Archive for the ‘Quincy’ Category

Thinking Of Q; Reflections On A Year Ago

Tuesday, November 13th, 2012


So. I was just reading some comments from Squattie and Beej and it hit me. A year ago today is when I packed my car and headed back to Austin after BlogCon 2011. That memory should have hit yesterday when I learned that Quincy’s wife died. That’s my buddy Q from over to Thank-Q For Common Sense.

My first stop for BlogCon 2011 was to see Quincy and his wife in Jackson. I thought of how the Mrs. Didn’t feel well enough to have dinner and beers and conversation on that November night I stopped in Mississippi to meet the Q. While he never shared with me any details of his lovely wife’s illness, I have never sensed pain from/in Q. I never sensed that he carried the burden that many people with a dying spouse carry like 80-pound backpacks. He was reverential and respectful and always loving towards his mate. But never a “woe is me” was uttered.

When I tried to say something meaningful in respects yesterday, I realized how insufficient words are. I wondered about how we humans have experienced billions of deaths over thousands of years yet we lack any truly comforting words after death.

Why don’t we have a standard statement that will make everything OK—why can’t we say a few words and have things actually be better?

I left Jackson, Mississippi the next morning last November with a new friendship, a half-dozen smelly beer glasses from The Bulldog, and a learned respect for common sense. I programmed the OnStar system in my little Chevy for the outskirts of Murfreesboro, Tennessee, and headed out. I arrived at the McDonalds near to BJ’s place where he picked me up for a “grocery trip.”

The two of us drove central Tennessee for a couple hours and hit four of the best pork and chicken smokers’ establishments in the South. We also established the foundation of one of the best friendships I’ve ever had.

OK, and let me also say that Beej was the assigned vetting agent for Squatlo and the Reckmonster—the toughest of the three of them whose job it was to make certain I wasn’t an ax murderer from Texas who’d driven 1,800 miles to thin the blogger population in Central Tennessee.

Which reminds me. I read that some silly assholes in Texas have gotten enough signatures on a Petition to Secede From The Union to make it official. Got enough other assholes to sign it to force the President to look at it.

Dear President Obama:

I hear that Texas wishes to leave the extreme discomfort of The United States of America in order to form what they consider to be a more perfect union—a union of one. Please grant their wish.

Sincerely (and I mean it),

Butcher Einstein “Mooner” Johnson, American Citizen and Former Texan”

Do those silly asshole even realize how fast Mexico will invade the fucking New Republic of Texas? Davy Crockett and the boys stole Tejas from the Mexicans and the Mexicans want it back. Don’t know why they want it back, they just do.

I wonder if Rick the Prick Perry would lead the Texas Brigade in the second defense of the Alamo. Take his Texas Aggie sword out of mothballs and lead the charge.

And that reminds me to say, “Hip-hooray for the Aggies football team!!!” Kicked that Alabalama butt and did it in Tuskalooser. And something just hit me.

I have always wondered about the elephant in the room with the Crimson Tide. Might that be because the word “tusk” is in their hometown’s name? What if the actual name was Tiskaloosa? Maybe they’d have Miss Manners as their mascot.

The morning I got up to leave BJ’s house exactly one year ago today, he fixed me several magnificent breakfast sandwiches. Bacon, ham, eggies biscuits…

One year ago today. Wow.

Anyway, our country will remain in good hands for another four years and we can all be entertained as we watch the right-wing talking heads explode. Manana, y’all.

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Voting Skills; Learned Behaviours Or Critical Thought?

Saturday, September 29th, 2012


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

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

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

Which reminds me to tell you that when you get a chance, step over to BJ’s place at:

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

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

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

ADHD kills at any speed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he gave me his best advice.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Big Announcement Inside; Are You An Asshole? Find Out Here

Saturday, April 14th, 2012


So. Today’s posting subject is a secret that I’ve been attempting to hold tight to my chest for an entire fucking month. See, Quincy over to the Common Sense bloggie asked me to do a guest visit at his place, and after I wrote and submitted the posting to Sir Q, I realized that it disclosed to his readers things not herein predisclosed to you guys. Since I got Q’s dealie written early to meet deadlines, I didn’t want to say anything here to spoil the surprise over there.

It isn’t that I don’t like Quincy’s readers and buddies, it’s that I like you all better. Not that I won’t like Q’s readers any less in the future, it’s just that I don’t know most of them and some might be assholes—which isn’t my way to say that my buddy Q attracts assholes. Now I’m sounding like Political Correctness is my party line, an ill-fitting costume formel, as the French like to say. I don’t wear political correctness well.

OK, look. The guest posting by me is playing over to the Q’s place very soon—as in right now—and some of his readers should make their way over here to Loonyland. If some of them are assholes, I want to insure that I strictly enforce my personal code to insure I fully-disclose to those assholes that I think they are—in fucking fact—assholes.

What I’m trying to say is that I spend some amount of time with every one of my postings to drive the assholes away from my pages. I work hard to hurt your feelings if you are someone I consider to be an asshole. If you think that government SHOULD regulate every American woman’s choices for her own body yet you think that government SHOULD NOT insure that every American child gets the chance to have a free public education of the highest possible quality, then I know that you are an asshole.

If you think that my sister and her wife are sinners living in sin simply because they are lesbian—you, dear friend, are a fucking asshole. If you think that giant flaming asshole Zimmerman was justified when he committed murder down to Floriduh, then you too are a giant flaming asshole.

Asshole is a big word and has many meanings, so please allow me to narrowly refine said meanings to my personal use of the word asshole in this context. An asshole is a bigot. And, basically, a bigot is, “Any person who is intolerantly devoted to his own prejudices or beliefs, or/and one who treats the members of a group with intolerance and/or prejudice.”

And holy shit is my ADHD running at full throttle. My already disparate thoughts have become distracted. At this very instant: I’m talking to the people and bots who read over to Q’s place; I’m writing about a secret that I wanted to disclose herein a month ago but couldn’t because of the story I wrote for Q; I’m bitching about assholes; other things and such; and I am, for certain, thinking about sex.

Of the fifteen independent lines of thought currently running through my ADHD-addled brain, nine are centered on sex as the subject line. My main, and only, squeeze is somewhere in America teaching local law enforcement officers how to combat terroristic threats. As a Special Agent in Charge, US Department of Homeland Security, SAC Ellen has been spending way too little time in Austin to properly service me. Not getting sexed on a routine basis seems to cause my already frittered mind to become even more fritzed.

In my guest appearance at Quincy’s, I mention the fact that Rick Perry wants to get a boob job. Normally I would call getting a new set of fake titties “breast augmentation” surgery, but Rick Perry is so dumb I think boob job is a better fit. My big ostrich wants giant boobies because Rush Limbaugh, Ricky’s gay lover, is a breast man, and, OK, lets stop again. Maybe you should go over to Quincy’s place and read what I wrote there first, and then come back here. You can find Quincy at ThankQforCommonSense . The referenced story is running. At least I think it is.

Now that you are up to date it’s time to tell you the big secret. I want to announce here to the entire world that I, Mooner Johnson—father of both grooms—wish to announce that Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh will be wedded into holy matrimony in a ceremony to be held at the Johnson Family Ranch at five pm on Saturday the 26th of May.

Since the pig and ostrich have lived in the closet in an effort to keep the world blind to their homosexual affair for over a year now, a Coming-Out Party will be held on Saturday the 5th of May. This party will be in lieu of a bridal shower. I’m very excited about the wedding because the closet where these two lumpheads have been hiding is located in my bedroom.

Now that the cat is out of the handbag at Quincy’s place, I can start telling you guys all about wedding plans and all of that shit. As for Rick Perry’s boob job, I am going to attempt to trust the readers of Q’s bloggie to give me guidance.

Which reminds me. My tomato plants are already waist high and some chest high, and all are covered with tomatoes. The lovely little gems are as big as golf balls and the weird warm and wet winter weather has plastered a bumper crop of them to every fat plant. Today and Sunday we are scheduled for high winds, heavy rains and dense, large hailstorms. The Weather Service issued only its second way-in-advanced warning in history because these storms are going to be a bitch.

Mo-ther fuck-er.

Which reminds me of one last thing for today. If you think that Global Warming doesn’t exist or you think it is one of the more curious aspects of “god’s will”…

Then you, dear friend, are a right-wing republican goat-fucking braindead religious—and likely bigoted—asshole.

OK, I lied, as I have one more thing. America was founded by groups of people who held wildly differing political and religious viewpoints—all of whom, and each of whom as well—were persecuted for holding said viewpoints. All of those differing beliefs were merged into a basic document—the Constitution, with its attending Bill of Rights—that carefully explained that all men were created equal and that religion had no place in the government of those people. It stated that America was founded under god, not under YOUR god’s thumb.

These folks were mostly descendants of the Inquisition and all had lived under the tyrannical rules of Monarchy governments. They were told where to work, how to pray, where to live and they were not allowed to make decisions for themselves. Only the wealthiest or those of the ruling classes were even allowed to obtain educations. The greater common populations of the entire fucking world lived under those oppressions.

Our Forefathers fought a bloody war to separate America from those oppressions so that our people, We—those people—would never be faced with those oppressions again. Yet here we are in the year 2012 fighting for our freedoms once more. I have one simple question about this:


And one simple answer:


Manana, y’all.


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Reflections In A Dark Mirror; Mending Mooner’s Mind

Wednesday, February 22nd, 2012


So. I was out early this morning to finish my fishing and reflections to complete the task that was interrupted by SAC Ellen’s booty call yesterday. I’ve got a crick in my neck from having my head jammed against the door of the truck, I’ve got a bloody patch in my chest hairs where a little tuft was twisted out, and I’ve got a bruise on my hip that would be a perfect match for a “Hello Kitty” gear shift knob. Ever since I was adopted by the fucking cat, everybody thinks it’s funny to give me “Hello Kitty” shit. Who even thought that there would be a market for “Hello Kitty” gear shifter knobs?

It does have a nice feel in your hand though. But everything in the entire HK line is pink, for shitsakes. I don’t think I actually hate the color pink, but I can say with absolute certainty that I don’t care for the color pink.

I do like Pink, the singer, and Arrowsmith’s song is a favorite romance tune.

SAC Ellen likes to be on top when we’re in a hurry and I’m A-OK with that. What makes me uncomfortable is when we’re in a hurry and the only safe room for sexing is the truck. “Why couldn’t I drive the GTO?” I asked her when we’d finished the sexing and she was getting redressed to re-board the airplane and I was blotting the blood from my chest. “The seat lays back in the goat and I don’t hurt my neck.”

She had a 90-minute layover—layover an appropriate double entendre in this case—and our sex was fast and furious. She told me, “I’ve banged my head on the roof of that damned GTO so many times my skull looks like a horse apple, Sweetie. Thanks for taking one for the team.”

With that she kissed me, handed me the soiled moist towelettes she’d used to clean up, and said, she said to me, “Keep this one close to your mind, Mooner. I’m not sure when I’ll get back to town.”

“You’re lucky it was good,” I said to her back as she slammed the old truck’s door. I watched her disappear through the big opening in the airport parking garage as she ran to catch her flight, and marveled one more once at how nimble she is on medium-heeled shoes.

I guess I’ll try to keep that memory close to mind—damned if there isn’t room for it. I’ve had so many thought strings banging around in the ADHD swill I call a mind that I can’t keep them all straight. That’s why I wanted to reflect and spend some time by myself yesterday. So, I grabbed the cooler—still packed with icy-cold Carta Blanca beers from yesterday’s attempts at reflections—rolled a fat replacement dubie for the one not left over from yesterday, made some sausage sammies to replace the eaten BLT’s from yesterday, and headed to the dock.

I thought of BJ as I was making the stacked sausage-and-bread pies. I put a fat-yolked eggie one each in Beej’s honor. He made me pork and egg sammies when I left his house last November so I wouldn’t need to stop to eat on my way home. He stacked spicy pork sausage, bacon and ham with fried eggs and I must say, “Yum-fucking-my!”

I forgot fish bait, not really a problem, and parked my ass on the dock with my feet hanging over the water. I snagged a little ball of bread from one of the sams and stuck it to the end of my hook before flipping the hook and bobber lazily into the creek. I didn’t want to catch anything but genius and I figured the fish in our creek are so spoiled with the fat earthworms I normally use that they’d leave me to my thinking.

I set the top-spinner reel and rod on the dock, cracked a beer and lit the fat wonker for a hit. I met an Irish guy who called a joint a wonker and for some reason I thought about that. Then I drifted to the many words used for pot—like chronic and weed and bud—and drifted off to sleep. I was dreaming about the Kardashian sisters and their mother, and the four of them were fighting over me. Quincy wrote a dealie about Kimmy K yesterday and I guess that was somewhere lodged in my brain in the “Sex” section.

I had just told the K-Girls there was no need to fight because there is plenty of Mooner to go around, when I was jerked awake as the fishing pole started running off the deck on its own. I grabbed it by the last inch of its pistol grip handle, tugging as I sat up. The tug I got in response almost pulled me off the dock.

“What the hell is this all about?” I asked the air. “Can’t a man get any peace and fucking quiet around here. I was this close (see Mooner’s thumb and index finger a quarter-inch apart) from banging all four of the K women in a five-way.”

As I fought and reeled the fish, I started thinking if there really is enough Mooner Johnson for those four women. Hell, Kimmy has been through Reggie Bush, Miles Austin and that basketball player in just two years time, and Kloe looks like she could put a hurt on a man. But the mother, she’s the one that most fascinates me. That one looks crazy to me and you know how much fun crazy women can be.

Anyway, I’d hooked a giant fucking Asian carp. The carp were imported to eat the hydrilla that was imported from Asia and is clogging our lakes. These guys are prettier and cleaner than native carp so it was this fellow’s unluckiest of days. I smoke them with pecan wood after a day in the walk-in cooler covered with a dry rub. Use hot smoke to crispy-up the skin.

I could hardly wait to see how Honor the fucking cat would react to a fish this big. She’s seen three-pound bass but never a fifteen-pound anything. I packed my stuff with the fish in the cooler and headed back up to the house.

As I walked, I wondered why a carp is a fish—carp species includes Asian carp, goldfish and even Koi—and a carp is also a bitchy person. Like say………. my mother. How do pretty fish and quibbling complainers rate the same name? Again, I find myself continuously baffled by the Grammar Police.

I felt the tumblers of my muddled brain starting to fit into place and the thread of an answer to this question started forming. Just as I started puling on the thread, wrapping it around my mental spool, the back door burst open and the menagerie of animals I call pets stormed out.

The fucking cat raced to my feet and started circling and rubbing and purring at my socks. They all gathered and stared at the cooler. “Honor says she smells fish, Herr Mooner,” the Squirt informed me. “Was ist in der verdammten Kuhler, dude?”

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, this here cooler contains a big fucking Asian carp, and we’re giving the honors of gutting him to Honor. Now Squirt, you tell the her to keep her claws off the tenderloins, OK?”

Guys, you have never seen suck a mess or such a sight. I started to think that maybe my life isn’t so tough after all, and I guess I’ll need to finish reflecting manana, y’all.

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Quincy Is First Guest Host; Thank-Q For Common Sense Is Here

Thursday, February 16th, 2012


So. Quincy, of Thank, Q For Common Sense, is a proud and thoughtful man. Quincy is a model for the man you want your daughter to marry. Q is a man I’m proud to call friend, and a friend to whom I look for sound judgments. I have been bugging the ever-loving-shit out of him to be a guest host here, and he has finally relented.

I know he held his nose when he hit the “Send” button on his email server to deliver the contents for this guest post. When his wife asked him, “Honey, are you sure your reputation can handle the association with Mooner Johnson?” and then said resignedly, “OK, Quincy, it’s your reputation,” I’m certain that Quincy’s mind was on a higher plane; I know that he hopes to inject some rational thought into the cesspool that is this bloggie.

But me, I don’t really give a shit how Quincy justified sinking to my level, I’m just glad he did. So it is now my great pleasure to provide you with something you never get here—Common Sense. Please welcome Quincy and his post titled:


Stop Choosing Emotions Over Common Sense

“First of all, I’m honored to grace the pages of This blog is simply pure entertainment. It’s “Blazing Saddles” meets “Seinfeld” with the hilarity and creativity of the writing. I some times wonder what even makes a man think some of the things that are printed here, but then I come to the only conclusion: it’s just the mind of Mooner. Well, I want to thank [him] for the opportunity to be immortalized within the walls of his humble, cyber abode.

When I first started my blog, it was called “Thank, Q for Common Sense” for a reason. I felt the desire to inject some “common sense” into the blogging world. Although people are welcomed to blog about whatever they would like, I thought there were too many blogs that lacked perspective. So many blogs seemed as if they were based on what the writer felt from the heart instead of from the brain.

I didn’t want to do that. I wanted my blog to be strictly based on logic and perspective because that’s how I try to live my life. Because of that, it gets frustrating to come across people who don’t have the same concept. I wish people would stop choosing emotions over common sense. Just because you like something or someone doesn’t mean that you should defend that idea/person at all costs.

I remember when the Chris Brown / Rihanna incident happened how so many people on Twitter were coming to his defense. “Well, we don’t know what Rihanna said to him that pissed him off.”

“Everyone deserves a second chance.”

“Leave Chris Brown alone.”

Really? So, simply because you like the guy (or you’re a fan), he isn’t guilty of anything? R. Kelly. Charlie Sheen. Lindsay Lohan. I can go on-and-on. These people have been accused of some heinous acts yet they’re even more popular than ever. Why? Because you like their music or they make you laugh in a sitcom or movie. Ummmm, okay.

Well, I think that’s what’s wrong with this country. We use our emotions to make decisons (which wind up being irrational). Everything offends us because we’re too emotional. It doesn’t matter if it’s a true statement or not because common sense isn’t factored into the equation. If it hurts our feelings, then we lash out. We’ll even lash out over something that has nothing to do with us. Twitter blew up a couple of days ago from people defending Whitney Houston’s substance abuse problem after her death. People who didn’t even know her were pissed off at just the mere thought that someone who was in rehab as recently as last year was speculated to have overdosed… because they like her music. I even had someone on Facebook get mad at me for not Liking her “We Love Whitney” fan page. I told her respectfully that I didn’t want to join the page which resulted in her Unliking my fan page.

Wow. Because I don’t feel the same way you do about a person, I’m of no use to you any more, huh? So be it.

People, I’m tired. I’m tired of being the person who tries to put myself in other people’s shoes to understand their point. I’m tired of stating a fact only to have it offend someone because it applies to them or someone they know. I’m tired of being the voice of reason in an unpopular situation.

Psych! No, I’m not. LOL! That stuff doesn’t affect me at all. In fact, that’s actually what drives my blog. The more ignorance I encounter, the more posts I type. I shall continue with my message because some things just need to be said. I will “blog ’til I fall” and hope that I can just get one person to stop and think. You don’t have to agree with me, but at least consider things from someone else’s perspective.

This country used to be mentally tough. What happened?”


This is Mooner again. See what I mean—isn’t that the logic you want your daughter to wake up to every morning? Don’t we all have one of those emotional dealies he spoke of in our life?

Thank you, Quincy, for being my first ever guest hoster—Thank-Q, Thank-Q, Thank-Q. Me, I’m grabbing an icy-cold Carta Blanca beer and joining Streaker Jones on the patio to smoke a dube. I think I need to reflect on why I still dream of a three-way with Marilyn Monroe and Anna Nicole Smith.

Manana, y’all.



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