Archive for the ‘Reckmonster’ Category

Transitory Thinking For Transitional Times; Fuck Walmart Too

Friday, January 4th, 2013

 

So. I started my day after coffee and the newspaper by rearranging the front room here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe.

“Look, shithead,” the Squirt said to me at dinner last night, “move this big rug from under the dining table and switch it with the smaller one over in the living room side. This monster is in the way over here and will make our living room cozier by the fireplace.”

“Huh?” I replied. “I thought I threw all of those Martha Stewart magazines away. Who’s been filling your cute little head with decorating ideas?”

“Don’t be an asshole. It’s common sense. Besides, you won’t keep tripping over the thick hem of this big carpet if it’s over there out of your path.”

The dog had a point. I have almost busted my ass a dozen times tripping over the carpet in the dark. We finished moving shit just before noon and I must admit that it has changed the front of our home for the better.

“Now get your rangy ass to the store and get us some dog food. The goat dog says he’s going to eat some of your new undies if you forget and he has to wait on his supper tonight.” Squirt though about it for a minute, then added, “And get us the one with lamb—not chicken. I’m tired of chicken.”

“You’ll eat what I buy you, shitbird. You’re lucky I didn’t take you to the pound after what it cost to fix your fucking teeth. Why didn’t you tell me you broke your molars? If I hadn’t been so concerned about your stinky breath your entire mouth could have rotted out.”

She tried to bite her new vet when he touched her sore gums. “And if you bare your spiky little fangs at the doc again I’m giving you back to your previous owner.”

“How about I latch on to your nut sack and shake my head like a break dancer?”

I love that adorable little bundle of piss and vinegar. Starting to be major league attached to the goat dog as well. As for the fucking cat, Honor came home long enough to puke bird feathers and rat bones on the island in the kitchen and shed maybe three pounds of hair and pine needles onto the aforementioned large rug.

The rug is one that Gram picked up from when she, Mother and Daddy visited Iran back to when the Shaw was running things. I was a much younger man and Sister yet the age of consent. When I asked Gram what she had to pay for the beautiful Persian carpet, Mother hurriedly clamped her palms over Sister’s ears and sternly told Gram, “Don’t you dare whisper a word of your debauchery.”

Rug was worth a couple grand, and I’m guessing that Iranian men had never met an old broad quite like my grandmother. Likely some poor fellow gave Gram the rug to get her out of his bed.

Which reminds me. My neighborhood is a transitory migration area for Santa Fe pedestrians. There’s a group home, a shelter and soup kitchen a couple miles away to the west and State of New Mexico Services buildings and the Interstate highway is on my east. So we get quite a bit of foot traffic. I like this aspect of my neighborhood and will as long as I remember to take everything out of the cars before coming inside.

I like to know that my new hometown is taking care of its needy and the stream of pedestrians provides that confirmation. Of course, as Santa Fe has terrific public transportation, many of our walkers are going to and from the train and bus stops and aren’t passers-through.

When I got back from the store with dog food and a reload of Carta Blanca beer, I fixed lunch and turned on the TV to watch Andrea Mitchell’s show on MSNBC. She is, in my eyes, one of the best of her kind and I try to watch her anytime I can. From my chair at the table I can see both the TV and out of the big window that displays a clear shot of my street to the corner, and three houses either way on the cross street.

I took a first, big bite of my egg salad sammy just as Andrea cut to commercial. It was that Trace Atkins ad for his Wounded Warriors Foundation. In the first ten seconds I was blinking tears and by the time it ended I needed to blow my nose. I got up to get something for my snotty snout and looked out my window at motion that caught my eye from the street corner.

A neighborhood dog was harassing a man on crutches. The man wore old Army clothes and seemed barely able to navigate the icy street, much less deal with my neighbor’s asshole dog. OK, I should have said “my asshole neighbor’s shitty and mean dog.”

Without wiping eyes or nose either, and in my house slippers and no jacket, I raced outside to help the man. I ran his way and when I got near enough I yelled, “Hold on brother, I’ll get rid of the dog.”

I got a dozen yards out and Dickhead the dog looked up at me. “I’ll bring Yoda and Squirt out to kick your ass, Dickhead,” I said. “Get back home now!”

The dog was named Dickhead by the Squirt and he fears Yoda. I think his owner is the actual dickhead and the dog simply badly parented. He took off for home and I got to the man.

“You OK?” I asked. “You need some help?”

“Naw, I’m not hurt. But I can’t get into the VA Hospital until summer to get fitted with a leg, and these crutches are a bitch on ice.”

The man looked me over and shook his head. He reached into a backpack I hadn’t noticed before and removed a paper towel. “Here, take this and blow your nose before you get icicles in your beard.”

“Huh?” I replied.

“Why don’t you walk with me over to the shelter and we’ll get you some shoes and warm clothing. Really, you’re gonna freeze your nuts right on off.”

Then I got it. He was worried about me.

“Naw, you come with me. That’s my house,” I pointed. “Come have an egg salad sandwich and a beer with me, then I’ll drive you to wherever you’re headed.”

His name’s Teddy and he lost a leg from below the knee and one ear’s worth of hearing in Afghanistan. Lost his leg and hearing and wife with two kids, his home and car and life. Teddy lost almost everything while serving our country, but he didn’t lose his dignity.

We ate and had two beers each, and I drove him over to the Human Services offices for whatever business it is he wanted to do. I asked Teddy why it’s taking him a year-and-half to get an appointment for a new leg, and do you know what he said to me? He said, “Hey, Mooner. I’m one of the lucky ones. It takes most folks three-and-a-half to four years to get fixed up. Between the lack of funds and red tape, some guys kill themselves to avoid the wait.”

I just checked and it’s true. Most wait years and many wounded veterans have to wait as long as four years to get treatment for wounds suffered while serving, and military suicides are through the roof. Four fucking years!

Hey Congress, Mister President. Whatinthefuck is wrong with you? You ship our service folks off to your stupid wars and then treat them like unwanted damaged goods upon their return?

From reading my buddy Reckmonster’s accounts, a veteran getting treatment isn’t any big treat when he does manage to get to the head of the line. Lack of funding doesn’t allow the VA to provide the best of service. Michelle works in the mental health section of a major VA hospital and she sees some shit.

But this has got to stop. Congress must act to fix this. How about this idea—we have the Congressional health insurance be identical to what wounded soldiers get. Those assholes must get in line with our wounded warriors for their treatments. We’d have this issue be a non issue before February.

Ugh.

This is America, for shit sakes. What is wrong with us? I mean other than big business runs Washington DC and big business doesn’t give a shit about veterans. It seems that a soldier is only valuable to the Military Industrial Complex as long as he’s consuming ordinance and Halliburton’s services.

Anyhow, I’m headed over to Dickhead’s house with the dogs to see what we can do to enforce Santa Fe’s leash laws. Manana, y’all.

And BTW. Think about making a donation to the Wounded Warriors Foundation. Good organization doing good work.

 

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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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You’ll Put Your Eye Out; Ted Nugent, Asshole

Tuesday, April 24th, 2012

 

So. We’re all sitting at the big breakfast table this morning having the first meal of the day. We’re all there and feeling fit and trim save for Gram, who is fidgeting like a school kid who needs to pee. She’s rolling from one butt cheek to the other and grimacing with each switch. Mother, as is her habit, has the newspaper in her possession and is reading us the highlights—as only she interprets which stories need highlighting.

“Oh, this story just disgusts me the way they’re treating that nice boy,” Mother said disgustedly. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

Now me, I know better than to assume my mother’s heart-felt compassion is ever directed at the truly deserving but Mr. Dave hasn’t been around long enough to see things clearly.

“Oh, I know, Mother Johnson, that poor child just went to the store for a bottle of sweet tea and that Zimmerman maniac killed him because he was wearing a sweatshirt.” Obviously Mr. Dave spoke to the Trevon Martin murder—most of the rest of the table knew his reckoning was dead wrong.

My mother harrumphed and lowered the paper enough to peer across the table at Mr. Dave. She wears those silly half-lens glasses to read, said silliness enhanced with the knowledge that she has another pair of half-lens glasses to use for distance. Her dark eyes stared a hole in Mr. Dave through the half-lenses for about five seconds—the anger behind smoldering in visible expression around those eyes. I could hear the rusty cogs of her brain grind as she thought, Think before you speak, Mother, Mr. Dave makes you happy. Let him live to fuck another day.

She smiled, a placating, mirthless thing and a smile I’m quite accustomed to view. “I’m not addressing poor Mr. Zimmerman’s situation, dear Mr. Dave, I’m reading how the Obama administration is persecuting poor Ted Nugent up in Alaska. They’re using an unfortunate hunting accident to get back at Teddy for telling Obama the truth.”

OK, first, in case you don’t know, the sawed-off shit for brains Nazi runt named Ted Nugent lives on a Central Texas compound up to near Waco—a two-hour drive north of Austin. Second, the “unfortunate hunting accident” Mother mentions is Mr. Nugent’s admitted violation of the laws of the State of Alaska regarding the murder of bears. For some idiotic reason it is lawful to kill one bear per year up to Alaska, a legal tenet I find appalling.

But our fine and upstanding Teddy wasn’t happy to kill just the one bear, he needed to slay a second to fill his blood lust. You would think that a man who is so “into guns and hunting”, as Nugent says about himself, that he would know how many bears he could legally kill in one state in one fucking year. He had to buy an out of state hunting license and get bear tags, right? I know that he knew he was breaking the law.

Gram twisted and grimaced in her chair, let out an airy fart, flipped cheeks and grimaced again before saying, “Ought ta pluck his nuts with a banjo string an’ make ‘im whistle Dixie fer killing a bear what don’t need it.” Gram twisted cheek-to-cheek a good half dozen times and said to me, she said, “Mooner, you got any a them repositories they give ya fer that ass detection ya had last year? I got a little sumthin’ stuck an I need some help.”

“Oh, sweet jesus, please don’t talk about that at the breakfast table, Gram, I can hardly keep my eggs down as it is with how they’re treating Ted.” Mother harrumphed once more and hid her face with the paper.

“I’m all out of those morphine suppositories, Gram, but I’ve got some little glycerin bullets that’ll clean you out in fifteen minutes.” When I had my lower peritoneal cavity infection last year, one of the medications I got was what I think was called “phenagrin” suppositories. Better than Quaaludes, but not what my grandmother needed even if I had them.

“Do I need to redo the week’s menu, Gram? Have I been fixing too many carbs?” I asked.

“Naw, I ain’t impacterated with no celery, grandson, I was fuckin’ round with them assholie beadies ya give me, anna string broke. Got most of a dozen a them glass balls stuck up my ass,” Gram informed the table. “Still feels kinda good, but I missed my mornin’ reconstitution an I’m gittin cranky.”

I had to ask, and I had to give her the anal beads for Christmas. “Those beads had a heavy nylon cord, Gram. How did you manage to break it?”

The words were still an echo in my mouth when regret filled my brain. I had to fucking ask.

“Well, heh-heh-heh, ya see Mr. Dave was doin’ that vibrator inna ass dealie he does, an I got ta thinking a how it might feel iffn we could git them glass balls clinking and jabberin’ all up in there an…”

“STOP!!!” Mother shouted. “Dear god in heaven, Gram Johnson, not one more word of it!”

My mother whirled from Gram to face me and said, “And you, Mooner Einstein Johnson, have you lost your mind? I raised you better than to give your grandmother sex tools.” Then she added, she said to the entire table, “Einstein my ass. He doesn’t have the brains god gave a grape,” deep, martyred breath, flustered rustle of newspaper, another deep breath, then, “A stupid grape.”

Reckmonster is back in town and she makes beaded jewelry and is quite good at it. She just returned from Trinket Maker Fest where she won an award for something she made. When things settle down for her, we’re going to discuss a new business to sell sex jewelry at in-home parties. My first ideas for our product line is matching anal beads and jeweled cock rings. Oh, and maybe we could connect a set of beads to a ring with a studded chain.

We could do custom fitting and charge for that as well. Hell, I might pay just to get sized if the saleslady had a light touch.

Anyway, I gave Gram a suppository and now I’m headed to town to buy a replacement bowl for the toilet in her bathroom. Anal beads should come with a warning that says, “Do not use after any meal containing pinto beans. Wear safety goggles to avoid eye injury.”

Manana, y’all.

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Book Sales Brisk: Not A Bris

Sunday, November 6th, 2011

 

So. This is the last post before my big trip on the Mooner Johnson Bloggie Posters’ Tour. I’m having trouble naming this well-seasoned road trip because I heading out to visit other bloggie posters, but I’m traveling alone. If other bloggie posters were on the road with me, it would be easy to just call it The Bloggie Posters’ Tour. Of course, if it were the Reckmonster traveling with me, I might be tempted to call it a honeymoon.

I’m really good planning honeymoons.

The first name I named it was Mooner Johnson Takes A Vacation To Visit Other Bloggie Poster Persons After He Stops To Play Some Poker Wherein Mooner Leaves The Dogs And The Fucking Cat Back To The Ranch. This misnomer was fully accurate, so the “mis” part is wrong from the application perspective rather than a miss on the facts.

And one of you asshole grammar shitballs answer me this. If you can have a misnomer, then why not a nomer? Really, whatinthefuck is wrong with a nomer? I think whoever was in charge of some of this grammar crap was a fucking Baptist. The logic irregularities share the same glaring idiocies.

Anyway, I have way much too much to do today because I made a mess of yesterday. I watched the early day crushing of the Texas Tech Red Raiders by my Texas Longhorns, and I drank a few too many icy-cold Carta Blanca beers. I drank too many beers because Streaker Jones and Dixie came by to watch the game with me. For new readers, Dixie is my Golden Retriever—the self-same Dixie who trained the Squirt how to speak—and the two of them wanted my opinion on some new products for the hemp clothing factory we own together.

They have the Spring Line ready to go, and nifty it is. Streaker Jones also has a new mushroom strain he wanted me to Guinea hen for him. This latest cross-pollination of his breeds the Great Texas Psychedelic Cow Patty mushroom with the black truffle. I cut some thick slabs of ciabatta bread and covered them with the mushrooms, bleu cheese, roasted garlic and a light jacket of caramelized onions. before broiling. When the cheese got a light toast on top, I took them out and drizzled some olive oil and sprinkled torn basil leaves on top.

Tops were just a tad crusty, and I got crusty as well. Maybe it was the mushrooms that caused my over-indulging on the beer side, but I didn’t feel like doing anything but beer drinking, eating and waxing philosophically.

Which reminds me. Two things. First, Gnat will post a week’s worth of stuff all written by other persons who are not me. It’ll be one post but it’ll have the days written on it. You can read them as intended and come back once each assigned day as I intend. Or, you can be an asshole and read them all in one sitting. Your choice.

Second, if you need me, go over to my Bloggie Roller and click onto Dumb Perignon or Reckmonster or Squatlo or Thank Q, and leave me a message with one of them. I don’t know how to check on my own shit from remote locations, and quite frankly, I don’t want to learn.

OK, and I lied because there’s one other thing. You really need to go out to Amazon and buy my fucking book. I started all of this bloggie bullshit and went to all of this trouble to promote and market the fucking book. Click on to the linkster at:

http://www.amazon.com/Full-Rising-Mooner-Inappropriate-World/dp/1456339869/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1319551191&sr=1-1

It will be available on the Kindle by Monday sometime, and the Kindle version is only $9.99. Or is it $9.90? Doesn’t matter. The book is a real heavyweight in papered format which accounts for its pr iciness. I’m told that Full Rising Mooner is quite readable on the Kindle.

I don’t think I’ll miss anybody while I’m gone, but I promise to think about you each, and every one. Manana de la manana de la manana de la etcetera until about the 16th of Noviembre.

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Reckmonster Nails Head; Psycho Therapy Sucks

Thursday, November 3rd, 2011

 

So. I’m a real mixed bag of tricks today. My psycho therapy has been delving deep into my deep-seated anger and hostility at the man who raped me, and that’s two deeps too many. OK, three deeps if you count the one I used in my effort to explain. Therapy isn’t any fun when you work on shit that makes you uncomfortable.

The yang to my miserable therapy yin is my excitement over my pending trip and also the fact that people are actually buying my silly fucking book. I’m fast discovering that the book all and unto its ownself is a yinner/yangy dealio.

Holy fucking shit, I am all over the damned place and I have yet to hit 125 words on the word counter. OK, wait, that last sentence hit 128 words. I’m totally discombobulated, but I hope you can see the efforts I’m making to maintain my integrity. Clarity, in my mind, is an important part of honesty. It isn’t enough, as an example, to say, “I was down to the Whole Foods Market and ran into Pastor Browningwell,” when what should have been also said was, “… and I didn’t get arrested but you might hear about it Sunday morning.”

What I’m attempting to say is that my mood is dichotomous in nature, and I might need to say “in natures”, plural, because one or more of my dichotomies is dichotomous in, and of, its ownself. My overall mental health is stable and mostly happy, my psycho therapy is driving me nuts, I am totally pumped about my blogger roadie trip, and my book sits on both sides of the fence.

So let’s talk about the book.

I am very happy and excited that my book is finally out and for sale. I am ecstatic that people are actually buying it. And while I’m at it, ecstatic needs an “x” in it. It was a tremendous effort to get from blank pages of paper to a published book and I am proud enough of myself for that, that I might just shit myself. Again.

But there are downsides. What if nobody likes it? I write better now than when I actually wrote the fucking book, so it isn’t my best efforts. And because of my selfish choices, it’s a tad expensive to buy in paper-printed form, and it wastes a bunch of trees. I wanted it to be readable so I had it printed in large font size—almost like a children’s book. If you will click onto this linkster:

http://www.amazon.com/Full-Rising-Mooner-Inappropriate-World/dp/1456339869/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1319551191&sr=1-1

and then click the dealie that let’s you read some of it, you’ll see what I mean. Larger print means larger pages and more, larger pages at that. I hate wasting stuff, and my book is a definite waste of stuff.

In this morning’s early session, Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson said to me, she said, “Look, Mooner sweetie, we don’t need to talk about your book. Those issues will take care of themselves. Let’s get to the meat of your problems. I appreciate what the Reckmonster said to you. But your therapy isn’t about the man who raped you, it’s about you.”

See what I mean about dichotomousses? Dichotomoussi, maybe? What the Reckster said is that just because someone rapes you doesn’t give you the right to rape another. And she was dead right to have said that. The chain of abused-to-abuser, victim-to-perpetrator will never be broken until victims break it. Breaking that chain is the single thing I am most proud of in my life.

I think what Sammy is saying is that I wouldn’t be forgiving the rapist to make him feel better, I’d be doing it for me, or myself maybe. My initial sense is that I would be throwing the burden back at that asshole, like maybe if I forgive him I’ll feel better and he will feel worse. I know my ex-wife and therapist won’t see that as actual forgiveness, but I say, “Baby steps.”

And have you noticed that Dr. Sam I. Am still calls me “sweetie”[?] She says don’t read anything into it, but I know better. But that underscores my point again about these fucking dichotomusses.

Look. Please buy my book, if nothing else it will make you laugh or it will piss you off. Maybe both, and I can give you a guarantee on at least that much.

Ugh. Self promotion makes me thirsty, so I’m cracking a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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Squatlo And Reckmonster Root For Teams; You Should Too

Saturday, October 15th, 2011

 

So. It’s another Fall Saturday and football is on our minds. I’m all jacked-up with the hope that my Texas Longhorns can bounce back from the severe ass-kicking one Oklahoma team gave us to beat the other highly-ranked school from the land rush state in today’s big game. Okie State is ranked number six, and my young Longhorn team might get their asses handed to them again.

Squatlo will spend his day wearing the orange color of the other UT—an orange color that I can only politely describe as “interesting”[.] It’s the orange colored equivalent to puce—you know, that color of purple mixed with baby shit brown. Or maybe chartreuse—the sickly color of soon-to-rot limes or already rotten lemons.

Reckmonster will be all decked out in maize and blue. Her Michigan Wolverines are in their big cross-state game with Michigan State. Let’s hope Michigan coach Andy Divine can get his favored team to the winner’s circle this year. Recent past coaches have left the proud Michigan football traditions in the locker room for this big rivalry.

I don’t know who TQ roots for.  Is it Mississippi or Mississippi State.  OK, maybe it’s neither and he’s a traitor to his state and roots for Alabaloney.

I love the sense of pride and tradition and ownership a human gets from sports fandom. Having a favorite team provides a unique sense of belonging to something bigger than self. Sports fans have been around for as long as we’ve had sports, and that, dear friends, is a very long time.

Historians, of course, argue about who was the first civilization to play a sport. The Chinese say they were the first, of course, when they played a game that loosely translates to “kick the ball”[.] I’m still struggling with this whole quotation marks without a quote between them. Until one of you grammar mavens can give me an expectable reasoning to do otherwise, I’m putting the attendant punctuations inside brackets that I’ll hang on the ass-end of the not-containing quote marks. Like there when I said …to “kick the ball”[.]

My problem with the China claim is they didn’t state what a ball was and there were no rules mentioned or if anyone was watching. See, the very definition of sport requires more than one person to play. Playing games with yourself is not a sport. Sport requires competition. Except, of course, when you have multiple personalities or you dissociate a touch and you play games with your self and other selves of yourself.

I don’t remember playing any games with my imaginary friend, Don Legacy. I do remember him getting my righteous ass into massive loads of trouble. “Go ahead, light the fuse,” was what he said to me this one time. And his favorite way to get me in trouble was to say, “Nobody will find out. I promise.”

Isn’t it amazing how you just can’t trust people when they say, “I promise.” It’s the same dealie as when they say, “Well, to be honest with you…” Somebody starts a sentence with that, and I’m on alert to hear what the lying motherfucker has to say next.

And the worst of all that shit is when a businessman stands on his Christian principles as the foundation of his/her business philosophy. Worst crooks I ever met had big bibles on their desk as a display of their “Christian” ethics. Ask my opinion, Christian ethics means, “Jesus came to me in a vision and said I should lie and cheat and steal all your money.”

I walk into a man’s office and he’s got a Bible on display, and I’m walking right back out. That’s the same silly-assed logic used for the Crusades and the Inquisition. Fucking Inquisitors. Brutal shitballs, those guys. I mean, think about the crazy Jesus speak they used for the rules of their games.

“OK, Jaime of Cordoba, heres the rules for your game of Beat The Reaper. We’re gonna tie your left arm and leg to that 2,500-pound plow horse over there (Priest points to Mar el Pan, the dapple-gray beast on Jaime’s left), and your right extremities will be chained to the rock wall of the church. You must demonstrate your faith in God and not gets ripped in half when Mar el Pan strolls over to the basket of carrots held by Father Barnabas, over there.” (Priest points to basket of carrots)

The Mayans had a game like soccer that was played with a ball made either from a goat’s stomach or an enemy’s head. They had arenas with seats and concessions and shit. To me, this represents the first historical sport because it had rules and some specificities.

I wonder what kind of shoes they had. Can you imagine the shoe wars between Nike and Adidas in trying to sign the biggest names in the sport.

OK, I might be digressing whatever point I might have had. Here’s the deal. Today is a very good day to be an American. Let’s put our political differences aside and focus solely on our football rivals. Let’s put away our donkey and elephant signs for a day and wear our school colors instead. Let me be the first to do it.

Today, I’m not saying “FUCK RICK PERRY”[,] I’m saying instead, “Beat the Oklahoma State Cowboys, the best football team that T. Boone Picken’s money can buy!”

Now let’s get the Carta Blanca beer on ice, and go root for somebody! Manana, y’all.

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Hidden Casualties Of War; PTSD Is Coming Home To All Of Us

Wednesday, October 5th, 2011

 

So. I was just reading the newspaper and an article about the mental health of returning war veterans caught my eye. The article stated that 20% of those vets are suffering some form of mental illness and most of that is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

What that means is that 400,000 vets will come home needing acute psycho therapy care from an already overwhelmed VA Hospital system. With a mental health program already taxed beyond reason, Congress made budget cuts to the VA Hospitals. And now, providers like The Reckmonster will see their clinics overrun with additional homecoming heroes in need of good care.

Those facts a scary. Sad and scary it is, and it breaks my heart.

But there is, at least to me, a hidden sadness and danger to all of these PTSD sufferers returning stateside. PTSD, unlike most other mental illnesses, has no pre-onset symptoms or histories that demonstrate the illness. Schizophrenics, Bi-polarized persons, ADHD and ADDers, and Obsessively Compulsed are have early onset and future predictors of erratic behaviors.

Not so with PTSD. PTSD is an event-caused malady—an illness that has a specific cause. Families have no early warning and get no chance to prepare ahead. Persons suffering from PTSD can have been the happiest, most well adjusted people prior to the event. And then, “Boom!” A roadside bomb blows their best friend to unidentifiable parts, or they endure a 3-day fire fight while huddled in the rocks of fucking Afghanistan.

Regular crazy people, like me, have been crazy our entire lives, or we have demonstrated the propensity to be crazy for years. Anyone choosing to have a relationship with me knows the risks going in. Not so with PTSD. Many of these people led normal and healthy lives with families and good jobs and productive existences before they left to war.

They return zombies, or zombies-in-waiting, as they endure suffering through repeated and sometimes constant reliving of the traumatic event/events that caused their disorder. PTSD symptoms include: flashbacks, hyper-vigilance, depression, suicidal and homicidal thoughts, dissociation, detachment, sleep problems and anger. There’s more symptoms, but it depresses me to have written that many.

The hidden sadness of PTSD is the unsuspecting family, friends and loved ones PTSD sufferers return home to, and all of that collateral damage. How many murders and murder suicides, how many divorces, how many children with their own future problems, how much family and economic loss is headed the way of these veterans and their families?

After reading the article at the breakfast table, I remarked about it and expressed my unhappiness. Gram had a mouthful of oatmeal, but she held her finger up to say “Wait a minute” and we all stopped to wait for her to swallow.

“That’s like tha Jones boy from down to church. Family man with them three girls and his pretty wife. Ever thing’s fine afore he left and he came back all parlor-boiled and scrappy freakneckked,” Gram told us.

“I don’t think he’s a paranoid schizophrenic, Gram, I think he got the PTSD,” I told her.

She gave me the evil eye and said to me, she said, “Bobby Jones is a good Christian boy, Mooner. He didn’t come home with no VD. He got his self all shell shockered. Man’s a mess.”

Shell shocked. For thousands of years of war we called PTSD “shell shocked” and we looked at shell-shocked men as weaklings, and cowards. How many times have I watched the movie Patton and wanted to reach onto the screen and strangle George C. Scott when he belittles the shell-shocked soldier? I love that movie and choose to see it as anti-war.

Fucking war.

I also worry for the people I know who work with vets, like Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and the Reckmonster. PTSD is a tough one for too many reasons. Shame and embarrassment to have PTSD is another aspect that makes it bad. People don’t want to admit they have it and ignore whatever treatment options they have.

How frustrating must their caregivers feel to have so few resources available for treatment?

Ugh. I’m drinking a toast to all the returning vets. Here’s a Carta Blanca beer to all of you.

Manana, y’all.

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F-day Ends With A Pffft; A Missing F-word Tragedy

Saturday, September 24th, 2011

 

So. My plans for a fully-fulfilled F-day came up one F short. Not that any of the f-words planned into yesterday were minor in nature, but the one that was dropped was my personal most important. Fishing- great. Fried food- tasty and fresh from the Catfish Parlor. My original plan was to have some fried fowl, but Honor the cat went totally batshit crazy when we passed the Catfish Parlor on US 183.

It was Squirt’s fault. My diminutive translator was doing a tour guide patter as I drove her, Honor and Yoda down US 183 on our way to find a fried chicken joint. As we passed the catfish place, Squirt says, “And a la derecha es la Parlor de Pesca Gato. They have tout ce que vous pouvez manager every Freitag.”

“I don’t want all you can eat fried catfish today, guys. I want fried chicken to prime my pumps for when I go to see BJ and Squatlo and the Reckmonster in November,” I informed my GTO full of animals. “Besides, we’re having fish tonight for dinner. You know the rules.”

I make all my pets eat what they catch, and the morning’s fishing trip had been quite successful.

Honor the cat hissed and spit at me, and then she made this yapping noise I’ll call speech. It was disquieting. “Did the cat just say something?” I asked Squirt.

“I think she said, ‘Help me to kill Mooner and we’ll have fried catfish.’” Squirt asked the cat to repeat herself, and then confirmed the original translation. “Yep, only this time she mentioned shredding your nut sack rather than actually killing you.”

See what I mean about cats? Fucking cat.

Since I trust my pets to be true to their words, we had catfish for lunch and then headed to downtown and the national headquarters of the pompous prick, Rick Perry, presidential organization. I ordered children-sized “Fuck Rick Perry!” tee shirts for the guys and a manly-sized pink one for me, and I had three “Fuck Rick Perry!” tote bags filled with the bumper stickers. Each of the dogs and I carried a bag and handed-out the bumper stickers and the cat acted as security.

I really did not want to be arrested because the big f-word finally to F-day was to be a heavy dose of sexing with SAC Ellen. She was due to arrive sometime after her late flight arrived from Cleveland. An arrest might have spawned an extended stay over to Sheriff Wozniak’s jail and I needed the sex. With that in mind, we quietly went about the task of bumper sticker distribution.

Except for the one nice lady who slapped my face, and the cat-shredded white sock on her left foot, that f-word was completed without serious indecent. Next time we go down to fuck with Rick Perry we want him to be in town. Then we’ll try for some serious airtime and anti-Perry publicity.

So we handed out $200 worth of stickers in just an hour and I loaded the guys back into the GTO to head home. We decided on fish tacos for dinner and needed some tortillas and avocados for that. It was as I stood in the check-out line over to the flagship Whole Foods store in downtown Austin that I got the call. “Hey, baby,” I answered the call ID’d as SAC Ellen. “Have I got something planned for you!”

There was one of those pregnant fucking pauses on her end of the line, then, “Oh man, Mooner, I’m really sorry.”

“Fuck, fuck fucking-fuck!” I might have said a little too loud. The people around me put space between us.

“I’ve been held over to Sunday, sweetie. They want me to evaluate a threat from one of the militia groups up here in Ohio. I won’t make back to Austin for two more weeks.”

“Fuck, fucking-fuck.” This time I almost whispered. “Call me when you have time.”

I got out of line and walked over to the personal care section and got a twelve-pack of Ivory soap bars. I’m going to need to start alternating hands when masturbating or my right arm will be twice the size of my left. I’ve always preferred using my right hand, which my chiropractor says explains my strange skeletal twist.

Now it’s Saturday- Carta Blanca beer and BBQ day. I’m taking Gram’s Ferrari over to the race course to see if I can aggressive-driving my frustrations away. Manana, y’all.

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Marcus Bachmann Wins Camel Toe And Corn Dog Contest; Mooner’s Prayer Of The Day

Friday, August 19th, 2011

 

So. OK, real quick. I need to go over to mow the grass at Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s place and the Squirt and Honor the cat are already loaded into the GTO. I must leave soon or else I’ll melt my handsome ass in sweltering heat.

Here’s what I wanted to tell you. I had this dream last night and the baseline plot was a camel toe and corn dog contest. Use your imagination.

We were up to the State Fair of Texas for the contest and I was the main judge and my diminutive dog and cat my able assistants. The Reckmonster was the blue ribbon winner and Michelle Bachmann was the red ribbon contestant. Mr. Michele Bachmann received a special “Pink Ribbon Award” for his act, a musical adaptation of Marilyn Monroe’s “Happy Birthday Mister President” [.]

That’s all very interesting but not what I wanted to tell you about my dream. The part I need you to hear is what happened at the Rick Perry for President rally taking place on the fairground stage next to ours. Hundreds had gathered for the little prick’s apostlations, but after maybe three minutes, a man yelled, “Fuck Rick Perry,” a pause and then, “Fuck Rick Perry.”

People shouted from around the crowd, “Yea, Fuck Rick Perry!” Then, first a few voices and then adding dozens with each chorus… “Fuck Rick Perry!… Fuck Rick Perry!… Fuck Rick Perry!”

It was amazing and wonderful. They even chanted like I do, saying it like this, “Fuck Rick Per-ry!” you know, not racing through the Perry part but, rather, dragging it out into two distasteful syllables.

So, I have a prayer for the day: Dear God, in all of Your many manifestations both real and imagined, I pray to you guys this really hot fucking morning to do two things for me today. First, how about a little rain for Christ sakes? I mean really, not all of us voted for Rick Perry. And speak of the devil, my second request is that you will make my dream come true. Oh, yea, and thank you for women and Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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I Hate To Hate And Other Illnesses

Monday, August 8th, 2011

 

So. As I have lived my life I have always attempted to take measures of myself and my maturities. I’ve attempted to measure my intellectual growth based upon my grades in school, my ability to converse with people I think might be smart, and my grasp of complex life situations.

Except for my eighth grade and first quarter of ninth grade, I was an excellent student with an overall A average through high school. I’m not all that smart, but I am a great figure-outer. For some reason I can reason shit through and figure it out. Once I got to college, my grades ranged from stellar to barely passing, said range directly correlated to my business enterprise activities with the mysterious redneck genius, Streaker Jones.

Streaker Jones is a certified genius of almost immeasurable IQ. When they attempted to place a number in the Intelligence Quotient blank on his “Special Testing” back in junior high, the behavioral scientists were stumped as to how to measure just how smart Streaker Jones is. After he redesigned their standard test for them and took it, the number they filled-in for Streaker Jones’ IQ was “200-plus”.

He and I started a processed food company we named Magical Mystery Foods using my and my Gram’s recipes and the quite astute business acumen of Streaker Jones. Anybody who doesn’t know that Streaker Jones is my business partner thinks I have the Midas touch and that every time I fall in shit I make a profit. Those who do know have a keen understanding that I might be the idea man, but my partner is the businessman.

Net results, from the intellectual perspectives, I think I have matured as well as can be expected for an ADHD-addled fuckbrain.

Physically, I’ve matured right smartly, thank-you very much. From the time I was two, Mother marked a growth card with my height, weight and all of my clothing sizes twice a year. I reached my full height of 6’4” over the summer after high school. I’ve carried between 220 and 245 pounds of weight ever since. A little of my former muscle has turned to Carta Blanca belly over the years, but I think I’m in decent shape for an old fart.

Starting after I experienced my first ever woodie, I have been measuring my pecker—both in its woodie and resting states, twice a year. Sometimes more than twice a year. I’m quite proud to say that since I was twenty, my woodie pecker has held its full length and girth and my relaxed pecker has actually grown by a full half-inch. I want to be proud of this extra half-inch gained over the past few years, but I just can’t. I have this nagging feeling in the deep recesses of my scattered brain that it might be sag rather than growth.

But I’m an optimistic kind of guy and I see my glass half-full. So. Basically, I feel that from the mental and physical perspectives I have managed to follow expected growth curves for a healthy male Homo Sapiens. It’s the emotional perspective where I seem to veer from the pathways of standard deviations.

Like yesterday, when I started to bitch about Rick Perry’s little prayer group and ended up telling you about the first time I almost committed murder, and the only time it would have been murder of the intentional variety. As the old hymn goes, my distaste for the Baptist church is “Deep, and wide… deep, and wide…” Our newspaper here was full of the stories of some of the silly shitballs who were so very-fucking excited to go down to Houston and get God all charged-up.

One asshole from a Baptist Church outside Austin was quoted to say, “America’s only hope is if we all convert to Christianity and follow in Christ’s footsteps.”

After thinking on that one a minute, if he’ll modify it just a touch, I think he might be on to something. I think that if all American Christians will go over to the middle east and follow Christs footsteps, then those of us remaining might be able to fix some of this mess.

All their prayers for America seemed to have fallen on deaf ears. Should that be Deaf Ears, with caps? The markets are down another 500+ points in response to how the conservative right is holding our government hostage.

Speaking of Christ, holy shit am I digressing. What I want to say is that I’m starting to feel the word “hate” slip into my emotional states. I don’t like to hate, I think hate is a bigot’s emotion. But I’m starting to want to say that I hate some things. I’m feeling the polarity that Brandon mentioned today on his site My Own Private Idaho, a feeling that is enhanced when I read the Reckmonster’s latest impassioned plea for veterans over to her place. My friend Squatlo presents fair and balanced postings that present evidence that my feelings are accurate.

I just don’t want to hate people just because they are stupid. But I’m finding it hard to not hate them when they are pushing their dumb up my ass using politics. I’m starting to feel that I might be de-maturing emotionally.

Ugh.

I’m having a cold Carta Blanca beer and some homemade chips and salsa. Fuck Rick Perry today, and I’ll see y’all manana.

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@Reckmonster Inspires Camel Toe Dream; Mooner’s Trains Derail

Wednesday, July 20th, 2011

 

So. I was going to tell you the name of the third installee of my Blog Roller today but something has interrupted the trains of thoughts in the switch yards that is my brain circuitry. And look at that shit… I can’t get one full sentence out before the grammar teacher who resides inside my skull is reproaching me.

First, maybe that should have been “installeded”, or possibly “installerated” Blog Roller designee. Second, my trains of thoughts and mental circuit boards are tough to specify. I say “trainS” and “thoughtS” and “yardS” on purpose. The plurals are required in my cases. If you have my form of ADHD you have an inkling of understanding as to what goes on in the toxic swill swirling in the cauldron that is my skull.

If you do not suffer from ADHD, or its little sister ADD, then you haven’t got a fucking clue what goes on inside my head. Everybody knows people who pretend to have ADHD– people who use ADHD as an excuse to cover for laziness or inattention. Those of us who truly suffer the slings and arrows of our ailment would like to crush the fakers’ balls in a vise. Or maybe remove their tonsils through their giant smelly assholes.

Which reminds me that I still have my tonsils. Proudly, I’m the only living Johnson family member to have made it with his tonsils intact. Old Doc Ashburn tried to take them from me numerous times when I was younger. Tried every trick in the book to get me to sit still for him to butcher me. And that– me saying Doc Ashburn wanted to butcher me– reminds me that my given name at birth was “Butcher”.

That’s right, my actual name is Butcher Einstein Johnson. I won’t tell you the story because it is contained in my soon-to-be-published book, Full Rising Mooner. What I will say about that is this: what I will say is, “What the fuck?”

Really, whatinthefuck is going on when a bunch of hillbillies name a kid a name like that? People make fun of me all the time for my having the moniker “Mooner”. When I tell them my actual name they all shake their heads and say, “Oh… Sorry.”

Anyway, I have multiple trains of thoughts, some racing down their tracks like a Japanese bullet train, some dragging along like a thousand-car coal train with a single tired engine, and the balance are commuter trains that make frequent stops and change schedules with the same frequencies.

The main method I employ to control these thoughts can best be described as switching yards, like you always see in action films, where some guy escapes capture by running between tracks and trains. In my brain I have more than one switch yard. My brain contains separate yards for trains traveling as first line thoughts, mid line thoughts, obsessive thoughts and then pesky thoughts.

Often, a single train will derail and I’ll lose focus for a moment. Sometimes trains get improperly switched in a yard and I’ll lose focus and say something stupid. Occasionally, however, the switch yard controller mechanism in my brain falls asleep at the switch all my trains derail or crash into each other. That event is what I call “brain fritz”.

Remember in the old BBC TV series Monty Python, when the John Cleese professor character would say, “My brain hurts,”?

That, dear readers, is brain fritz for me. My brain hurts. It’s not a headache in the classic sense and it isn’t brain freeze like with ice cream. It is the combination of those two sensations, then add some confusions and delusions, and then subtract the pain.

Holy fucking shit what a digression I’ve got here. The origination point of this posting was to tell you that I got the fritz brain last night and that caused me to have another funky dream. Since I wrote about the Reckmonster yesterday, she was in it.

In this dream I was eating at the Lubys Cafeteria over to Mopac at US 183 here in Austin. I was inside their building to start and it was a giant place, and full of people in long lines. We served ourselves, so I had big spoon and was helping myself to a taste of whatever I saw that spiked interest.

I ate most of a bowl of tapioca pudding, half a bowl of oatmeal and spoonfuls of a bunch of other stuff. I rounded a big turn in the food line, and there, on the right, was a dazzling assortment of camel toes on ice. Displayed like seafood at the fish market, every toe was perched on the ice and surrounded with herbal adornments to best demonstrate the attributes of each.

Little signs told of their origins. They said “Sarah Palin Camel Toe” and “Reckmonster Camel Toe” and “Queen Elizabeth Camel Toe” and Dr. Marcus Bachmann Camel Toe” and so on. I thought I had died and gone to heaven in this dream.

I won’t tell you from which camel toes displayed I spooned my samples, and neither will I tell you precisely how that worked. What I will say is that I awoke with a rock-hard dream woody, which I washed clean with a hearty lathering with Ivory Soap, and images of the Reckmonster.

And now Reck is going to be pissed at me and I’ll get an ass chewing from her for discussing her “business” in this forum. But who gives a shit anyway. That dream makes it all worthwhile.

So drink Carta Blanca beer and come back manana, y’all.

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Rantings of the Reckmonster Latest Inductee; Will Sexing Soon Follow?

Tuesday, July 19th, 2011

 

So. This is post number two wherein I disclose another of my favorite blogger buddies and carefully explain why they are a favorite. Many of you might think that I name this next lady to my list because she is lobbying hard to become wife number twelve on my wife list. Some of you might think that I’m putting her name in lights because she has the hots for me.

But you would be wrong for the most part, and obviously have never read Rantings of the Reckmonster, my good buddy, and future twelfth wife-to-be. And would you look at that word “twelfth” for just a fucking minute. Is that not one of the most awkward words you have ever seen? Fuck it, I’m writing it 12th for now on.

Which reminds me of the Texas Aggies and their 12th Man dealie, which in turn, reminds me of the short Texas governor and shitball supreme, Rick Perry. See, little Prick Perry was a yell leader at Texas A&M since he was too scared to go out for a sport, or ROTC.

Any grown man who is so frightened of snakes– and the skinny coyote population traveling the greenbelt of his $10,000-a-month rented governor’s mansion here in drought-stricken Texas, that he carries a lady’s pistol when he jogs with a two-man bodyguard detail, is a pussy. Silly little fucker struts around like a rooster and shooting off his mouth about how tough he is about shit, and he carries a lady’s gun when he jogs in the company of trained assassins.

When you get a chance, go to one of the websites on Aggie yell leaders and take a peek at the little Prick Perry want-a-bees. Ask yourself this question after you have gotten the gist of what a yell leader actually is. Ask yourself, “Self, do I want to trust my country/state to a man who would be proud that he did this shit?”

Anyway, my future 12th wife is Michelle, a diminutive mostly Philipina (Filipina?) psycho therapist working in the same area of Tennessee as my first-listed favorite, Squatlo. Since both she and Squatlo use the word “rant” in their title names, you can guess that The Reckmonster rants. I call her Reck and she’s a Daily Checker. Eagerly, I click over there to see just whatthefuck she’s going off on today.

Sometimes she makes me laugh my ass off with her acerbic wit and humor, and other times she posts stories about the American Service veterans treated in the VA hospital where she works, which make me cry. Oh for shit sakes. Should that be “wherein she works”? Maybe “wherein, at which she works, at”.

Whatever, it’s curious that she and Squat are in the same town and are both former Catholics. Which is an interesting concept to me, that is to say former Catholic. See, I was raised a Baptist and they believe that once you are saved– you are ALWAYS saved. That’s right, walk to the front of the church, whisper in the preacher’s ear that you love Jesus and accept him as your Saviour, then get dipped in the nasty, fetid water of the Baptist bathtub that sits behind the pulpit of every Baptist church– and you are saved forever. That’s right forfuckingever, as in ETERNALLY!

Since I was baptized twice, I am saved for forever-and-a-day. Hoo-fucking rah!

My ADHD is acting up something awful. The Reckmonster does that to me. She is a terrible tease, dangling her womanly charms in front of me with the promise of unheard of pleasures if I’ll just marry, and divorce, wife number 11. My only potential to become number 11 is SAC Ellen, a gun-toting special agent for US Department of Homeland Security. I fear that any marriage to SAC Ellen would be my last. I’ll either find a way to stay married, or I’ll end up in a body bag and buried so deep I’ll never be found.

Which reminds me. Why does a woman have only a “bosom” and not “bosoms”? That one confuses the shit out of me.

Reck stands tall for her veterans and stands up for them as well. I named the cat who adopted Squirt and me “Honor” to recognize the sacrifices our service men and women make for me. I think that maybe Honor the cat displays some of the Reck’s personality. She’s frisky and sparky, she’ll spit and hiss at any transgression, and she’s got a purr machine that will melt your heart.

I’m dying to get close to the Reckmonster’s purr machine.

Reck lives daily the consequences of budget cuts to social support services which are the backbone of the budget-balancing act of the spineless right-wing Christian conservatives who are running our country. She sees what happens when vets return from active duty and cannot get the mental and health benefits they so rightly deserve.

Mostly, she cracks me up. So, one more once, hoist your Carta Blanca beers and click on my Blog Roll to the Rantings of the Reckmonster. Manana, y’all.

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