway. I smell so bad that I can’t even get the flies to land on me. I’m desperate to feel the touch of another living anything that I am actually disappointed that I can’t draw flies.

I’m pathetic.

I’ve been sleeping in the loft out to the barn and now all of the animals have moved out. Dixie said the milk cows told her we might as well burn it because they won’t go back inside. The big bison got pissed at me yesterday and started a run to butt me. I was preparing for the blow but he came to a skidding halt a few feet away. He snorted and shook the tears from his eyes a skulked away.

I am seriously ripe.

My new tactic is that I’m not going to sign any checks until I get the respect and appreciation I so richly deserve. Like my Gram always says, “Ya want their tention Mooner, hit um inna wallet.”

In this morning’s phoned-in psycho therapy session, Dr. Sam I. Am told me that real respect isn’t for sale. “Who gives a shit,” I told her. “I need a bath and some red meat.”

We’ll see how this works.

I got a call from Dixie so she could brag on how much progress Squirt is making to her language studies. If you recall, Dixie is teaching the little shitbird to talk and she’s using this method she developed. It’s this intensive immersion in multiple languages at the same time. We’re in the Beta testing stage with the Squirt.

Once we get the bugs out, I think we can get a contract with the State Department to sell them a license to use the teaching method. Anyway, Dixie is just all overjoyed and excited and wants to put Squirt on the phone to talk to me. I told her, “Put her on but she’s got to make it quick. I keep passing out every time I fart and I don’t want her feelings getting hurt if I lose it and don’t compliment her.”

Dixie said, “This is important Mooner. Keep your shit together.”

“Fine,” I said. “Put her on.”

I hear the phone rustling on the other end and then I hear, “Buenos dias, monsignor Mooner, ach tu lieber ich nacht un der underwear?” Then I hear the silly sounds of two dogs giggling and, “Nic nic shooooosh whoosshhh and so are you!” Then more dogs laughing.

“Very funny Squirt. You have learned to disrespect me in four human languages and if I’m remembering correctly, Japanese yew. Very clever, I’m just so proud of you,” I told her.

Whatthefuck. I’m paying for both ends of these lessons and they make fun of me. See what I mean about this respect business. However, I will not cave in and say something to strike back.

When they stopped laughing long enough to catch their breath, Dixie gets on and says to me, she says, “How about that bear’s ass boy? We got us a talking dog!”

That’s all I remembered when I woke up on the dirt floor of the barn. I was dreaming of honeysuckle and roses when Gram woke me up with her bullhorn. I must have passed out and fell face first with the phone still in my hand and hit a pile of horse apples. I’d been dreaming with a face full of horse shit.

Folks, I stink so bad that horse apples smell like honeysuckle and roses to me.

I need help. And a cold Carta Blanca beer.

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A Fossil Fuel Alternitive; Psycho Therapy Sucks (Part 1)

Tuesday, April 27th, 2010

What does a man have to do to be appreciated? Sometimes I feel like all I do is give, give and give some more and all I get in return is a load of crap. I give up my valuable time to walk Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s little shitbird dog, Squirt, every day rain-or-shine, busy or not and what do I get in return? Arrested.

Arrested and scolded by the fine doctor.

I follow my therapy homework assignment to a “T”, with one little exception, and agree to donate profits from my sales here to the bloggie to Health Alliance for Austin Musicians. And because I only scored a 90 on that homework (I see my attempt to get HAAM to market my products as a mere ten-point deduction from a perfect score), I get scolded again by Sammie like I’m a ten-year-old school boy who just mooned his appreciation for America’s Veterans at the big parade down to Congress Avenue.

Born on the Fourth of July is one of my best ass shows and likely the most performed of them all. The Veterans’ Day Parade was a big deal when I was growing up and I wanted to show my elders that I could be grateful. We’d been studying about the Vets to school in fifth grade Social Studies Class, plus Grampa was yakking about “the Big War” so much, until I wanted to do my part.

I had planned the first of my July 4th celebration moon shows for the big parade. Red, white and blue-painted butt cheeks were adorned with the American flag and banners from all of the Armed Services. I even included the Coast Guard banner because Pastor Browningwell had been in the Coast Guard and his wife, Leticia, was a teacher to my school and she made sure we got that, “The Coast Guard is a Veterans group, children.”

The moon show went great until I set a lit punk to the 1,000-pack string of Black Cat Firecrackers serving as the finale to my show. The firecrackers set my underwear ablaze at my ankles and started quite a stir. I don’t make that mistake anymore as all of my pyrotechnics occur off-site from the main attraction.

Since I’m visiting Dr. Pain-in-the-Ass ten times a week these days, I told her at this morning’s session that I am not taking this lack of appreciation any more. She’s scolding me to beat the band and Squirt, that little shitball, is sitting there grinning and dissing me under her breath. Which brings to the surface another entire situation to which I am not appreciated.

In all of the years since I first realized that Dixie could talk, she has only spoken human-speak to me. When she was a puppy I couldn’t distinguish her mewling from the battalion of other noises that rattle inside my skull. Once I understood that this one childish voice I was hearing was my sweet puppy talking to me, and not my own early childhood memories come back to taunt, I was elated. I felt special.

I felt special for having a doggie who could talk and we could share our problems and solve life’s mysteries together. That specialness lasted like maybe a month before I realized that Dixie would only speak to me and that Dixie is female. For whatever reason, I stupidly assumed that my dog would be grateful to me and that somehow she would express her gratitude in un-womanlike ways. Maybe that should be not womanlike ways.

Nope. Dixie is no different from all the other women in my life- she takes advantage of my kind heart, spends my money like it is her own, and she talks back. Now, she is teaching Squirt to talk to and back at me, and only me, and Squirt is abusing me like I’m her owner. I can’t even get respect from man’s best friends.

After like something close to the full fifty minutes alloted to this morning’s therapy session spent with Sammie six feet up my ass and her goofy dog smirking at my discomfort, I said, “I got it. I’m not gonna take a bath until I get a little respect.”

“No problem, Mooner,” responded the psycho therapy queen bitchball. “You don’t smell so great to start with.”

You don’t smell so great to start with.

Then Squirt added, under her breath of course, “Mooner got in trouble, Mooner got in trouble!”

“Nanny-nanny-boo-boo to you too you little shitball.” A clever retort from a clever man.

“We’ll see who’s zooming who in a couple of days,” I told the two of them. “I’m going on an onion and garlic diet. And I’m not gonna take a bath or brush my teeth.”

I’m now discovering that an all onion and garlic diet is something akin to an all ice cream diet except without the ice cream. I once made it four days eating nothing but ice cream before I caved in and ate an entire roasted goat. But I’m having difficulty making it through my second pungent meal without something not colored white to eat as a filler.

My hope is that cold Carta Blanca beer will help me keep the wheels on the bus during this road trip to appreciation. Actually, this might be one of those rare instances wherein my ADHD/ADD might be an attraction rather than a distraction. Maybe I’ll get all brain fritzed and forget how miserable I am on this limited diet.

Did you ever light farts as a kid? We all did and it was great fun. The first scientific research project Streaker Jones and I ever did was this one where we determined which foods produced the best gas. It was a simple testing model with simple criteria since it was our first attempt. We were looking for the largest fireball.

Basically, each of us kids- Streaker Jones, Sister, Woozie, Walley, Tony and the rest of the gang, each of us would eat only one food for an entire day. Then that evening we’d all meet up to the Baptist Church and gather in the Sunday School Classroom that brought me so much mental anguish growing up.

It was summer so we could all stay out late, and our parents were all so very proud of us for spending so much time in church.

Being boys, and Sister a lesbian in-training, we were only interested to discover which foods sparked the biggest flames when lit. Since Sister was naturally the most gassy of us all, we used her as the baseline tester. Whenever one of us boys hit on a good food, we’d have Sister eat it the next day for Beta testing. We didn’t call it Beta testing and I’m not disparaging my sister.

When I say Sister is naturally the gassy-est, I only mean that she farts when she drinks water. I was not knocking lesbians.

The church classroom was this long, skinny rectangular thing with three small windows on one wall and two parallel rows of light fixtures with exposed incandescent bulbs running end-to-end. I got my first hand job in this same room a couple years after our ass-gas experiments were interrupted. Wait, my first hand job that wasn’t administered by a Baptist Boy Scout Adult Leader as I lay petrified in my sleeping bag to Aquatics Summer Camp.

Fucking asswipe Baptist shitwad.

So, we would pull the drapes tight to the windows and turn off the lights. Part of the fun was the metal chairs with molded seats. The molded shape was like two big hands cupped and held close together, like if some giant was using his cupped hands to get water from a bucket. You guys know those chairs. They added an extra dimension of sounds as we farted and fidgeted our butts around to release and ignite our gases.

In the darkened room, I was the starter because I had a Zippo lighter, and Streaker Jones was the scientific observer because he was the smartest. Streaker Jones is still the smartest and I carry that Zippo to this day. We set the drapes on fire when we decided to see if the seven of us could produce one big fireball.

We could.

Anyway, my point to all of this is that onions and garlic were top five on the Streaker Jones Fart-Flash-O-Meter rating system. I remember that broccoli was number one, a fact I still don’t understand, and of course pinto beans was two. I forget what came after garlic and onions but who gives a shit.

Maybe for nostalgia’s sake I’ll torch a few when I get home tonight.

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Psycho therapy is seriously screwed up; Religional too

Monday, April 19th, 2010

First let me say I am starting to worry about Delores. You guys know who I’m talking about right? Dr. Saint Johnswort, the psycho therapist with all the early comments here to my blog. She wrote these very interesting comments in story form and each was filled with interesting stuff. I’m getting concerned that maybe I hurt her feelings or pissed her off.

That’s what I typically do. Since she seems to agree with my political positions, I likely hurt her feelings.

It might be all of the talk about Chelsea Handler’s camel toe. The entire camel toe dealie has gotten out of hand. Now these other sites are calling me to be a celebrity judge and asking me to “grade” the pocket poochies in photographs they send me. Go to www.guidespot.com/guides/celebrity_camel_toes and you can see what I mean.

I have agreed to do the grading but not judging. I think I have the skill set to grade but lack good judgment. When I was discussing this issue with Dr. Sam I. Am in my therapy session this morning and I told her about my thoughts as to the grading/judging stuff, she says to me, she said, “Well Mooner, looks like maybe therapy is doing you some good after all.”

“Whatthefuck does that mean?” I questioned.

Her only reply, with that shit-eating psycho therapist grin on her face was, “Think about it Mooner. You will figure it out.”

As much money as I pay for therapy, why do I have to figure everything out for myself? Seriously, what is up with that?

We don’t put up with that shit from anyone else. When I go to the auto mechanic because I can’t figure out what is wrong with my engine, and after an hour he says, “Well Mr. Johnson, I got this figured out and that will be $175.00.”

And then you say, “Well, Otis, what’s wrong with my car?”

And Otis replies, “Well, Mr. Johnson, what do you think is wrong?”

Then you say, “Are you fucking kidding me Otis?”

And then Otis says back to you, he says, “No, I am not kidding Mr. Johnson, the only way your car will ever get fixed is if you figure out what’s broken and how to fix it.”

After I finished bashing Otis in the head with his own 9/16ths open-end wrench- this one a Craftsman from Sears, I tell him, “After you figure out why I smashed your nose you can decide where to get it fixed.”

I don’t go to Otis’s shop anymore.

Anyway, maybe it is my ADHD/ADD or maybe I’ve sucked down too many Carta Blanca beers, but Sammy’s logic escapes me.

And look, I know it is “Dos Equis” beer and not “Dos XX”. But really, who gives a shit?

And did you guys know that Buddha is having his birthday? Like maybe he would be 9,485 years old today if he was still alive. And I have been spending quite a lot of time thinking about religion lately. Have you noticed that all religions are regional? What I mean to say is that all of these different Gods visit only small geographic areas when they visit.

Lends serious credit to my “One God” theory.

Theorem?

And since the two words, religion and regional, have just the one letter’s difference, do you think that just maybe this entire religion thing is just a typographical error?

I mean think about it. Back to when the only writing paper man had was a rock and his pencil was a chunk of sharp iron ore, we didn’t have any erasers. A scribe had to be mighty careful what he wrote down.

So maybe all of the ancient talk about “religion” was all started by some lazy scribe who misspelled “regional”.

Is that too deep for a bloggie post?

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Adult Diagnosed ADHD/ADD

Monday, April 12th, 2010

I am very sorry my bloggie has been so hard to load all weekend. It’s been taking minutes to screen-up and that is problematic. I mean really, who’s got the time for that? But I think it is better today, at least it was at 4:30 am when I finally got out of bed to check it.

After attending the School for Blog Dummies at the Writer’s League on Saturday, I raced back to the ranch to put all of what I learned to use before I forgot it. With my form of ADHD/ADD, remembering things is an art form practiced by the artless.

And don’t start in on me with your, “Take this or that memory class, Mooner, or read this or that book, or stop drinking so many Carta Blanca beers.” None of that stuff works.

Fact is, the less I study and the more beers I drink, the better my memory gets.

I know you don’t believe me but think about it from my frame of reference, OK? First, imagine you are at a family birthday party at the Z Tejas over to the Arboretum. You know, the one with an Eddie V’s right next door and with the great views out the back. You are sitting in the big booth on the wall- the one that is situated at the end of the big bar and the entrance to the kitchen. It sort of sits all by itsownself.

Now look, this particular Z Tejas is very noisy for starters, but this one booth is Noise Central. Have you ever used one of those high tech parabolic listener earphone jobbies? You know, with the directional microphone pointer. Sitting at this table is for me like it would be to have earphones and parabolic listener jobbies pointed at every person in the place.

Streaker Jones has one of those decimators, you know the gage dealie that measures how many decibels of sound you have, and we took a reading from that booth on a Friday night.

“Well Mooner,” Streaker Jones told me, “We got us sumthin a tween a jet takin off anna ZZ Top show.” Then he added, “Purt loud.”

But for me it isn’t the volume of sound, it is the character of the sounds. In a busy restaurant, it isn’t that everybody is screaming at each other that bothers me. Nor is it the sheer number of screamers. Nope, for me, it is the number of individual conversations my ears and mind can individuate from the cacophony of sounds while I am attempting to participate in my own table’s conversations.

If you have my form of Deficit Distractedness Disease, then you know precisely and specifically of which I speak. Would that be of “what” I speak?

On this night at Z Tejas that I am using to help you understand what I am talking about, there’s Gram, Sister and Anna the Amazon, Streaker Jones and his unnamed date (unnamed because the story is in the book), Mother, Aunt Hilda and Dubbie J, Gnat, Dr. Sam I. Am, the SAC Ellen and me, all sitting at that booth. That means that our table alone has at least four conversations going on at once.

Since that Z Tejas has a capacity of 350 persons, and yes I looked at their Permit, that means that on this crowded Friday night, there were something like another 100 conversations in addition to the four in our booth. Now don’t try to tell me that my ADD is digressing you because I am right on my point.

Look. When I’m in a noisy environment like Z Tejas on this specific Friday night, my form of ADHD/ADD allows me to listen to each of those 104 separate conversations, separately and distinctly. Hell, for that matter my form of ADHD/ADD requires me to listen. Like when you pass a terrible car accident and you don’t want to look but are devoid of skill or ability to not look.

I am compelled to listen to every conversation at my table plus the lovers’ spat over to the bar, and the waiter repeating the orders of a six-top twelve times because the lady in the red dress keeps changing her mind about does she want a salad or soup, and the business guy’s feeble attempts to hit on the attractive woman thirty years his junior, and even the conversation between two French guys that sounds like a pair of snotty-nosed adenoid sufferers trying to talk while clearing their throats. Etcetera, etcetera and so forth.

Next time you see me ask me to do my interpolation of a person speaking French. It’ll crack you up.

If you ask me at any time during our meal what anybody is talking about, anybody in the entire place, I can tell you. This I can do with absolute clarity. But if you ask me what I had for my appetizer after we finish dinner and are walking to the car- no dice. Can’t remember shit.

Wait. That’s a bad example because I always get the Ancho Chile Fudge Pie. Hoo-ya it is mighty fine pie. You can get the recipe at recipes@ztejas.com and when you do, tell them that Mooner Johnson said to call them. Or ping them or whatever it is that you do when you do that.

But, if I knock back a dozen or so cold Carta Blanca beers with dinner, I can remember everything that happened at our table and not much else. That’s assuming I’m not driving, but since I’m always the designated driver, beer-induced memory recall is infrequent.

Of course, my active memory has the half-life of an already-lit Molotov cocktail. Every thirty seconds I forget half of whatever it was I remembered.

Which brings us back to Saturday’s wonderful class on bloggie stuff. I raced home to put my lessons to practice but the I-net was all screwed up and not loading-up my blog. I took copious notes, none of which I now understand, but I had the most important stuff memorized. But after maybe sixty-three attempts to load my blog I got frustrated.

And now, three days later when my bloggie is back to normal speed, I can’t remember shit. My notes on widgets and rollers and RSSV’s and links and twits and mosquitoes- none of that makes the first sense to me. I’m just lost.

I tried to bring some memory back and started on the Carta Blanca sometime in the early afternoon Sunday. It was maybe 3:30 or 4:00, or maybe it was 1:15. Whatever time it was, Tiger Woods was making his first bogey of the day at the Masters.

Which brings up another subject. See, except for the working girls down to Mexico with whom I obtained my sex education, and Sunny- the TV reporter I dated for awhile, I have married every woman I ever had sex with.

That means ten ex-wives and maybe $1.15 million a year in alimony, but nobody is really all that hurt or angry with me.

So. What I was thinking as I was dosing myself with the medicine that is cold Carta Blanca beer, is that maybe I need to work with Tiger Woods on some life lessons. You know, offer to be his Life Coach. If Tiger would have only followed my example he could have saved himself a world of shit.

Every woman is something special- even at first blush, when you are making no commitment besides having a few chuckles and giggles.

Few are special enough to marry when all you have is a first blush.

I know that was pretty deep thinking, but that’s how I blog roll!

Maybe I can hire out to be your Life Coach. Holler if you need me.

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

Friday, April 9th, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I think that would make a good theme for one of Oprah’s TV shows. If you think so go to www.oprah.com/ownshow/plug_form.html?plug_=505 and tell them.

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