Archive for the ‘Religion’ Category

Seasons Greetings From Humbuggerville; Imaginations Of An Addled Mind

Monday, December 25th, 2017

So. The holiday season is in full swing, and I’m nuts. I don’t mean that the season makes me crazy—which it most certainly does—but, rather, I wish to say, “‘Tis the season,” and as a separate issue, “I’m nuts.” The season part should be obvious to all but the most oblivious, and the nuts part—while obvious to many—has an additional hidden and somewhat obliterated component, the lid on which shall stay closed for a while longer. Something is brewing and the end product’s qualities are not yet known.

Me, I’m long a humbugger and Xmas detractor, an inclination that began with my first childhood memories of praying to God for my Jesus Birthday wishes. My Baptist mother insisted that we pray to her Christian God for our Christmas wants rather than write to Santa because, as I later learned, Santa Claus is an imaginary being. Reimagine that!

She didn’t overtly attempt to prevent my sisters and I from thinking Santa was real when we did believe, but she did overtly, covertly and with great impunity, attempt to force us into accepting that her other imaginary being was the real thing. OK, maybe that should be “Real Thing.”

But for me, once the fairy tales of Santa, Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy and the Boogeyman became exposed for the farces they are, it wasn’t long before I questioned, then challenged the realities of The Southern Baptist Convention. Admittedly, an adolescent exposure to a Baptist Deacon Boy Scout leader who specialized in the Pedophilia Merit Badge provided fuel that flamed the fires that burned my religious faith. It’s mighty hard to sell a loving-God faith-concept to a child whose life has been wrecked by the same asshole teaching the kid’s Sunday School Class.

I have long believed that we humans invent imaginary entities to do our dirty work, like discipline kids or enforce rules those we govern won’t like, and also to cover our asses for those unexplained situations in human life—like death and calamity—and likewise, we conjure-up imaginary characters to instill blind faith in others. Somewhere along the line there was this one guy who first tried magic mushrooms and had an “otherworldly vision”, a direct instruction from some God.

In my senses of history it’s been the stoned, the insane and the megalomaniacal who have invented Gods, and for all the same reasons we dream up other imaginary things. To me, our gods and devils are cut from the same cloth as Santa and the Tooth Fairy—each an imagined idea developed to add either peace of mind or disciplinary control. Or both.

The only reason Santa isn’t a God is that he was created with a specific, short shelf life.

Then, again, the first god might have been invented by a lunatic who needed no hallucinogenic assistances to have conversations with some invented deity. The younger of my two sisters—the one who died a couple years back—had this imaginary buddy named Miss Meanie. Until she killed her bad news friend by tying her to the railroad tracks to be smashed by the train, my sister never did anything wrong, it was always the divine Miss M. When caught red-handed, little sis would claim M. Meanie made her do it.

Me, I don’t see my five-years-old sister’s imaginations any different than inventing a god. I guess the flipside of being the smartest animal is not having the smarts to answer every question, so when we humans can’t prove it, we make it up.

But I have often wondered what was the base causal issue behind the original imagined deity? Why and when did the first god get invented? Was it the fear of dying or perhaps was it some early leader wishing to gain a third-party supporter of infinite magnitude to assist with keeping the masses controlled? Maybe it was both. Was tribal chieftain Grog having trouble getting his guys to go Mastodon hunting because a big Saber Tooth Tiger was lurking the Masty herd and everybody was calling in sick for the weekly hunt for red meat?

“Look boys,” says Grog as they sit, hungry, by their sacred campfire. “The Fire God will protect you from the Devil Tiger, and if you die, you won’t be dead—He’ll put you up in this nice cave over to the other side of the Great Mountain Gorge with three young wives, a fire that will never go out and never-ending Mastodon steaks. Now, let’s all hold hands and ask Fire God for some favors.”

Don’t you think the whole seventy-two virgins bullshit is a bit excessive? I think Grog was closer to the perfect number. Maybe if I was younger I could see my way to properly husband more than three wives at a time. While I’ve had my share of now exes, there was no duplicative habitations, and I must say that when fully-engaged with a woman, I’ve got my hands full concentrating on the one.

As an atheist I have to admit that my life would be easier if I still believed. As a kid, praying for forgiveness and thinking that God forgave me was a required, nightly absolution that prepared me to start each next day with a lightened heart. It also made it easier to slip up that next day because I knew that God would forgive if only I prayed for it end-of-day.

As an old fart, how much easier would it be to face my final days if I believed that I would go to a better place when I die? What worries could be eased if only I could convince myself that God raped a young virgin who lovingly bore Him a bastard god-child who would later be sacrificed by his daddy-o for me so that I could spend eternity in Heaven with both the slain bastard son and God his veryownself? OK, that might be Veryownself, with the capital “V”.

When I think of these original imaginers of the first gods, I’m reminded of David Coresh and that guy Jim Jones and Chuckie Manson—those sellers of some god’s evil intentions. Three among those who have told followers to castigate and deny all other gods except their own. Hell, Jones actually proclaimed that he, himself, was god. My thought is that since any time you gather more than two people together, political and cultural ideologies will be structured- a cult will form. Tribes form, power is vested in someone, or some thing. Disagreements and arguments cause tribes to splinter and the next thing you know we’ve got The Third Baptist Church of the Northeast Quadrant of Southwest Dallas.

We also end up with Judge Roy Moore. Feeling a little like you’ve contracted the ADD?

OK, I have a point and here it is. I had a discussion with this guy at the poker table about my atheism. He told me that without his Christian God there would be no morality, “Think the Ten Commandments.”

My reply was simple. “What you are telling me is that your fear that an imaginary being will punish you if you don’t do the right thing is why you do the right thing? Me? I do the right thing because I decide to do the right thing because it is the right thing to do. I choose to be moral, I’m not forced to do so out of fear.”

Of course also not said is that the Devil never made me do anything either. While I’m often tempted to explain my inappropriate behaviors with blame on a higher force field, truth is it’s all on me.

Now, having said all of that, I do have a god who for some reason only manages to visit in my sleep or at those times when I’ve been mellowed by one, or more, of Nature’s magical elixirs. My god is pretty cool on comparison. Other gods visit as snakes and burning bushes and elephants and that sort of stuff. Mine has come-a-calling as Jane Fonda in Barbarella, Jeffrey Holder and Harry Belafonte singing a Calypso duet, Salvador Dali’ and a giant fly, as examples.

My imaginary god has way more imagination than yours and he’s not quite the asshole that some others seem to be. Bottom line? (Sing to the tune of “My dog’s better than your dog”:

“My god’s better than your god, my God’s better than yours! My god’s better than your’s is, ‘cause my god’s the only god!”

So let’s all get in the holiday spirit and FUCK Walmart!!!

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Ramble On Ramblin’ Man; Major Dump Clogs Pipes

Sunday, October 22nd, 2017

So. It’s been so long since I’ve actually published anything I’ve been writing that the dogs and I have just finished a heated argument thereabout. The gist that was put through our argumentative grist mill is this: I, for my part, have taken the stance that anyone who might still be reading this shit in the first place has long since abandoned me in much the same way as I have abandoned the above-mentioned publishing, and the dogs’ position, as the Squirt so adoringly put it when she said to me, she almost yelled it, “Who gives a shit, Mooner, do it for us! When you cut yourself off from the outside world, you’re really insane.”
Simpler stated, the dogs want me to write and publish with more frequency, and I see it as a fruitless endeavor. Me, my idea was that much as when the tree falls in the vacant woods dealio. The small brown puppy took the position that by not writing and publishing, I’m harder to deal with and she and the goat dog must live with a harsher reality. Seems she thinks I’m grouchy-more having not posted to the pages herein.
Don’t you hate it when your kids have more insight than do you? While I have excuses for not publishing, those excuses do not include having not written. However, I haven’t published because the 40-50,000 words I’ve typed since my last publishment all sound boringly the same, and can be summed up in the following succinct statement:
“Trump is a dangerous asshole; Republicans are spineless, greedy bastards; and single-issue voters (here read Christians and fake patriots) are going to be the death of our democracy.”
If you can conjure to mind everything that has happened in the last six weeks related to those subjects, slather that heartily over a dry toasted bagel and then eat it without any follow-up liquid to rinse the bitter taste of a crumbling civilization out your mouth… That’s what I’ve had to say, and it’s difficult to swallow.
However, now that we’re started there is one thing I have to say. I was born and raised a Dallas Cowboys fan and remained so until Jerry Jones bought them. While I’ll not get into all the many reasons Mr. Jones has soured me on his team, please allow me to make this observation, an idea that isn’t just my own.
As you may know by now, Jura Jones has proclaimed that any Cowboys player who disrespects the flag in any way before a football game will not be allowed to play. Period. Any quantity of any disrespect and you don’t play! Peri-fucking-od!!!
Take a knee- take the bench. Raised fist- the bench. Pick your nose, pick your ass- it’s the bench for you! If you believe him, should his entire team take a knee, then Dallas will forfeit the game. As great as that would be, I doubt it will happen. I doubt that many NFL players, much less an entire team, think that a national anthem demonstration is worth losing paychecks. Plantation boss Massah Jones has fucking spoke.
But as big an asshole that makes Jerry Jones, that’s but half my point. The tip of my point lies in the choice of stands and standards Jones has chosen to take and what it says about him and his precious NFL. The Dallas Cowboys have signed or drafted a half-team of players who have been charged and/or convicted of criminal abuses against women—some terribly heinous crimes, say for instance like the defensive lineman, Greg Hardy. That almost 300-pound pussy-man punched, slammed and choked his 115 pound girlfriend before dragging her room-to-room and slamming her onto a pile of fucking guns. Not his only such offense, Hardy was convicted of two separate counts of domestic abuse of that defenseless woman.
Beat a woman senseless- take the bench? Nope. You, young man, will make a fine Dallas Cowboy. Suit up, big dog, we needs us a pass rush!
How ‘bout them Cowboys!!!
Like the simple fact that Trump, Jones and others of their greedy, bigoted ilk who think the Second Amendment is way more important than the First, the hypocrisy of this flag bullshit is nauseating to me. To put a legal civil protest action—an action sanctioned by the First and most important Amendment—a punishable offense that will cause Mr. Jerry Jones to take away your employment yet for him to recruit and first-round draft abusers of women, speaks more than anything else I can think of about character.
Choke a woman, slave master Jones says, “Hey, Cowboys will be boys.”
Stand up for black lives, it is, Jerry says, “Sit on the bench, boy. You gots ta know yo place, boy. You folks beat on ya women all ya wants, but don’t be disrespectin’ my stars n bars, er, I means stars an stripes.”
Would someone please remind me why I moved back to Texas? Fuck Walmart and the Dallas Cowboys!
OK, and now that I’m going, here’s one from the poker table. This way too fucking Christian guy was at my table wearing a shirt that said, “Pray for the Texas Hurricane victims.” This same guy had commented on the big earthquake that hit Mexico and the damaging Texas storm with, “These natural disasters are God’s will. He’s striking down the gays and atheists who are wrecking society. Decent people have no place to hide from that evil.”
As an aside to this shitball’s complaint, I wanted but did not tell him he could hide his head way on up deep in his own ass. But couldn’t hep mysef with the prayer shirt.
“So, uh, can I ask you a question, sir?” me to the pray for the victims guy. “I did hear you say that all these natural disasters—earthquakes and hurricanes and tsunamis and shit—are nothing more than your God striking down people who have offended Him? Right? I got that right, didn’t I?”
“Says so right in the good book, Hippy.”
As I’ve grown my hair long enough to keep it in a two-foot-long ponytail, some players call me Hippy, a moniker I’m quite proud to wear.
“Well, sir, if that’s your position, how dare you wear that blasphemous shirt?” two, three, four, five, and six.
“Hell, man, maybe you need to go stand in the parking lot before God decides to strike down your blasphemous ass. Your good book is just chock full of smited shitwads going against your God’s desires and I wish to not be your collateral damage.”
“Huh?” his second such response. I’m guessing “Huh?” was the best he could muster.
I told him, I said, “Seems you might need an Old Testament translator, sir. You claim that God smote down the people of south Texas as was His will against terrible sinners, pillars of stone and all that shit. Yet you pray for those same offenders? How dare you go against God’s will and wish them well when He obviously wants them to suffer. Shame on you, sir.”
It took him a couple hands for him to first, understand what I had said, and second, to formulate his response. “Well, Hippy, that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
I folded my hand and looked him in the eyes. “Exactly.”
Fuck Walmart once, and again. And that reminds me of this. Am I the only one who thinks the massive “hack” of personal information from one of the three credit companies was orchestrated by them, their veryownselves? I saw an estimate that more than 100 million individuals will go to each of the three credit bureaus to “freeze” their credit, an endeavor requiring patience and an average of $18 per individual.
I know the facts of this because I spent the requisite ninety minutes doing it for myself. I arrived at my conspiracy theory when listening to the listings of maximum allowable charges for freezes for each, individual state on one of the websites, because different states have different maximum charges for a freeze. If you take the population of each state times that state’s charge and then divide it by the number of total persons, you get an average charge of $9 per person per each company. Since Equifax allowed the “hack”, it has graciously allowed you to freeze their account for free. Until January first.
So, following my logic, the nine buckers for each of the remaining two will cost an average of $18 per person, at first blush a small cost to protect your credit against this “hack”. However, should 100 million of us effect these freezes before the end of the year, the three credit giants will gather a windfall of $1,800,000,000. Otherwise called one-point-eight-billion-dollars, this is a sum we are required to pay huge conglomerates to effectively protect ourselves from themselves.
Me, I see this as no different from when Guido muscles into the pizza parlor in Brooklyn, or Chin and Cho intimidate the Korean grocer in LA, demanding “protection” money. “Pay me to keep me from burning your store to the ground.”
Motherfuckers. Mother-fuck-ers. All right, now I need to wipe.

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The Originating Question; Misleading Keywords Lead To Misantrophy

Tuesday, October 6th, 2015

So.  I’m sitting here to my desk at four am, wondering what, inthefuck, is wrong with humans?  Are we so afraid of death that we feel obligated to wreck our civilizations, our species, our planet?  Are we so brainwashed that we cannot distinguish between right, and terribly—oh, so very terribly—wrong? Why do so many of us—even the best of us—need to believe there is more than there actually is?

OK, those were silly questions because of course we are willing to kill the golden goose that is humanity. We’re marching our way to extinction at an alarming rate of progress.  Mayhaps I’d better communicate by stating “The Originating Question”, tell you the queries that kept me awake last night, elucidate my thoughts thereon, and elicit ideas from you guys.  I, for my part, find myself unable to provide a succinct answer to The Originating Question as I can find numerous answers, several of which are in direct conflict with other answers.  Before I ask you The Originating Question, allow me to provide some background.

I’ve been thinking on religions for several weeks now, wondering why they even exist. Then last week I was in conversation with a very pleasant Christian woman, a woman I call my friend.  Deeply Christian of the evangelical variety, this woman spends considerable time in Bible study and seems to live her life to the answers she finds therein.  She’s kind and considerate and never presses her religion at others.  She is thoughtful and charitable, honest and solid. I like her in spite of her devotion to a fairy tale I see as a danger to humanity.

We were discussing something or another, and my cancer and attendant treatment entered the discourse.  Turns out her friend has prostate cancer, newly diagnosed, and we had a discussion about my experiences.  That discussion led to her telling the friend what I said, and he (him?) getting a positive outcome based upon a lead provided by me.  When I ran into her a few days later, she said to me, she says, “I want to thank you for providing me with that prostate info.  I passed it on, he had a good outcome.”

I told her I was pleased to be of some help and glad to do it.  Then she says to me, she looks Heavenward with her left hand held skyward to the heavens, her right hand—fingers closed in a loose fist held palm down over her heart—and she says to me, “I prayed on it and felt the hand of God as He sent you to me so He could intervene and save Mr. X from the cancer the Devil placed in his prostate.”

While I was almost vibrating with desire to tell her that I have one: felt the actual hand of God, and; two: begged God to make my cancer go away, and; three: been told by God—right to my face while looking Her eye-to-eye as She lay beside me in bed—that it wasn’t Her job to worry about one man’s predetermined propensity to get ill, and die, my God told me She had no interest in altering the natural progressions of things; then I fourth: held my water, smiled and said to my friend, I told her, “Glad I could help.”

ADHD-fueled, grammatically awkward run-on sentence aside, where did “Hold your water” originate, as a phrase, and why do I seem to be writing so many complex, run-on sentences? I know that soldiers and the general populace living in high-walled castles under siege back to the days of burning oil dumps and using The Pear of Anguish for interrogations,  would pour hot oil and likewise pee, and crap, down on the heads of the siegers.  While Microsoft Word has just informed me that “siegers” is not an actual word and for my part I don’t really give a shit, maybe “Hold your water” originated thereat. Therewhen, maybe. You know, “Hang on to that hot oil and enema, soldier, hold them until you see the whites of their eyes.”

Maybe, and maybe not the origins.  If not, this side car is off the rails and totally unrelated to The Original Question, which is stated as follows:

Why did we invent Gods?  That, dear friends, is the question.

Why are we not happy enough simply existing that we feel compelled to imaginate ourselves these powerful deities? Why can we not be satisfied to live our lives in the natural order of things—grow from seed, prosper, procreate, wizen, fall ill and die? Why do we have the need to make ourselves more than the organisms we are? Why can’t we celebrate the simple fact that we’ve evolved—through some lucky spin of the Protoplasm Jackpot Wheel—to be the biggest brains of all species? We dominate every other species on the planet, why is that not enough?

Why do some religious followers speak of the hand of God as some super-freakish intervention into issues which no real god would concern themselves?  Me, I’ve felt the hand of God and it can be a soft as Montana Wildhack’s as She held my face in Her palms to tell me that my sister’s death wasn’t my fault in any way, and it can be as rough as when God showed to hold both of my hands with the guitar-picking callouses and pot-stained fingers of Willie Nelson. The hands of God are actual hands that are not used to answer prayers. God’s hands are for holding, comforting in time of need. At least my God is happy to hold my hand for comfort when I need it.

This one time I questioned my God about prayers, as I see praying as a silly, wasteful substitute for personal effort.  “Prayers are wishes, Mooner,” God told me with the leathery lips of the grapefruit-sized Amazonian sweat toad It used as visage to me.  “People find comfort in counting on their imaginations to work magic, son, so let it go. Let them have their hopes and you move on.”

When I tried to lick God’s back in an effort to revisit a college weekend when Streaker Jones and I met this weird guy from Colombia who had this aquarium stocked with a pair of hallucinogenic sweat toads, I found myself licking the nasty tongue of the Cheshire Cat my God had transmuted into.

Ever accidently licked a cat’s tongue? “Disconcerting” would be the word, and not the least hallucinogenic.

Which reminds me. Have I ever mentioned that I’m crazy? I have all these quite good buddies with whom I love to communicate, and, likewise, love. People with high moral standards, real and true standards. Moral standards not born from selective application of the teachings of some silly cult, but standards developed from the essence of character. Morals with a foundation of fairness to all.

I love their writings and I love to comment thereupon. But for some crazy reason I haven’t been able to pull the trigger in response to their writings for days. I get ready to punch buttons here to my keyboard, and my brain goes all discombobulated and freezes in a swill of words and thoughts. I feel as though I have nothing interesting to say.

It’s weird and is the main subject of my therapy sessions, and when I get it figured out I’ll let you know.

So fuck Walmart in the meantime.


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Mooner Johnson Is A Big Fat Liar; Self-Caught Fabricator Turns Self In

Wednesday, May 20th, 2015

So.  After having confessed as to my falling victim to the absurd concept of Luck, I now must make a second confession.  My having connected the dots between viewing tire skid marks on an overpass with poor results at the poker table required me to have placed faith in some supernatural power.  Believing in luck, by its very definition, is to place faith in something unknown, and as an atheist, faith is something I profess to lack in any measurable quantities.  Having faith in a supernatural being is the very foundation of most religions, and we atheistic personages lack the Blind Faith Gene.

I say Blind Faith Gene (BFG) herein, when referring to your basic religious types, because as I see it, the hereditary propensity to exhibit blind faith has much to do with the perpetuation of religion.  A handed-down sort of dealio.  That, and the simple fact that my very own mother seems to feel that I have some sort of genetic defects for not blind faithing her precious Jesus, which, when coupled with the ADD and ADHD, allow me to be both a heretic and an ungrateful son to my now demented mother.

“I must have done something terrible as a child,” Mother told me when Sister and I were kids this one time.  “You can’t sit still for one minute and your sister won’t wear a dress.  It had to be a sin of the heart for God to punish me so with the two of you.”

“I’m sorry, Mother,” I told her.  “I’ll try to do better.”

If I had a nickel for every time I said, “I’m sorry, Mother, I’ll try to do better,” as a kid, we’d have had us a nickel shortage back to the fifties and sixties.  In truth, it typically took less than a minute before some shiny object or meandering thought inside my skull would distract me from a stern motherly lecture and get me into my next scrape with Mother’s martyrdom.   Mother was a teacher at my school—a professional teacher well-respected among her peers—and she was required to routinely deal with my transgressions in the classrooms of her coworkers.  This one time, I lost my mind and was blowing spit wads through a long plastic pea shooter straw in Mr. Arnold’s history class.

The pea shooter was a gift from Daddy—one of the many secret gifts my father gave when Mother wasn’t looking—and “Swats” Arnold was one of those teachers who both believed in, and joyfully administered, the corporal punishments back to when I was in Junior High.  Swats, for those younger readers, were the individual whacks on your ass with a paddle administered in the Principal’s office by the particular teacher offended by your behavior at the given time.  The typical punishment at my school was between three and ten individual swats, said specificities determined by the severity of your offense, your propensities to earn swats, and the designated teacher’s level of fed-upness with your rangy, inappropriate ass.

Why I say I’d lost my mind and blew spit wads is because old Swats Arnold had already reached his max fed-upness with me, and I’d had so many swats from different teachers that year that I’d attained new heights in the Swats Match Play program installed by Mother.  Swats Match Play, SMP for shorties, was the secondary punishment stage administered by Mother upon returning home after my having been swatted at school.  My personal SMP plan included a baseline of a doubled number of motherly whacks, plus what I always thought of as a totally arbitrary number of add-ons.

This particular school year—I’m remembering it as the seventh grade—I had reached the level of requiring a minimum of seven swats for any swattable offense.  However, using the above mentioned school swat determinations, old Swats Arnold decided to mete out the maximum, and did so with glee.  Mother’s SMP program was to have us pull our pants down and lean over the kitchen table, and offer all in attendance the chance at the tender flesh.  The offender would first get double the number of swats applied with one of Daddy’s dress belts, and then Mother would carefully explain what you did to her to deserve the add-ons.  Any of you who have received swats at school can verify that ten consecutive swats were a painful bitch, and, likewise, anyone having been whipped with their father’s thin leather dress belt to their bare ass can testify to the uniqueness of that form of punishment.

This time, my butt was already so sore from the swats that I asked (read begged) my mother to give me a day or so to recover before administering SMT.  Politely said, Mother yelled at me to assume the position, which I did.  I already had welts and bruises from the swats and was cowering, and I never cowered.

“Who wants to go first?” Mother asked.

No one made a move to take the belt , they just sat and looked at their place sittings.

“Will none of you support me?  Don’t you understand what this little heathen did to me at school today?  The humiliation.  The embarrassment.”

Mother waited for a response but no response came.  This heated the anger already there.  “OK, looks like I have to fend for myself, as always.”

And she flay me four times with the anger of the offended before Daddy could stop her.  He grabbed the belt from her grip and chest bumped her all the way to the sink.  I stood bent to my perch, hands squeezing dents in the oak table, legs frozen in place, and tears streaming down my face.  Mother had hit me so hard that the leather had ripped my skin, made me bleed.

But I didn’t cry.  I teared-up like a mother fucker, but I did not cry.  I would…not…cry.

Gram came to my aid and washed me with a wet, cold dish towel, cooing to me as she worked.  I can’t remember the actual pain because I was now so mad, mad enough to look hard at the serrated bread knife sitting within my reach and thinking of my mother’s icy cold heart.  Sister saw my interactions with the knife and moved it out of reach.

Why I’m associating this incident with telling a lie escapes me.  Maybe it’s the other time I was bloodied by my mother with a belt—the time I told a whopper of a lie and was punished—that spurred this bit of history.  And I think that is one of the reasons I don’t lie.  I have always thought that my integrity is integral to my personage, but maybe that terrible spanking has something with which to do on that subject.

Anyway, I lied to you about having but the one superstition re: poker.  I was dressing to head to the casino Monday and reached into my undies drawer for a pair.  On top was a white jockey style, so I moved it aside and grabbed a black boxer-brief.  I always do better in black undies.  I then pulled one of my lucky shirts from the closet and put it on.  I walked over to my jeans, started to put them on, pulled my left foot out and took off my shirt.  I do better at poker when I pull my shirt on over jeans already in place.

I placed exactly one Immodium caplet, one prostate relaxer pill, and my poker pack of Stimu Dents in the shirt pocket.  I always do better with a pack of toothpicks designated for poker only.

I am so sorry for lying to you.  I’m sorry for lying to me.  To think that all of these inanimate object have power over me is disconcerting.  Next thing you know I’ll be standing in front of Saint Joo-Joo’s Catholic Church waiting for it to open so’s I can give a confession, take wafer and wine.  I’ve always thought blind faith Life’s most slippery of slopes, and this luck shit is a banana peel.

I’m sorry once, and again, and I’ll try to not do it anymore.  I forgive my mother for all of it, so maybe I can forgive myself.  However, Fuck Walmart and unrepentant liars.

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Prefix, Suffix and Crucifix; There’s Just Some Shit That Don’t Make Any Kind Of Sense.

Sunday, March 29th, 2015

So.  Here we all are on Palm Sunday, one of Christendom’s most sacred days.  If my memory serves me right, this is a celebration of the day Jesus made his way into Jerusalem amid great pomp and circumstance, and a massive public demonstration of support.  Seems that my memory also recounts several celebratory hymns in the thick Southern Baptist Hymnal that sat in the wooden tray screwed to the backs of Baptist seating arrangements.  Again, if memory serves, the Jesus songs use the word “triumph” or derivations of triumph, like “triumphant”.

And why isn’t it “Christiandom”?  The reason I bring this up at all is that Santa Fe—the locale chosen by the dogs and me as a retirement scene—is a hugely Catholicized place.  Catholic stuff is all up in your face, and these next couple weeks are some of their stuffiest time of the year.  OK, does a bunch of stuff make you “stuffier” and would that most amount of stuff create a stuffiest scenario?

And, in full disclosure, I’ve already lied to you in the first 200 words of this missive.  The actual reason I’m writing is because of the Squirt.  We were having our Sunday morning cup-a-Joe and reading today’s paper when the adorable bundle of brown fur and pissy attitude got all up in my ass.

“It’s been a month since you wrote anything and gotten shit off your chest, and you are driving Yoda and me to distraction.  Sit your ass down at the computer and write something.  You’re not any fun.”

This was said as I sat in my reading chair attempting to read the paper.  Squirt jumped into my lap, pushed her cute nose under the paper, and planted herself on my chest.  Looking into my eyes from maybe three-inches away, she added, she said, “And don’t write about your fucking prostate, shithead.  That’s not what’s really bothering you.”

She’s right about that.  I’ve completed my visits to The Great Radiator, my side effects have swelled and are now seeming to wane, and I’m in that waiting game stage to see if any pesky cancer cells raise their ugly fucking heads over the next year.  As I don’t play the waiting game well, I’ve decided to forget about that shit until it’s time to address it with the Doctors.

OK, that would be a second lie.  The BPH symptoms that are one of the side effects of radiation therapy are an absolute and total BITCH.  Imagine, if you will, that a person you do not like even a little bit is pinching your urethra two inches inside your body cavity with one hand, and squeezing your seemingly always full bladder with the other.

I now understand the moans and groans and howls old farts make when standing at urinals.  I’m taking the max-dosage of FlowMax allowed under law, and I’m ready to self-catheterize my own fucking self with a garden hose.

And I have ADD.  So, Jesus triumphantly conquers Jerusalem on this one Sunday, and before the week is up, He’s Judased (Judasified, maybe), has a final meal with His boys, He’s charged, tried, convicted, sentenced to death, built His own wooden cross, dragged it across town and up to Crucifixion Hill, been nailed to said cross, slowly asphyxiated as crucified persons do, tells His daddy it’s OK, died, and been buried.

Who would have built the cross if Jesus had not been a carpenter?  If He’d been a plumber would they have drown Him?

Busy week for one semi-man, and a ton of capital “H”es for one sentence.  But Jesus is the Son of God, so He manages to handle it.  And here’s the part of this entire scenario that pisses me off.  Pissed me off back to the Seventh Grade when Mother still had enough power over me to enforce attendance down to church and the attendant Sunday School as well.

See, Jesus was born for this job.  His Daddy, The One and Only God, impregnated a sweet little Jewish virgin girl to bear His seed, birth, and raise Jesus for the purpose of having this last week’s activities.  The only reason Jesus existed was to be tried and executed.  In God’s infinite wisdom, He decided that He would absolve every human’s sins—wash those nasty fuckers right on away—by having the only child he would ever conceive by any method murdered by those same humans He wished to forgive.

God could have required everyone to attend a confessional once a week for a cleansing, but no, desperate measures for desperate times.  No simple solutions for such a complex situation.  No siree, the all-powerful God had let this entire Earth dealio get totally out of hand.  He decided to have the earthlings kill His only begotten Son, and somehow in God’s infinite wisdom, this murder would absolve them of sins in totality.

Me, I never got this concept.  This basic precept of Christianity was, is, beyond my mental grasp.  I try to imagine the conversation God is having with Gabriel up to Heaven when this idea first sees the light of day.

God:  “Well, Gabe my good man, here’s what I’ve been thinking.  The Ten Commandments just are not working for me.  Ever since Moses died their power is just lost on those damned Earthlings.  I need to figure out a new way to keep those silly sumbitches from going straight on down to Hell.  That, or I’m going to need to build me a bigger Hell.  Don’t want old Lucifer to get a big head, so that option is out.”

Gabriel:  “What you planning to do, God.  Thinking about another slaughter of first-borns?”

God: “Naw, that one didn’t work for shit either.  Me, I’m thinking of having a son, having the humans murder Him in the cruelest way possible, and telling them I’m doing it to keep them out of Hell.  Show them how much I love their mangy asses by letting them sacrifice My own Son for their sins.  Why in the total fuck did I have to go and invent sins?  Dumbest thing I ever did.”

This entire concept didn’t sit well with me from the first time I could understand it, and it still doesn’t.  But what set my Seventh Grade brain afire on that particular Palm Sunday was that little affair that happened shortly before Jesus expired.

There he hangs on Calgary’s rocky point, battered and bloodied and breathing His last breaths.  His destiny—the only reason God sent Him to earth—is about to be fulfilled.  He is to die, hang around in a cave for a couple days rejuvenating, visit a few friends a last time, and then ascend right on up to Heaven.  Again, this is what Jesus was destined to do, ordained by God the Infallible, the reason He even had life.  As God is incapable of making a mistake, God is dancing and partying up to Heaven to have His Master Plan for the Salvation of all Mankind finally reach fruition.  Right?

Wrong.  Nopers.  Infallible God actually questions Himself just as Jesus is ready to die.  That entire “…Forgive them father for they know not what they do…” set me off like a bottle rocket in Sunday School all those years ago.

“Wait just a minute, Mrs. Browningwell.  God had this big plan of His all worked out to save me from my sins and then He changes His mind at the last minute.  That’s just shitty, if you ask me.  God doesn’t get to change His mind.  I’ve got too many sins to forgive and this is scaring me.  I don’t like getting burned.  It’s too hot in August and Hell sounds worse.  This is a load of crap, and you know it.  Gram’s right, this is all about the money.”

Every way I look at it, the basic pretext of the Christian religion is not only nonsensical, it’s total bullshit.  I mean really, what thinking human with half a brain would buy that load of crap?  OK, silly question.

Anyway, I need to pee.  Fuck Walmart!

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An Open Letter To Christians; Somebody Please Explain This To Me

Friday, December 19th, 2014

So.  I’m packing to leave for the Oregon coast and will be gone until after the first.  I want to wish everyone a fantastic holiday season and especially Bob and Cindy over to Squatlo Rant.  Those two have taken on the raising of a young girl and need all the best wishes I can give.  I was feeling all full of myself for doing something nice for another person the other day, then I thought of the gift of love they have given their niece.  Put my small act of kindness onto perspectives.

Anyway, as a perk to the Medicare Part B coverage I purchased to supplement my Medicare, I got a free membership to a fitness club.  Needing to get my ass into better shape for the cancer treatments on the close horizon, I’ve been going to the gym five days weekly for the last month.  When I was sitting on one of machines whereupon you push down with both hands and make the backs of your arms quiver, I was watching CNN on a TV facing me.  What I saw was one of the Christian talking heads on a show telling about how normalizing relations with Cuba is an un-Christian like thing to do.  Silly shitball scolded the Pope for “…meddling…” in America’s business.  Me, I thought he should have said, “…not Christ-like,” but as I gave up my Baptist Christianity years ago, I might be a touch out-of-touch with modern Christian linguistics.

Maybe it wasn’t CNN, but I’ve seen this asshole before and he always seems to have found a way to bastardize the teachings of his blessed Savior into the twisted wreckage that has become today’s right wing Christian hate.  Hearing this exactly one week before the celebrated day of his Savior’s birth, I’ve decided to write an open letter to all Christians.  Here is an open forum for you to share your faithful beliefs with a bunch of us heathens.  I encourage any and all Christians to respond.  Please respond.


Dear Christians;

In one week you will celebrate the birth of your God and Savior, Jesus Christ of Nazareth.  Your dogma holds the purported teachings of this Christ man, as memorialized in the King James Version of your Holy Bible, as words of absolute truth—words that shall guide you in the living of your life.  You likewise claim that His words are to be taken literally—no translation required.

            Careful reading of all those memorialized words attributed to Jesus demonstrate him as a man/God of great compassion—the son of a God living a full life without ever hating, or berating kindness, or seeking egregious wealth.  Your Jesus washed the feet of indigents, kissed and held Lepers in his arms, cursed the money changers for their greed, and turned his cheek to another man’s attack.  Your Jesus never lifted His hand in a fist, and He placed all the poor masses of His time ahead of the moneyed few in every way.

            Your Jesus, if what you say is true, would have had the power to rule the world.  He’d have had the God-given authority to impose his will on every human and animal and plant on this planet.  Hell, He could have moved mountains if it pleased Him.  Yet, with all that power and authority, your Jesus chose to live a pauper’s life, a life lived spreading glad tidings of comfort and joy.  Your Jesus never once acted to use his strength or power or knowledge to make a personal gain.

            Now here we are, some two-thousand years after His death, you silly sumbitches have managed to mangle, mismanage and misinterpret His words so terribly that I think your precious Jesus would be ashamed of you.  Think Jesus would approve of the Koch brothers political activities?  Think Jesus would support men who place themselves above other men due to race or sexual orientations?  Ask yourself this before you spout off about the president’s recent administrative edicts:  Would Jesus condone any sort of torture?  Would Jesus turn away the hungry and abused Hispanic masses at His doorstep?  Would Jesus welcome doing business with China and shun Cuba?  Would Jesus ask you to unburden the rich by taxing the poor?

            If all a person did was watch Fox News to learn about what modern day “Christians” believe, they could compare the stated values as seen there to the words in the Bible.  This comparison would cause a reasonable non-Christian person to say, “What the fuck?”

            Me, I’m now asking you guys, “What the fuck?  What happened to Christ’s words over the last couple thousand years?”

            You don’t believe in evolution, so it can’t be that Christianity has evolved from love to hate.  For those of us on the outside, it appears that it might be a literal “false prophets” scenario, one of those “Beware of false prophets who come to you dressed in a lambs clothing, yet are ravenous wolves at heart.”

            If memory serves, that’s from your Saint Matthew’s book of the Bible, and I likely messed the specific words a little bit.  It has been fifty years since I was a Royal Ambassador to Christ over to the Eastridge Baptist Church.  What my RA leader told us was that there would be men who represented themselves to be speakers for/prophets of Jesus, each of whom would be charlatans.  These people would seek personal wealth and power by transforming Christ’s messages, bending His words to suit their needs.

            That leader called them “flim-flam men,” the first time I’d heard the term.  As examples, he mentioned the “faith healers” of those times.  But I’m rambling.

            Let me conclude by asking any Christian out there to produce the tangible evidence in the words of Jesus Christ to justify any of the following:

  1. Turning children away from our borders.
  2. Accepting China and rejecting Cuba. They are, after all, both “C” words just like Christ.
  3. Denying universal health care.
  4. Enforcing your will on a/another woman’s body.
  5. Racism.
  6. Bigotry.
  7. Torture.  Please, this one really gets me.

If you can produce words from Jesus that support some of this shit, maybe some of the rest of us can find a way to seek common ground—maybe you might convince us that mistreating other humans for personal gain is a good thing. I leave Sunday really early and will print any responses you make before I leave.  After Sunday, it will take me until the first to get back.  But I will print responses without edit, saving threats.  Jesus wouldn’t like you to make threats.

Please have a happy, Walmart-free holiday.

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Happy Independence Day; New Meanings To Mooner

Saturday, July 5th, 2014
  1. I find myself retired, again, and for the second time not by choice, and once more, again.  My first retirement was at the hands of Texas Governor Rick the Prick Perry, a small-minded asshole with giant eyes for political shenanigans.  The compost company I built into a major player in the state was dependent upon the Texas Highway Department for much of our business.  I’d developed ways to control erosion and grow serious vegetation in mostly sterile soils using compost-two important developments to TxDOT engineers—and TxDOT hungrily adopted the slightly more expensive, recycling methods for their significant improvements to roadway projects.

At the peak of the growth cycle of compost use by TxDOT, the Prickster stole $2 Billion from TxDOT coffers and used the funds to cover other State budgetary shortfalls caused by his mismanagement of my former home state’s budget.  Net result- Texas highway project fundings were ravaged by the loss, and anything declared “optional” (read here compost) by the Governor’s lackeys was, likewise, declared off limits to purchase.  The loss of that business forced me to make the tough decision to fire myself and save my salary.

One of the many reasons I dislike Little Pricky Perry.

This second enforced retirement is a horse of a quite different color.  I hate to say “again”, but I fired myself, again, this time for different reasons but resulting in the same ending to my employment.  I want to be angry, but the stoppage of me banging my head with a New Mexico adobe brick has led to a renewed sense of calm.  And that reminds me of the scientific research study just announced that states, in part, that the hallucinogenic properties of magic mushrooms can produce healthy brain function and assist depressed and anxious people adapt to life’s conditions.

Well fucking duh!

I could have saved them all that frustrating critical thinking bullshit and the bother of experimenting down the critical path.  Clear thinking logically is a skill lacked by many business people but thank goodness that scientists are required to do so before printing their conclusions.  The mushroom conclusions, basically, state that mushroom juice broadens a person’s emotional ranges while putting a lid on ego, thereby crafting a civilized human who cares more for wellbeing than for personal, egomaniacal gains.

Again, well fucking duh!  My family has been promoting the humanizing effects of mushroom juice for three generations.  Hell, my Gram is personally responsible for most of the civility in Central Texas for the past sixty years.  When she called last night to tell me about the study, she said to me, she said, “Looka here, Mooner.  I’mma cash cow it in on this new dealio.  I gotta batch a new potion I’mma callin’ “Who’s Yer Broad’s Mind A Risin’ Now?”  I’m gonna be rich!”

She hung up to go check on her potion before I could ask her, “WTF is who is your broad mind’s rising now?”  It came to me an hour later when the last batch of my Gram’s mushroom juice took hold on my own brain.

“She’s talking about broadening your horizons, Squirtie girl,” I announced to the adorable bundle of brown fur and sharp-tongued sweetness I call “Squirt”.  “Sounds like Gram has finally got scientific support for the medical use of mushroom juice.”

The dogs and I were cooking hamburgers to celebrate the birthing of our nation, and Squirt was at my feet the entire time, waiting for me to spill something.  I always spill something.  Yoda was busily poking his snout at the double wrapping of rabbit wire fencing that envelopes the tiny garden here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe.  The tomatoes have just fruited, and the goat dog loves tomatoes.

“What are you going to do now, shithead?  I can’t have you sitting around here all day pestering the bejesus out of me,” Squirt asked.

“I’m so worn out from working my ass off unappreciatedly that I’m vacationating for a while. Then I’m going to play more poker to replace the lost income and write more bloggie stories,” I answered.  “Oh, and protest.  I’m gonna start with those pig fuckers over to Hobby Lobby.”

I’m a decent poker player when I can control the ADHD-ravaged cauldron of swill I call my brain, and there’s a HL store less than a mile from here and I’ll be giving them a part of my mind.  I need to develop snappy slogans for my two-sided anti Hobby Lobby sign.  But my brain is too tired to come up with anything that works.  I need help.

Anyway, Fuck Walmart and Hobby Lobby and the United States Supreme Court!  Fuck those godless religious fanatics.

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Cardinal Sins And Other Misdemeanors; Blessing Da Pope

Tuesday, January 7th, 2014


So. Its 3:43 am and I’m sitting, awake. With the first infestations of Mountain Jumpier Pollen- Version 2014.1, my entire body is itching from a spot that lies one-sixteenth-of-an-inch under my skin—a calamity wherein the more you scratch the more you itch—I’ve snotted up an entire box of recycled facial tissues since eight last night, and I’ve managed to obsess over almost every aspect of my life. I’ve finally managed to obsess my shit enough together on the professional front to make plans to play poker today, but, and alas, I feel like hammered cat fur balls, I’ve dried snot making my face look like Tony Montana’s in the last scene of Scarface, and I can actually feel the swollen blood vessels in my eyes when I blink.

I’m a fucking mess.

Then, again, a certain unsettling countenance can prove beneficial when playing poker for actual cash. Which reminds me. I was sitting in front of the TV in an attempt to watch Ohio State play Clemson in a bowl game. The dogs were both planted on me as I lounged in the soft den sofa and the score was 14-to-7. Don’t know which had what points and I didn’t really giveashit when the phone rang. I’d forgotten to bring a phone close to the sofa, so I was required to disturb the dogs to answer.

“You’re a total asshole,” the Squirt told me when I untangled her from her nest between my legs. The diminutive brown puppy likes to wedge herself between my legs and then have me wrap her with blankets. She then twists-and-turns until cocoonelated like a silkworm in its final life stage, sighs a “Harrumph”, kicks with her back feet to tighten said and aforementioned cocoon, and sleeps like a baby.

“I keep telling you to put a phone close. I was dreaming and almost caught the bunny rabbit when you roused me,” Squirt groused.

I didn’t bother a response because to respond would have caused me to miss my Gram’s call, and catch an additional load of crap.

“Happy New Year, you sexy old gas bag. How’s it hanging, Gram?” I love my grandmother in inexplicable ways.

“Don’t you be all sweetie pie talkin’ ta me, Mooner. Call yer fuckin’ mother an’ do it right pronto. She say’s ya ain’t call’t ‘er since Halloweenie an’ there’s a terrible cry shits ya need ta handle. Now you git,” and I was left with dial tone.

“Love you too,” I spoke to the dial tone, “and whatinthefuck is a ‘terrible cry shits’?”

I looked at the dogs and asked again. “Terrible cry shits?” The fractured English that spews from Gram’s maw can be unsettling, but does, however, provide the mental gymnastics that lubricates my brain. I’m told that keeping mentally fit stays off the terrible effects of dementia, a malady that has already struck my bloodlines.

“Oooooooh. Crisis. Mother has a terrible crisis,” I said with not a small amount of pride.

My mother is a batty old broad now living in an advanced living facility who suffers from advancing Alzheimer-linked dementia. I call her at least daily and she sometimes forgets but mostly pretends that I, as she would say it, “Never calls me. Mooner never calls.”

I hit auto-dial to ring Mother’s apartment. She must have had her hand on the phone because the first ring didn’t complete its tone before I heard a clipped, “What took you so long?”


Me: “What’s up, Mother. Gram tells me that there is something terribly wrong.”

Mother: “I wouldn’t need your grandmother as an intermediary if you would simply call me every month, or so.”

Me: “I called you what is now, maybe, seven hours ago, Mother. Don’t you remember that you told me that Mr. Rosenthal kissed you and tried to get you to hold his pecker for him when he pees?”

Seems poor old Mr. Rosenthal has the shakes so bad that he waters the entire bathroom when peeing. Me, I’m thinking of using Mr. Rosenthal’s pick-up line. “Pardon me, young lady, would you mind helping me a moment?” My personal solution for missing the commode and also as a water conservation program, is to pee in the sink.

My sinks, your sinks and their sinks.

Mother: “Listen to me, Butcher Einstein Johnson, and listen good. There’s a diabolical plot hatched by that African Muslim president of yours to sabotage the Catholic Church. We’ve got to stop him!”

Me: Huh? What in the world is she talking about? “Mother, for starters President Obama is not a Muslim or an African, and for finishers, what in God’s name are you talking about?”

Mother: “You know, Mooner. You’re one of the conspirators. Mr. Beck told us all about how you people have tricked those poor Cardinals into electing a communist as Pope.”

Me: “Oh, for shitsake, Mother.” I started laughing.

Mother: “Don’t mock me, boy!”

Me, feeling full of piss and vinegar: “I heard a joke the other night. God and Saint Peter are sitting up to Heaven, bored out of their gourds. ‘It’s been centuries since we had any fun,’ Peter said, ‘let’s go to Venus and hit a few bars.’

‘Too hot on Venus,’ God tells him, ‘I don’t much care for all that heat.

‘OK, then, let’s go to Mars instead.’

‘No,’ God says, ‘too cold there. Makes my bones ache.’

‘What about Earth?’ Peter suggests.’Earth has the perfect climate.’

‘Very bad idea, Peter. I went to earth a couple thousand years ago—dated this nice Jewish girl for a short time—and people just won’t stop talking about it.’”

After a long pause, Mother: “You’ll burn in Hell, Mooner. I’ll see to it!”

Me: “OK. I’ll change my will to have some marshmallows placed in my casket.”

Mother: “You’ll pay for your heresy,” and she slammed her phone in my ear.

Me, I was feeling pretty satisfied with myself, but I might have been the only one. “You can be such an asshole, “ Squirt told me. “Why do you always feel the need to stir your mother’s pot?”

In retrospect, why indeed? I’m plenty assertive with Mother, so there is no need to be passively aggressive with her. I’ll never get her to see the world any way other than from the right-wing, conservative Christian view, and I’ll never be one of those assholes. I picked up the phone and hit the redial:

My telephone: “Ring…ring…ring…ring…ring…ring…”

Mother’s phone: “Beeeeeep. (pause) Mrs. Johnson is away from her phone. Fine Christian callers may leave a courteous message after the tone. Mooner Johnson can go straight to Hell. Beeeep.”

Me, to the machine: “That is stunningly brilliant, Mother. I’m booking my passage to Hell. See you there.”

I remain flummoxed at the Christian right faction of the American fabric. There exists enough dichotomies contained in their logic to make a schizophrenic feel organized and also to make my head swim. Imagine what a devout Catholic must be going through right now.

Warms my heart. Fuck Walmart, y’all.

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Frumpy Old Man Commits Fraud; Donald Trump Caught

Monday, August 26th, 2013


So. I remember, and it seems like a couple years ago, when I first saw ads for “Trump University”. It appears our boy Donald “Ain’t No Such-A Thing as Too Much Hairspray” Trump was advertising to teach poor folks how to get rich, and quick. Charged the suckers as much as $35,000 for seminars to give them his secrets. I remember that I was wondering how much gall it took to charge $35,000 to tell people that they need to be born rich and then limit their losses on daddy’s inherited fortune, when Mother brought it up at the breakfast table.

“Did you hear that Mr. Trump is giving a seminar here in Austin next week? I was disappointed when he fired NeNe from the Celebrity Apprentice show, but isn’t it nice of him to share his knowledge and good fortune with the unfortunate.”

There was a pause—one of those “everyone stops eating at the same time to listen to Sally’s fake orgasm dealios”—and I figured I’d take the first shot at my right-wing Christian conservative mother’s silly-assed comments. “OK, Mother, I don’t even know where to start with that load of horse shit,” I began. “For starters, how can you have the least bit of interest in a man who is paying to sponsor the slur campaign against the President with that “Birther” bullshit? How can you support that sort of racist behavior?”

My mother took a sip of her hot tea, daintily wiped her lips with her napkin like a proper lady, and took the slow, painful breath of air that has become the prelude to a lecture on her martyred life. “My mother told me not to marry your father, son, but I didn’t listen. I could have married into a sophisticated family from Coastal Virginia, but your father, God rest his heathen soul, hypnotized me with those damned Johnson eyes. I guess it’s God’s will that I’m burdened with teaching my own family about family values. Mister Trump is trying his hardest to find the proof we need to get that Muslim out of the White House.”

It was at that point that steam started spewing from Gram’s nostrils. Her mouth was full of this spinach and smoked pork fritatta I’d made with the Gouda cheese that Sac Ellen had brought me from California. The creamy cheese made the oven baked scrambled eggies chewy and quite tasty.

“Wath tha futh yoth thayinth, Smothr?” Gram managed from her egg-packed maw. “I’mmath slith yerth throth swith thisth spoonth.”

My mother still lacked the good sense to keep some of her shitty ideas to herself even after decades of living under the protection of the Johnson family roof. Her husband—my daddy and Gram’s only child—was a solid man. An honest, hardworking, loving and an afflicted ADHD-addled fuckbrain much as yours truly. Mother can start Gram’s motor on any number of topics, but when she speaks poorly of Daddy, the “slit your throat with a spoon” thoughts fill my grandmother’s head.

“Mr. Trump is an amazing, Christian man. He helps all those talented young women with college scholarships in his pageants, he generates millions of dollars of donations to wonderful charities with his Apprentice show, and he fosters good will and truth in politics by funding the investigations to impeach this Muslim foreigner you people elected President. Why just the other week it was discovered that Obama was married to another gay man and murdered him so he could have a political career,” Mother went on. “How my own family could vote for evil over family values is beyond my ability to comprehend.”

“And how you can be so totally fucking racist and bigoted is completely beyond my ability to want to accept. Are you absolutely certain that you’re my mother? Are you sure that I wasn’t Daddy’s son from a girlfriend or something? I know he was my father, but how can you be my mother?”

I expected a different response, but did so in error. “It’s a good thing that I believe in a merciful God, son. I know that my Hell on Earth is His plan for my salvation. Living with this family will earn me a spot close to God’s right hand when He finally takes me home.”

Now that she’s demented and not living under the Johnson family roof, Mother’s martyrdom hasn’t waned as you’d expect. It’s intensified. I played poker down to the ABQ all day Saturday, so I’d missed all the latest news. Like the news that the State Attorney of New York has filed a fraud lawsuit against Hairbag Trump for $45 million. I was just finishing the paper where I read that the State of New York has solid evidence that Trump University lived up to its name and had bilked millions from the suckers with trumped-up claims. My phone rang.


Me: “Hello, Mother. How’s it hanging, baby?”

Mother: “Where are you, Mooner?”

Me: “Still in Santa Fe and hunting for a giant black pecker to see if I might be homosexual. Just like the last 288 times you’ve asked.”

Mother: “You need to be careful what you say, young man. God will strike you down for even thinking about sodomy. Now shut up and listen. I need a favor.”

Me: “I wasn’t planning on sticking the giant black pecker up my ass, Mother, I was planning to… What do you mean you need a favor?”

Mother: “I need you to go into my bedroom there at the ranch and open my safe. Get out all my jewelry and sell it. Bring me the money. Right now!”

Me: “OK, for starters, I’m in Santa Fe, not Austin, and furthermore, you don’t need to be selling anything. You’ve got plenty of money to live on and most of that jewelry isn’t yours to sell—it’s family stuff that you will pass down.”

Mother: “Why are you in Santa Fe? Did you divorce Roshandra? I knew that wouldn’t last.”

Me: “Mother, Roshandra and I divorced years ago and there’s been five more since. Now tell me why you want cash so urgently.”

Mother: “I don’t have to tell you a thing. It’s my money and my problem.”

Me: “OK, how much do you need?

Mother: “$45 million dollars”
Me: “Huh? Have you lost what’s left of your feeble mind? What inthefuck could you possibly want with $45 million dol… You’ve got to be kidding. Are you planning to pay Donald Fucking Trump’s fraud fines? Really?”

Mother: “Don’t you curse at me, you heathen. God will strike you down.”


Right after that Sister called to warn me to expect Mother’s call. Seems that she and Anna had been to see our shared womb holder Saturday and took her to lunch. Sister told me that when they arrived at the hostess desk to get a table, Mother said to the young girl, “We need a quiet table in the back, and don’t give us a homo-sex-u-al waiter. My system is weak and I can’t risk catching the infection.”

She also told me of the plan our batty old mother hatched to save Donald Trump’s good name and reputation. “She’s getting worse, Mooner. You need to come down and pay her a visit.”

“I’d rather send her the $45 million. How much can you loan me, sis?”

“It isn’t funny, asshole. If you come down I’ll let you kiss Anna on the lips.”

Anna—Sister’s wife and my ex-wife number three—has the ripe natural lips of that former model and actress, Brooke Shields. Many’s the times I’ve been slugged in the arm for moving in on those lips in my sister’s presence. Sister punched me so hard this one time I thought I would lose the use of my left arm.

OK, let’s stop for a grammar lesson. That next-to-last sentence of the previous paragraph has multiples of grammatical pitfalls contained therein. First, what is the contraction for “many was”? Second, might should the phrase be “many were”? And third, why do we say, “Many was the time,” when there were many having had time? OK, many were having had times, unless the many were having had the same time.

It should be, “Many were the times,” right?

I told my sister, I said, “Only way I’m coming down for the torture that is a visit to Mother’s place is if I get full lips, a little tongue action, and a quick squeeze—a two-handed squeeze.”

“You’ll come down for nothing but the knowledge that you’ve done the right thing, buster. And do it before the end of September. She’s slipping, Mooner, and it scares me. I’m still trying to make my peace with her and I‘m worried her mind will go before she gives in.”

I can’t imagine what it must be like to be gay and have your gayness hated by a parent. I know what it’s like to be hated by a parent for my simple existence, but I think gay hatred is much more venomous. My sister has tried to gain Mother’s acceptance her entire life. She needs it.

Me, I need a cold Carta Blanca beer. Manana, or so, y’all.


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Hoeing Rows; Fuck Memory Lane

Sunday, June 16th, 2013


So. Happy Father’s Day, just for starters on this crisp early morning in Enchantedland. The sun is still a pale orange promise shading the backdrop of mountains, and I finally have the quiet than can only arrive after the debarkment of a houseful of guests. If you don’t like the word “debarkment” you can go fuck yourself. Much of the power embodied in the Poetic License I earned by writing a book, and scribbling over 2,000,000 words published herein, lies in the right to make shit up.

OK, that might have been confusing. My Poetic License—the physical presence of which hangs all framed and gilded on the wall facing me now—grants to me various authorities to make shit up. Make up words, make up new sentence structures, make punctuation abnormalities routine, and, likewise, we poetic licensees can lie with immunities to the criticisms appropriately leveled at a regular person’s writings.

Which reminds me. I have a favorite word. It became my favorite word the first time I said it aloud as I was hoeing a row of sweet corn back to Austin, Texas. I was five years old and I was weeding a row next to Daddy weeding a row next to Mother weeding a row, who was next to my Gram—a quite young and handsome woman of fifty fewer years than today—who was cutting okra pods from their stems and dropping them into a bushel basket.

Gram used a sharp, hooked carpet knife to separate pod from stem, and the slimy okra juice had stained her hands and clothes. Granddad was still alive and kicking, and he was over to the Callahans Feed Store shooting the shit with whomever squatted with him at the card table that sat next to the cash registers. Sister was just turning four and she dragged Gram’s wire-trussed wooden basket across the clumpy surface soil between rows.

It was early morning and the prior night’s dew still chalked the dirt chocolate brown, and my clothes were damp—almost wet—from rubbing against the taller-than-me corn plants. “Pastor Browningwell gave an inspiring sermon last night, don’t you think?” Mother said as she wiped sweat, or maybe dew, from her face. My mother was a pretty woman of superior social upbringing from coastal Virginia, a woman who met and fell in love with a Johnson man from Austin, Texas. Met right after the war when Daddy was stationed at the Quantico Naval Base and was commissioned to decommission the Navy ships made useless when World War Two was terminated by Mankind’s second most destructive force. Dropping atomic bombs on the Japanese shortened the useful careers of much military hardware and software alike.

Mankind’s most destructive force is bigotry, hate.

“What part are ya talkin’ ’bout, Mother? They was some a that shit I don’t cotton to.”

That was Gram, and the tone of her voice caused all farming labor to cease. I remember that I nudged my hoe into the bottom of the row and leaned into its handle the same way as Daddy would do during the brief breaks taken when weeding. “Me, I wasn’t too happy with the pastor last night. I’m a thinkin’ we might a hired us a Grade-A, Nummer One assholie. Me, I’m a thinkin’ we shoulda hired that Martinez fella from down ta Brownsville. He was real handsome and had some big, strong hands on him. Pastor Browningwell’s got parlor woman hands—all clean and not a single sign a hard work. Cain’t trust a man with parlor woman’s hands.”

Mother bucked at Gram’s words and thrust the chest of her breast-filled work shirt Gram’s way. Defiantly, Mother made her point in defense of Reverend Browningwell. “I especially liked what he said about how we Baptists are the only real Christians and when he quoted Timothy to condemn the Sodomites.”

My father was a good man—honest, helpful, hard-working—and he loved my mother desperately. My mother was, is and has always been a bigoted and vocal right-wing Christian. Daddy spent an inordinate amount of his time supporting and defending Mother. I do sympathize with Mother in just the one instance. It would be hard for any conservative socialite asshole to be married into a clan of near-communist, hedonistic Texans. But Mother chose her life and did so in adverse disposition to the loud and strong advice of her own family.

“Let it go, Gram,” Daddy would plead. “Please, just let it go this one time—just this once.”

And just this once, Gram did. “Fuck it,” she said, and went back to cutting okra pods.

“Yea,” I said with enthusiasm, “fuck it. Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it.”

I had no fucking idea what it meant, but I knew I had just fallen in love with a word. “Fuck it and fuck this and fuck that.” I started imitating a chicken, strutting and flapping my arms. “Fuck, fuck, fuc-kuk!” Daddy and Gram were finding my actions hilarious, so I pushed onward. “Fuck this, fuck that. Fuck the corn, fuck the okra,” and now I turned to Mother and said to her, I said, “and fuck you!”

The entire world went still, quiet. Seemed that funny had turned, suddenly, not so funny.

“Butcher Einstein Johnson,” Mother snarled as she grabbed my ear and twisted. “You will regret the day you were born!” and she started dragging me, by the ear, toward the house.

“Boy don’t know what he said, Honey,” Daddy pleaded. “He’s just a boy, Mother. Tell him what he did wrong and punish him next time—when he understands what he did was bad.”

Mother heeded not my Daddy’s plea and dragged my ass all the way to the kitchen, where upon she stuffed the dirty bar of Lava soap—used by the entire family to wash hands upon entering the house after work—deep into my mouth. I can still remember how it grated against my teeth and how I gagged when it rough-dragged against my soft palate.

“You’ll burn in Hell, Butcher, you’ll burn in Hell for certain. You’ve the Devil in you son, and it’s my duty to wash him out.”

You might notice that I was not referred to as Mooner in this story and your observation would be prescient. This was two weeks before my sixth birthday and a month before I started First Grade whereat I was nicknamed my first day in school. If you give a shit about that story, go buy my silly fucking book and read it for yourself.

“Muth ahs thon’th untherphannth, Muththr. Thwath ahth tho twronth?”

“What did you do wrong? What… Did… You… Do wrong??? You little heathen, you know exactly what you did. If you ever, and I mean EVER say that to me again, I’ll drop you at the orphanage and you’ll never see your family again!”

It seems that I stood frothing at the mouth and cramping all over my face for days. I cried and wondered what it was that I did wrong. It wasn’t until after we’d finished eating dinner that night and the dishes were cleared from the table that I learned I still had punishments to take. Mother pulled Daddy’s thin, black leather belt from the pocket of her house dress and said to us, she asked, “Who is taking the first licks on this boy for what he did to me this morning?”

The entire table looked down at their hands and said nothing. After a full thirty seconds of Mother searching for eyes with which to connect to her own, she slapped the belt on the table and said, “OK, I get it. Butcher, get over there and put your hands on the table. You know the drill, Buster.”

“But why, Mother? What did I do wrong?”

“You know what you did wrong, now get over there. Now!”

My mother hit me several licks and held out the belt to the table, and I started crying tears of hurt and misunderstanding. Family custom was that each person present could express a sentiment about the youthful offender’s transgressions and take a few licks in their turn. This time Mother stood alone with belt in hand, a slight to her that she took out on me. She whipped me harder, and said, “I asked who will be next.”

Again no answer, so she whipped me harder still. Daddy jumped from his seat and grabbed her hand. “That’s enough, Mother. The boy has had enough.”

Now Mother and I were both crying. “What have I done so wrong, Lord, that You curse me with all of this?”

Fuck is still my favorite word, and my mother left yesterday afternoon headed back to Texas from her visit to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe. It was a weird visit and not totally unpleasant. It seems that Sister and Anna spent the ten hours of drive time to Santa Fe asking Mother to be nice. I know that because Mother told me ten times a day, and I’m telling you this story because Mother told it Friday night at the dinner party I threw in her honor.

I invited all of my new Santa Fe friends for a roasted pig BBQ to meet Mother, Sister and her wife, Anna, and also my third ex-wife (the same Anna). I had to be asked several times “where is your ex-wife?” before it finally settled with those invitees not close to me that two guests were the same person. Again, buy my silly book for further elucidations.

Anyway, Mother told this story on me not for its long term humorous natures of childhood mistakes, but rather, to illustrate just what a hard life she has endured at my evil hands.

“Sometimes I wonder if Mooner pays people to befriend him,” she asked the table of diners. “I also wonder what I did for God to punish me so. My son is a heretic and my daughter a homo-sex-u-al. I’ve quite a cross to bear.”

Anyway, as I said, it was a relatively pleasant visit and I only wanted to slit her throat twice. OK, I wanted to slit her throat ten times but only envisioned the doing of it twice. I’m glad she came and I’m glad she’s gone. She’s losing more of her memory and she’s unsteady on her feet and maybe she’s loosing some of her mean.

Maybe. Manana, y’all.



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Family Issues Trump Moonlight Madness; Who Really Gives A Shit?

Friday, April 26th, 2013


So. It’s been two weeks since I last had the freedom to write and post to the pages herein, and even with all the elapsed time since, I find myself verbally tapped-out. It isn’t that I have nothing to say, as my brain is brimming with shit to say—the Boston bombings, the gun control issue, the Boy Scouts of America, the George W. Bushkin Liebary, the new Popester—it is, rather, that I have an overriding issue that plays trump card to even the Ace of Spades.

With me having been so busy—too fucking busy to write—you’d have thought that I’d be spilling and spewing with my usual alacrities and verbosities once I had a waking moment of freedom. But, alas, you’d have been wrong in those thinkings.

The busyness of me started when I accepted a position with a buddy’s business. Having always had my own business since I was a kid, and having always been the guy with both the financial responsibility when things go badly and losses are suffered, as well as the guy who profits from my businesses’ profitability, I assumed, falsely, that I would not feel any pressure from the Big Picture responsibilities of the business attached to my new job. I assumed that I could do my job and only concern myself with the doing of that job to my best and let the rest of the marbles gather as they may.

What I didn’t assume is the simple fact that I find myself more concerned about my buddy’s financials than I ever was for my own. I worry that any imperfect decision made by me will cost another man a buck. And more important than anything else that is involved with this string of misguided thoughts, I’m finding myself worrying about another man’s business more that I ever worried over my own, and I love it—am almost consumed by it.

OK, stop the train before my ADHD drives said train up the ass of the crowd gathered at the station. The aforementioned Trump Card has, actually, nothing to do with my new job, and everything to do with scheduling. See, it’s Spring in Enchantedland, and everyfuckingbody I know wants to pay a visit here to Santa Fe. Normally this isn’t an issue, as I love my friends and the seeing of them, and I love to cook and entertain. But with the job, my many visitors have had to mostly entertain themselves and I have eaten out more times in the last sixty days than in the previous sixty years.

OK, maybe that was a slight exaggeration, yet the slights given by me to my guests have taken a toll on me. I find myself apologizing for not entertaining people who have had a ball entertaining themselves, and then feeling badly for myself for not having balled with them.

Well wasn’t that an awkward sentence construction? I didn’t mean to say that I feel bad because I didn’t sex it up with all of my friends, but, rather, that I didn’t get to have fun with them, and that all said not withstanding the simple fact that it’s been so long since I’ve had any sexing that I’ve forgotten what I’m missing.

And that, dear friends, is sad.

Anyway, I sat down to write last night after driving this last week’s guests to the airport. I had full intentions to tell you about something that occurred to me as I was watching the continuing coverage of the Boston bombings. It dawned on me that this 24-hour coverage is a recreation of the frenzied media circus that surrounds despicable acts by humans on humans, and that this sort of dealio started when OJ Simpson brutally slaughtered his wife and the waiter and then acted like a shitty-diapered baby as he was chauffeured around LA in that fucking Ford Bronco.

I remember that everyone sat and stared at the TV pictures of the Juice’s car as it wound through the streets just as all of America was staring at the Boston coverage. I remember what my Gram was saying to OJ, through the TV, in the repeated staccato of a Mockingbird.

“Shoot yersef and git this shit over with, ya big woman killin’ shitball. Pull tha fuckin’ trigger already. I’mma missing tha Goldie Girlies an’ yer pissin’ in yer panties like a baby. Pull tha fuckin’ trigger!!!” Gram said over and over again.

Which reminds me. Isn’t it ironic that the surviving Muslim extremist Boston bomber is getting his medical care at Beth Israel Hospital?

When I sat computer-side contemplating the entire OJ Simpson connection, the dogs were both attempting to sit in my lap. The Squirt has always been a daddy’s girl, but the goat dog came to me with the standoffishness that can only be beaten into the soul by the brutish brutality of an abuser. But it seems that Yoda has finally begun to truly trust me, and I also sense a little actual love.

“Jesus Christ, Mooner, will you make him get down?” the Squirt implored me. “He’s got his smelly ass jammed against the side of my head and I’m starting to get the gag reflex.”

And that’s when the phone rang. I answered.

Me: “Hey, Gram, how’s it hanging, baby?”

Gram: “Don’t ya go a talkin’ bout my titties, Mooner, they’s startin’ ta look like roadkill. Now tell me what yer doin’ inna middle a June.”

Me: “Well, except for work, I had plans to explore some more mountain ranges. Did I ever tell you that New Mexico has more than seventy different specifically-named mountain ranges? I plan to visit each before the end of the year, and I’ve been to a dozen so far.”

Fram: “Oh, who gives a shit ’bout yer fuckin’ Canadian cookstovies, we’re a plannin’ ta come up yer way tha middle a June.”

Me: “Canadian cookstovies? Gram, what in the hell are you talking abou… Oh, mountain ranges goes to Mountie ranges goes to Canadian cookstoves.”

Gram: “Don’t backtalk me, shithead, er else I’ll come down there an’ kick yer ass. Now make plans. Me an’ Hilda and tha P-Cubed an’ yer sister an’ Annie are a comin’ down ta’ see ya, an’ we ‘spect ta be havin’ a mighty good time.”

Me: “That’s great, Gram, it’ll be great to see you guys. We can go hiking and camping and looking for wild mushrooms and all sorts of shit.

Gram: “An’ line-up some poontanger fer tha P-cubed an’ me. Somthin’ with a little stayin’ power this time.”

Me: “OK,” I said to dead phone air.

“Hey, Squirtie Girl, we’re getting a family visit in six weeks. We need to do some planning.”

The adorable bundle of brown fur rustled in my lap, pushed Yoda to the floor and said to me, she said, “Maybe we can arrange for them to go to a funeral. I met a man who knows a man who can end my miseries with that bug-eyed asshole.”

I picked Yoda off the floor and held him up for a squeeze. “You’d miss him if he was…”

The phone rang again. “Hey, Gram,” I answered.

“Fergot ta tell ya that yer mother’s a comin’ with,” and the phone clicked in my ear again, this time sounding like a shot.

“Huh?” I said to the dead phone in my hand. “Mother is coming to visit? I talk to her every fucking day and she’s said nothing about it to me?”

I didn’t sleep all night and now I’m sitting at my computer at 4:30 am trying to sort my feelings of dread from those of hope. I dread the visit and I hope I survive it. I dread Mother’s words and hope she doesn’t spoil everyones’ time here.

Ugh. Fucking ugh.

In the real-time of this writing, the full moon has just now made its appearance through the thick boughs of the big Ponderosa pine that frames my view of the mountains. It glows with the light of Hope and Calm, and seems to drench me with the same Peace I felt with my first dunking in the smelly, tepid waters in the fiberglass baptismal pool of my family’s Southern Baptist church. I was nine years old and had already been convinced that I was a worthless sinner, and the promised Salvation of a near drowning salved my tattered, wicked soul. For about a month.

And in this instant, the sense that the visit from my mother will be OK—that calm and peace gained from bathing in this moonlight—is already turning into dread. Just as the promised salvation of Preacher Browningwell’s words turned into the realization that my family’s chosen religion was a pile of bullshit, the same instincts in my preteen brain tell me that the Moon’s calming light brings a false calm. The happiness I feel to see my family is trumped by the overwhelming dread that Mother’s inclusion adds.

But like Gram always say when she says to me, “Who really gives a shit, Mooner. Lot kin happen in six weeks.”

It’s daylight now and time to feed the dogs. So I’ll say manana, y’all. OK, maybe I should say, “Semana, y’all.” OK, maybe that should be a couple of semanas, y’all.

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Black Smoke- Whaaaa; Catholics Catch A Day Of Peace

Wednesday, March 13th, 2013


So. Black came billowing from the Pope Alert Smokestack rather than white yesterday, marking a day of freedom for the world’s Catholics. Me—if I were Catholic—would rejoice. If I were Catholic I’d be glad that my chosen religion had managed to survive a full day without one of the string of God’s second-hand men. For those of you wondering why I didn’t say “God’s right-hand men”, to me, there is nothing right about the hierarchy of the Holy Roman Catholic Church.

OK, please allow me to stop right here because if I were Catholic I’d have slit my own throat years ago and none of this would matter. That said, would somebody please answer me this question. Where in the Bible did Jesus say that He wished to be honored and worshiped in giant fucking cathedrals? Wasn’t Jesus the guy (Guy?) who told the money-grubbing currency exchangers to get the fuck off sacred religious soil? Didn’t our boy (Boy?) Jesus encourage us to gather and hunt for our salvations in small groups rather than in mega churches?

In all of those childhood Vacation Bible Schools I attended as a kid, did I miss the part where Jesus said, “OK, boys, here’s what you do to honor My spirit (Spirit?). Find the fussiest old prune-faced male pedophiles among you and dress them up in silly red gowns. Have those assholes elect a Queen from among themselves to serve as front man, and let me reinforce that I said men. Oh, and how about we have all these shitheads wear really ornate headgear. You know how I love the headgear. Once you’ve got yourself a Queen, figure the best way to raise cash in My name. I’m OK with you raping and murdering and pillaging and spreading disease and poverty, just so long as you do it in my name. Oh-oh-oh… Do it this a way. Be all humble and shit and mimic forming a cross over your heart, and say, ‘In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.’ And somebody will need to figure out just what the Holy Spirit is. In a few thousand years there will be this guy who has real trouble with that one.”?

And I do. That entire Holy Spirit shit has perplexed me from the beginning of my religious indoctrinations. I get the concept of God just fine. Anytime we aren’t smart enough to figure something out as a species, we can use God as the originator (Originator?). Anytime something good happens we can thank God. And anytime something goes terribly wrong we can blame God.

But wait once more, as we’ve just hit upon another instance whereupon I don’t get the Christian shit. If I’m to place all my faith in God, and He fucks me over… I’m finding fault. If the big boy (Big Boy?) wants me to credit Him with every little thing that I do or that goes right in my entire pitiful life—if He is so needy and insecure as to require credit for making every good thing happen—the the Big He needs to suck it to and to take some fucking responsibility.

Be a man (Man?), God. Teach us how to bear responsibility for our own shit with Your example. I think this little screw up of yours is where the entire religion-as-a-life-format has gone so terribly wrong. As long as we can use You for justification, we’ll misuse Your name (Name?).

Which reminds me that I’m not at all pleased with the capitalization rules for God’s grammar shit. We either need to capitalize all references to God and His stuff, or none of it. Like that last word in the previous paragraph wherein I questioned the capitalization of God’s Name (name?).”

Anyway, I was awakened by the dogs in their obvious confusion as to the recent time change—another of Mankind’s misconceptions as to how to better live life. Just like with that “Holy Spirit” bullshit, I’ve been waiting fifty years for someone to tell me just one logical reason to ruin my life twice every year by rearranging the time. I’ve got one dog springing forward for an early breakfast and a second shitting in my shoes because she doesn’t like my explanations as to “Why it’s not breakfast time” any better than I like my explanations.

“Makes no fucking sense, Mooner,” the Squirt told me at the new 4:00 am MDST. “Now get your ass up and feed me before I take a dump in your new shoes.”

So I’m up and bothering you guys. Manana, y’all.


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Tough Questions Tackled; Mitt Romney Still A Prick

Thursday, September 13th, 2012


So. Here we all are in the middle of the year 2012—ten thousand years into our evolution as a civilization and our planet’s highest life form—and we don’t seem to have moved far beyond the tribal mentality from when we were all hunter-gatherers. We have once more regressed as a world to repeat the bigotry of Territoriality. America’s religiously-bigoted Christian shitheads are inciting those with Muslim-based bigotry and violence is the net results.

I think these incidents of zealots with opposite ideology are not unlike back to our cave dwelling days when Grog shit in Grunt’s campfire in an effort to get him to move to different hunting grounds, and Grunt stole Grog’s woman in retaliation. Then Grog gets really pissed and rolls a big rock off the cliff onto Grunt’s head, killing him.

Grog runs down the hill, cuts Grunt’s ears off with a flint stone ax, steals his stuff, grabs the wife and has a party back to his cave.

I think that the more we evolve as a species, the more we devolve back into our baser instincts.

And I also think that maybe I might be just a touch crazier than previously thought. I think I might be just as big a cuckoo bird as Joan ‘d Arc or Osama Bin Laden or Pat Robertson. I’m spending an inordinate amount of time speaking with God and I’m giving advice based upon those conversations. I guess the only thing that distinguishes me from each those nut cases is the simple fact that I’m not a nut. I’m telling the truth—God’s words from His lips to my my ears to your eyes.

I spent last evening watching news reports of the latest Mideast insanity while sipping Carta Blanca beer and sampling a selection of my Gram’s latest mushroom potions as we sat on the patio. My personal favorite, labeled in Gram’s sloppy handwriting as, “Don’t laugh at me, buster, I have spies,” was a soothing concoction designed to keep us from getting too happy at Mother’s vacating our premises.

Maybe I wasn’t sipping the beer and again, like I said before, maybe I’m slightly more than slightly nuts.

“Hey, shitball,” Gram said to me when the Rachel Maddow Show went to commercial break. “Ask yer buddy God about all a this crap. Maybe He can make headers from ass holies.”

I thought about it. “I’m not sure when we’ll be speaking again, I have no control over his visits,” I answered.

Then I wondered if you should say capital-W “We’ll” when the we part is you and God. See, me, I don’t understand why we don’t capitalize every fucking thing when we are speaking of the capital-G God. Maybe that’s the real reason we have a Caps Lock key on keypads.

And why, inthefuck, isn’t the Caps Lock key lettered in all caps? English is a confusing enough language without all of the contradictory rules and regulations. If we can’t spell shit phonetically we should be allowed to punctuate as it feels when we write.

Anyway, I told Gram that God visits at His will and not mine. Then she told me, she said, “Who gives a shit, Mooner, ask God to come an’ talk ta ya.”

I thought about that. “OK, but won’t that be like a prayer. Asking stuff from God—isn’t that what a prayer is?”

See me, I’m really unsettled about asking God for anything. I’m worried that even asking a question is dangerous—I think that the ultimate example of “Be careful what you ask for” would be to say a prayer. You know that joke where the guy asks God if he can have a pecker long enough to touch the floor and then the guys legs fell off?

Add to that unsteady logic the simple fact that—just like in physics—for every prayer you offer there is an equal and quite opposite prayer getting offered up to your, or some other God.

“Maybe that’s why the world is so fucked up,” I told Gram. “Maybe all of those Gods from the different religions are all trying to grant all of those conflicting prayers and making a mess of things.”

“Nah, too simple, Mooner. Ask tha big guy.”

“OK,” I said and closed my eyes tight. “Dear God, how about You come over for a little chat. There’s some craziness I’d like You to explain to me. Please don’t come if I won’t like Your answers. Amen.”

Hours-long story shortened for brevity’s sake, God came to see me last night. I was fast asleep when I was awakened by the sound of John Lennon’s voice singing Imagine. I love that song.

“Hey, God, how’s it hanging?” I asked him.

God stopped singing and transformed into M’hat’ma Gandhi. “I’m unwell, Mooner my man, things are not so hot with your world.”

We discussed the world situation for a bit before I said, “OK, answer me this if You will. Why are there so many religious zealots out there who are willing to kill for their faiths? Why is there so much hatred and distrust among the World’s greatest religions?”

“How about I answer you by making you one of those zealots? Close your eyes and I’ll make you a loony charismatic Christian for a few minutes.”

I shut my eyes and immediately felt a sense of personal calm and one of political agitation. The personal calm came from the absolute knowledge that my buddy God was THE God and that His promise that I would have everlasting life at his right hand in Heaven, and that my job on Earth was to promote those facts to others. I also felt that I had the right to enforce those beliefs onto others.

The political anger was for anything of contrary nature. I was so committed to my belief in my God that any other thoughts were unacceptable to me. I felt a hatred of those different. I felt a surge of desire to do something—any fucking thing—that would put down those with conflicting ideas from mine.

“Now I’m going to make you one of the men protesting at the US Embassy in Yemen,” God said, and I suddenly found myself dressed in a robe and throwing a rock.

I was angry to the boiling point and had the absolute knowledge that I had a few dozen virgins awaiting my arrival to Heaven’s gates. I felt, simply said, exactly the same as when my fanaticism was Christian based except for my perspectives. Suddenly I felt like meeting my virgins sooner rather than later, and I rushed the Embassy walls.

“Wake up, boy, come on. It’s not your time yet.” God said.

But I was anchored—right foot stuck in the cement of Mohammad’s Love and left leg knee deep in Hate’s quicksand.

“Wake up, dammit,” and God slapped my face. Hard.

“Ouch, Dude. That hurt.”

I was stunned from the slap and still punch drunk from the overpowering emotions of religious fervor.

“Powerful shit, no?”

“Is that really what it’s like?” I asked.

“Why would it be any other way? If you have absolute certainty about unsubstantiated theories… Well, how else could you think, act? There is no more egocentric or bigoted human position available. Your species’ ability to have absolute faith-based convictions is the root of your evils, sonny boy.”

I thought about that and God interrupted by saying, “And don’t even think that it’s only the lower-intellects who think these things. Some of your brightest are delusional, bigoted.”

“Why can’t those guys find it in their hearts to live and let live, Big Guy? Why must they hate each other?”

“It’s contra-intuitive. Impossible to have absolute certainty about one thing and not distrust/dislike opposing views. That’s also why those guys can be so easily manipulated.”


“It’s Your fault,” I told God, “I think this is all your fault.”

“Oh, please. Don’t be a shithead. I let you guys drive your own cars, Mooner, you’re the ones putting them into the ditch.”

And with that, He was gone.

Hard to hold much hope when the fact is so sobering—that bigotry’s very origins lie in our gathering in the comfort of like-thinkers—that by conjoining and solidifying our faiths we generate arch enemies.

Ugh and again. I had to ask.

See what I mean about prayer? Manana, y’all.


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Sunday Interrupted; Stolen Paper Caper

Monday, July 30th, 2012


So. It’s only 10 am and I’ve had an event-filled day. I was going to comment my thoughts on two concurrent events stories this morning but something happened to change my plans. Not that my plans don’t change often.

OK, stop. Not that my plans don’t often change. I’mma cure my ass of that danglie hanging dealio if it kills us. I seem to compulsively hang modifiers and prepositions off the ends of my sentences constantly. I’m now dedicated to obsessively correct these grammatical infractions always.

Intent being the controlling factor to the logic string herein, I was going to speak to first, the most obvious political absurdity of the hour, and two, the current most silly issue within the Catholic church. For starters, how predictable was it that Mitt Romney would publicly announce that he would support Israel should they unilaterally decide to bomb Iran into finer dust than currently inhabiting its desert borders? Oh, and that is the Jewish culture that makes them more successful than the Palestinians.

Really? Are you kidding me? You mean to tell me that Mitt’s crack team of advisors would support a full out war in the Middle East? Not since Doctor Strangelove has a possible American president had such a blood thirsty and extreme hawk panel of advisors trying to pull the puppet strings. Of course Herr Schmidt Rommel wants war in the Middle East—there’s money in them there sand dunes!

But enough of that and on to my second not-to-be-written story. Very quietly, the Catholic women wives of God have been struggling to gain somewhat equal rights with God’s boy wives. Yeppers, the nuns want the church to treat their wifely status more akin to that of priests. The Holy Roman Catholic Church, however, expects girl wives to be subservient to the boy wives because…

Because who really gives a shit when what happened this morning happened. As back story, someone has been stealing my Sunday newspapers. I think I know who it is but can’t manage to catch them. They don’t do it every week so a stakeout offers a low percentage of success, and the mud dobbers love to build nests on the shiny lens of my surveillance cameras.

Today’s paper was missing and I decided to go down to the Starbucks and grab an espresso and read the paper. I donned my UT ball cap of the month, cranked up the GTO and headed out. The coffee shop I chose is in the Arboretum, an affluent shopping area of high end stores that is surrounded by affluent housing and offices.

I got my coffee and sat to read the newspaper at precisely 7:02 am. This I know not because Jesus told me so, but rather, because my cell phone rang and I looked at the time of the call. That call interrupted me from reading the second article that was to be centerpiece of today’s ramblings—the Nuns versus the Vatican story. Around me, several of the well-dressed patrons gave me the same aggravated look I give to persons answering their cell phones while in the company of strangers. So, as I always fucking do, I clicked it to V-mail.

I settled back to the paper and was reading about Syria, when a not-so-quiet whisper went through the crowd. I raised my eyes from the newsprint, but my quick scan saw nothing worthy of the misplaced rich folks breath. Then I heard, “That’s disgusting!” and, “Go away, you’re making my wife sick!”

As I raised my eyes this time, I saw the centerpiece of my neighbors agitation. An obviously homeless man was rifling through the trashcans for coffee cups and leftover foodstuffs. As fate would have it, I know this man. He’s a very bipolar fellow who spends his days hanging out at one of the underpasses nearby this Starbucks and his name is—he thinks—Robert Something.

Robert was in this one trashcan up to his chin when a large man of maybe forty years got up from his chair to confront the situation. “I said you’re making my wife sick, asshole. Get out of here!”

At the “here” part, the big guy grabbed Robert Something’s filthy shirt sleeve and started to pull the crazed man from his meal service station. Robert’s weight stuck down into the trashcan was more than expected, and big guy stumbled nose-first into the tangle of Robert’s quite dirty head.

Now let me tell you guys something about homeless people. Some homeless actually have homes of a sort—shelters where they can sleep and eat and take a bath. Others, like my main man Robert here, either have been banned from the shelters or they make the conscious choice to not take baths at the shelters. I have twice taken Robert to the emergency room and each time I wrapped him in the plastic tarp I carry in the trunk of my car. And each time the tarp was torched afterward and replaced.

In the middle of the Austin summer, a man who lives outside and hasn’t taken a bath in three years has a certain bouquet.

Sensing a possible upgrade of additional indignations once Robert Something’s stench reached big guy’s olfactories, I jumped up to render aid. “Take your hands off Robert,” I said. He’s my guest.” I patted big guy’s back just as his brain caught up with his nose.

“Ewe… Oh God, what is that stench?” Big guy obviously had little experience with the unwashed masses. “Now I’m going to need another shower before church.”

Robert, oblivious to the commotion, was still deep in the bowels of the trashcan and now big guy is deep in Modern American Christian compassion. “You fucking homeless prick. Get back in your cardboard box where you belong.”

And he stuck his shiny-loafered shoe in Robert’s ass sending can and Robert in a tumble. Me, I thumped big guy in the ear. Then when he turned, I thumped his nose, hard, and then the other ear. “Help him up, shithead. Now!”

The big man glared at me, his balled his fists for a fight while rubbing nose and ear. He took a half step towards me when, “Stop, honey, don’t do it. Stop, I said!”

It was the man’s wife. “That’s Mooner Johnson, Steve, Streaker Jones’ friend.”

When Steve hesitated, his wife said to him, she said, “Streaker Jones promised he’d come back to see you if you ever messed with his friends again. Now LETS GO!”

Big guy deflated like an overinflated balloon. “I’m sorry, sir, I was just protecting my wife.”

“It’s not OK, Steve, you’re an asshole,” I told him. “As a Christian, have you ever taken the time to consider how a man like Robert got to where he is?”

I got no answer as Steve and his quite smart wife walked away. I gave Robert Something a twenty-dollar bill and told him he should move on. I finished reading to the stares and mumblings of my fellow coffee drinkers and took off. In the car, I dialed Streaker Jones’ number. When he answered I said, “Thanks.”

“Yea, I heard. Anytime,” he replied. “Need sum else?”

“Nope, I’m good. See ya.”

“See ya too. Tell yer Gram I got some new product fer her.”


Friendship is a powerful force. So is compassion. I’ve never been homeless and I’ve never been hungry for more than a couple days at a time. But I know some of the unwashed masses who cluster at our street corners and huddle in communities under freeways to escape danger. Many will never be anything but homeless and many are too fucking crazy to understand their lot.

But each and every one is a human being and deserving of whatever comfort they can find.

Manana, y’all.

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Clarity Of Thought; A God Story

Friday, July 13th, 2012


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hard to argue with God’s logic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Early Warning Signs Of


  • Powerful and Continuing Nationalism

  • Disdain for Human Rights

  • Identification of Enemies as a Unifying Cause

  • Supremacy of the Military

  • Rampant Sexism

  • Controlled Mass Media

  • Obsession with National Security

  • Religion and Government Intertwined

  • Corporate Power Protected

  • Labor Power Suppressed

  • Disdain for Intellectuals and the Arts

  • Obsession with Crime and Punishment

  • Rampant Cronyism and Corruption

  • Fraudulent Elections”


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

Wake the fuck up, America!!!”

Manana, y’all.


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God’s Sense Of Humor; Water Rings On The Dock

Monday, June 4th, 2012


So. I’ve been having visits from god for a year now and the resulting thoughts, feelings and desires are a mixed bag of tricks. For starters, after many hours of conversation with god, I have no better clue as to his/her/its origin or identity, powers or desires than anyone else on the planet. Other than to tell me that Pat Robertson, Jerry Falwell, Brigham Young, Pope Anyone, and the rest of the “preachy” preachers are mostly full of shit, my new best buddy, god, hesitates to tell me what is right, and wrong.

When god paid me a visit yesterday he said to me, he said, “Look, Mooner, the basic tenets of most religions are sound and mark cadence with my wishes for you humans and the world I gave you to foster. Peace, Love and Caring are my middle names.”

God laughed at that one, then added, “I like deprecating and especially self-deprecating humor, sonny boy—like your refusal to capitalize me and my pronouns. You silly human shits have gotten so self-centered and exclusionary that you can’t have any real fun anymore. And you keep oppressing and killing each other.”

We were down to the dock—sitting with our legs dangling over the side—drinking Carta Blanca beers that kept materializing from nowhere, and enjoying the mellow from some nifty mushroom buttons. Each time I’d set an empty down, a fresh new bottle of beer would be sitting in the water ring of the last. And let me tell you this. God’s beer was no colder or tastier than that which I purchase by the truckload down to Mexico and smuggle across to Texas. When I asked him why that was, he answered, “How can I improve on perfection?”

How, indeed.

On his last visit, god came in the form of a shape shifter, changing faces and forms faster than Mitt Romney flips his flops. Yesterday’s visage only changed a couple times as points were made to me. I was sitting alone, contemplating life when my cell phone rang in my pocket. I saw on the caller ID that it was my buddy Bill from Tennessee. When I answered my phone, Bill’s voice said, “Look over your shoulder, brother.”

I did and there was Bill, or rather there was god in Bill’s skin. It took me a moment to figure things out and when the thought hit my brain to jump up and hug a welcome on my friend, I was told, “Keep your seat, Mooner, it’s me—god. Have a fresh beer.”

That was when the first new beer materialized in place of the last beer’s water ring. Maybe for the sake of clarity I’ll use the name Bill-god for this visit, and say god was a he and him. “I brought some mushrooms from the Far East for Streaker Jones and Dixie. I’m testing to see just how smart your pecker-wood buddy might be.”

A Zip-Lock baggie appeared in Bill-god’s hand and he opened it, grabbed half-a-handful of buttons, ate three and handed me two. “Best we start you on two of these, son. I need your focus for a little talking.”

I chewed and swallowed the shroomers and noticed the flavor of truffles and the perfume of lilacs. “These tastes like a French countryside, sir. Where in Asia do they grow truffles and lilacs?”

“They’re cultivated in Hanoi, Mooner, but the flavor is all from that mushroom. Truffles can’t grow in Viet Nam.”

Bill-god sat and dangled his feet towards the water, he and I swinging our legs back-and-forth. “It’s too fucking hot here, dude. I know you want some cooler weather so why don’t you look for a place in the mountains?”

I had started sweating like a goat in a soup pot, rivulets of fat, salty drops soaking my tee shirt after running off my face. “Man, these mushrooms hit quick,” I said, “I feel like I’m in a sweat box.”

Bill-god tipped his bottle for a swig of beer, wiped his sweaty brow with the front of his Oakland Raiders tee, swilled and drained his beer, and said, “Not the spores, dude, that’s pure Texas heat beating you down. You need to be drinking more water.”

“If I get a place to the mountains where would I go? I need to stay close to home, so the Appalachians are out, and I’m not crazy about Colorado or Arkansas. I’m not all that excited about Colorado. Everybody’s too intense about something or another—exercise, work, avoiding work, church,” I told him. “And you know I need to stay out of Arkansas after that little indecent from back when we played them in football.”

Bill-god gave me a quizzical look. I said, “Back when we were in the Southwest Conference, remember that year when we tail gaited up to their place and smoked the wild pigs near the front gates to their stadium?”

“Oh yea,” he said. “That was a close one right there, dude. I never knew you could run that fast.”

We laughed about how I almost got my brains bashed out by drunk hillbillies wearing pig helmets, and then reveled in the fact that Texas won a national championship nipping and tucking the Hogs in the game. Bill-god started giggling and said to me he said, “Can you believe old Tricky-Dicky Nixon trying to steal the Horns’ thunder after that game? Catch this action…”

He shape-shifted from Bill-god and transformed into the spitting image of Richard Milhouse Nixon, former president of these United States. He held up peace signs on the fingers of both hands and made that stupid pose and expression that Nixon used when he was attempting anything light hearted. He twinkled his eyes at me, shook his jowls with a “bluuubb” and said to me, he said, “I… am not… a crook!”

“Holy shit but that’s a great impression,” I told Dick-god. “Did I detect a little Dan Aykroyd in there?”

Dick-god did the Nixon jowl shake again, then told me, “I was trying to do Chevy Chase doing Dan Aykroyd doing George Carlin doing Nixon. I think I got too much hard C sound in the crook. Let me try again.”

He did, and then repeated the “I’m not a crook” line over and over with different inflections and voice characteristics. He had me in stitches. When I got my breath back and the tears wiped from my eyes, I said to him, I asked him, “Look, you’re god and all, and I need some help. I need a second home, someplace cool of weather and liberal of thought. But someplace where I haven’t already pre-worn my welcome. And not someplace musty, like Oregon. My balls are growing air roots like Spanish Moss and I need a dry climate that isn’t Colorado.”

Dick-god turned into Michele Bachmann and said to me, her pissy-nasal voice and posture Ms. Bachmann’s spitting image, and answered, “Look at the Land of Enchantment, asshole. Santa Fe is full of communists and fornicators and homosexuals in need of conversion.”

And with that, Michele-god vanished in a fragrant mist of Chanel Number 5 and fresh-pressed linen. All that remained from god’s visit was the memory, a baggie filled with purplish mushroom buttons and a solid dozen empty Carta Blanca bottles.

“Santa Fe, why didn’t I think of Santa Fe. I love Santa Fe.” I said aloud to myself. “Maybe I’ll get a place up to Santa Fe.”

My cell phone rang again, and again it was Bill’s caller ID. I flipped the phone open and said, “Hey, god, how’s it hanging? You coming back for another talk?”

“No, Mooner, I was just calling to tell you that my tomatoes are coming in and the weather here in Tennessee is cool and sunny. Are you stoned already? It’s not even noon out there in Texas.”

Oops. It was the real Bill. I said something like, “Uh, well ah, I was just talking to god and he called me on your phone, and when I answered he was here to Austin standing on the deck behind me, and when I turned to look at him… Well, Bill, he ah, he uh… Would you just listen to me all Chatty Kathy and shit. It’s your dime, brother, what’s up?”

“Jesus, Mooner, you need to get out of the heat. Are you drinking plenty of water?”

Bill’s a good friend. We talked about stuff and laughed at a present he gave Squatlo and Cindy and we rang off the call after a few minutes. I peed in the water off the end of the dock, gathered my empties and headed back to the house to start the smoker going. I was halfway there when my phone rang a third time, and for the third time it was Bill’s number.

I wondered if it was Bill or god this third time, and I figured that whichever it was, he was just calling to fuck with me. I let it go to voice mail.

Manana, y’all.



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Shooting The Shit With God; A Chicken Joke

Thursday, May 24th, 2012


So. When we left off yesterday, and actually I should say that when we petered out yesterday, Mr. Dave had made his first visit to the State of Altered Consciousnesses and I had enjoyed a visit and quite pleasant chat with god—each event the byproduct of the world’s foremost cultivator of spoors.

My best buddy Streaker Jones is THE authority on all things psilocybe and he recently supplied Gram with a bushel of Gymnopilus luteofolius, a variety he and Dixie found down to Argentina when they took a visit last winter. OK, actually they left here on a winter’s bleak afternoon and arrived down to Buenos Aires less than 24-hours later on a hot summer day. That flip-flopped seasons thingie is one of Nature’s neatest dealios. That and the International Dateline were two difficult concepts for me to grasp as a kid in geography class.

Then again, when kids suffer from infestations of the ADHD as serious as mine, you need to celebrate when they actually learn any fucking thing. Trust me when I tell you that it’s a difficult task to learn what the fuck a standard deviation is when those facts are competing with running brain tracts featuring football, dinner, Susie Ashburn’s pig tails, if you’re getting whupped for breaking Mother’s douche bag, and of course, your pecker. I’m always running a series of thoughts about my pecker.

Anyway, before I crash this jet plane with all aboard, go over to my Bloggie Roller over there ====}}} and consider buying my stupid fucking book, Full Rising Mooner. It will serve as a primer to elucidate the uninitiated mind in the lore of Streaker Jones and why he is considered the go-to man on all things spore. Which reminds me that I like to use the word spoor rather than the actual spore just to get under his skin.

And that reminds me that the objective herein was to tell you about my latest visit from god. This time, god came in the form of a shape shifter, a visage designed to prove the point he intended to be proved during his visit. At first sighting, he appeared as a giant cockroach with Edie Adams’ head and he spoke with Truman Capote’s voice. As I mentioned before, I was dosed on some delightful mushroom juice and had retired to my room to contemplate life when god appeared.

To be brutally honest, it wasn’t the first time I have seen a giant cockroach with a pretty woman’s head and a famous author’s voice. One of the best side effects of the juice are the silly visuals. But Eddie Adams was special and meaningful and so was Truman Capote. Ernie Kovacs was Granddaddy’s favorite comedian and I couldn’t take my eyes off his bombshell wife when we watched their TV show. Did you know that Ernie Kovacs was the first to employ psychedelic visual effects on TV?

So, I’m sitting in my big leather chair, feet propped on the foot stool and a warming bottle of Carta Blanca beer hanging from the fingers of my right hand as it draped off the arm rest. I was sitting somewhat sideways on the chair and the bottle was almost touching the floor. My eyes were closed and I was thinking about the empathy video Mr. Dave and I had watched over to Squatlo’s place. I was wondering to myself how it is that today’s modern American christians seem to lack empathic genes.

“For shitsakes, Mooner, you’re gonna drop that beer and make a mess.” The words were my mother’s but spoken by Truman Capote. I recognized his voice right away. He had spoken at UT when I was there and after his presentation he took us all over to the Dobie Theater to watch his new favorite movie, Where’s Poppa.

I opened my eyes to take in my visitor and wondered if it was my imagination or were Truman’s words coming from Edie’s lips while two of the roach legs twitched like roach legs tend to do.

“Not your imagination,” Truman Capote told me. “It’s me, god, and I need a little of your time.”

“Oh wow, man, have I pissed you off by not capitalizing your name and pronouns and shit? I’ve been a little uneasy about that one since taking a hard line.”

“Nope, I think that’s kind of funny, sonny boy, same as when you say the pope and Queen Elizabeth are twins separated at birth.” Here god chuckled. I remembered hearing Capote chuckle in the theater when we watched the movie—a most honest human sound.

I saw that a Carta Blanca beer bottle had simply appeared in god’s calw—bottle shimmering with cold sweat. He took a long drag from the bottle, burped what sounded like a satisfying beer belch, and said, “Mooner my man, you have no idea just how close to the truth you are on that one. I’m surprised nobody’s demanded DNA tests. Now watch me carefully because I’m going to demonstrate the point I came to make with you.”

Remember in 2001, A Space Odyssey when whathisname did the transformation sequence in the end and speed dialed from before his conception and all of that shit? You know, it was like he did a million years of evelution in just a few minutes? God did that except he was changing his shapes and forms from different combinations of things and faces and voices and stuff. Most of the forms were things I could identify, like baby seals and Marylin Monroe and Adolph Hitler’s voice. Some were the visages of gods—buddha and krishna or jesus. A few were fantastical and too weird to even start to describe.

God shifted and changed appearances and all the while spoke to me in different voices. The speech was a narrative telling me that he could be anything he choose to be. He said it over and over. When he stopped the transformations and settled on a look, he was in the form of a teenage girl speaking Valley Girl with William F. Buckley’s voice. The voice unsettled me at first.

“We-ell, have you like gotten the message yet?” god asked me.

“Aaaaaah, you’re teaching me the trick Jim Carey used in The Mask?” I’ve always wondered about that.

“No, silly,” god said, and shifted to sophisticated Willy Buckley, “I’m showing you that I can be anything I want to be. As you would say it, I can be any fucking thing I want to be.”

God gave me a minute to absorb this, then he continued. “But I said anything I want to be. I did not say that I can be anything you want me to be. Now, are you too stoned to grasp this concept or do I need to go try to speak with Pat Robertson again. That old fart hasn’t gotten a single thing I’ve told him right yet. That boy is so fucked up he’s liable to say anything and blame it on me.”

This I thought was rather funny and I started to laugh. God laughed with me, an odd sound.

“OK, god, let me see if I’m catching your drift. What you are telling me is that while you are the omnipotent one and can do or be whateverthefuck it is you want, you don’t bend to the silly will of we humans.” I looked to him for a response and realized that he now looked like Elizabeth Taylor during the time she was married to that Governor and choked on a chicken bone.

“You got the premise right, boy, now get to the punchline.”

I gave this some more thought and said to god, I said, “OK, first, was that voice Alfred Hitchcock as a young boy or was it Sir Winston Churchill sitting on the pot and straining while he spoke?”

“Neither, and you wouldn’t know the guy. I just like that sound. Now go on, answer my question.”

Elizabeth Taylor’s beautiful blue eyes watched my face as if I were the only man alive. I felt virile and strong and smart in their gaze. “Well, I guess you’re telling me that when somebody says that you are a particular something, or that you demand us to do things that don’t make any sense, that it’s bull shit. And if that’s the case, then most of the time when somebody says they talked to you, they are either lying or misstating your words.”

“Bingo, dude, you win the Cupie doll,” and indeed I had because god now looked like one of those silly plastic dolls.

“Look, Mooner, the only advice I ever have or ever will give you guys will be to take care of each other and your planet, or live happy lives and enjoy yourselves, or to be careful when assholes—like asshole politicians—tell you what to do. I don’t let you spend enough time here to spend it killing and ignoring each other.”

God took a huge bite from half a fried chicken that materialized in her fist and choked on it. I must have had a look of terror on my face at god’s choking and she burst out laughing. “I love that one, Mooner. It gets you guys every single time.”

“That wasn’t really funny, Ma’am. But what about the afterlife, god?” I asked him, “and would you change into something else, please, you’re creeping me out.”

God turned into my Gram, and with Gram’s voice, god said, “Well, ya little shitbird, ya handled that Heaven dealio tha other day with yer death penalty question.”


“Oh, right,” I said. “So you liked that one?”

“Look, son. If you want to get to Heaven you just pretend I’m standing by the pearly gates with the automatic door opener in one hand and the elevator button in the other. You get one chance to answer a question right and the questions are all yes-or-no answers. I get to ask the question and I pick the question based upon how you lived your life. Get it right, come on in. Get it wrong and you burn in Hell.”

And she was gone. All that was left was a chill in the air and the perfume of cast iron skillet cooked Southern fried chicken. Can you imagine the thought of giving god the Heimlich Maneuver? That little stunt scared me shitless. But it was pretty funny now that I can reflect backwards on it.

I should have a moral to this story for you and I do. I’m simply not going to tell you my final thoughts. You figure out what god meant for yourself. I think that’s what god would want. Manana, y’all.


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easter Update; A Pitch For German Grammar

Tuesday, April 10th, 2012


So. I’ve had time to think about all things easter 2012, and I’m ready to share with you guys. I must admit that my attitude towards all christians has been negatively influenced by the public displays of assholeness of some christians, and not all christians are assholes. If assholeness isn’t a word, it should be. The fact of being an asshole means that a person has a well of assholeness stored up in their rotten little soul. Acting from said well of assholeness is, likewise, putting said assholeness on display.

OK, stop. The actual displaying of assholeness by an asshole would be “showing his assholenesses”[.] I think English should be more akin to German in the grammatical sense of things. I think German is an easy language to understand because they go ahead an place all the modification words into the root word instead of making up new words to express the thought. Like the German word Donaudampfshiffahrtsgesellschaftskapitan. Or my personal favorite, Rindfleischetikettierungsuberwachungsaufgabenubertrangsgesetz. That second one is the word for “beef labeling regulation and delegation of supervision law” and it’s my favorite because…

“Rindfleischerosaschleimentikettierungsuberwachungsaufgabenubertrangsgesetz” is German for pink slime beef labeling regulation and delegation of supervision law. I’ve got your supercalifragilisticexpialidocious right here. And your fucking pink slime as well.

When attending easter services at Mother and Gram’s baptist church Sunday, I was reacquainted with the knowledge that not all christians—and even not all baptist christians—are assholes. The entire family and extended family from the Johnson ranch went to services yesterday. I rented a party bus and had Streaker Jones drive and then babysit the animals while the rest of us went inside the church. Streaker Jones will not enter a church of any kind and the animals were turned away at the door.

I wanted to be pissy about leaving the pets outside but they were nice in the rejection. They asked me why I thought it was a good idea to bring two dogs, a fucking cat, a 550-pound pig and his boyfriend—the 350-pounds of gay ostrich we call Rick Perry—into an easter church service.

“Well, I started, “the way I see it, if humans have a soul that needs saving, so do my pets. Except for Rush Limbaugh, each of these animals has a bigger heart than most of the people I know who attend this church, and since we baptists think that heart and soul are connected, and…”

The nice lady stopped me. “Oh, I see, Mr. Johnson. Well, how about I promise to put the salvation of your animals’ mortal souls on next week’s prayer list?”

“OK.” I was satisfied.

The nice lady was staring at my chest, turning her head sideways in an attempt to read my tee shirt. The hoodie I wore over the tee was covering the starts and finishes of the five lines of print.

“Sus wa sexu use shop feet?” she said. “I’ve never heard of that store before. Is it in the Domain?”

The Domain is the new high-end shopping area up to north Austin. It’s not a mall, it’s more like an imitation Rodeo Drive with anchor tenants. Her thinking my clothes came from there bespoke of the very high quality of the hemp cloth products made by our little company. I grabbed the sides of my hoodie, did an “open sessamee” and revealed the scarlet letters of my special easter message.

The nice lady stared at my chest, again, and was inclined to once more turn her head sideways in the viewing. “Does that say that je-sus was a homo-sex-u-al, Mr. Johnson?”

I guess they teach you to say homosexual like that at this baptist church. Mother says it that way every time, drawing it out like it’s a complete sentence with verb and noun and subject and modifiers and shit. I looked down at my own chest, cocking my head to the side as well. With my left index finger, I underlined the words as I read them upside down.

“Jesus was homosexual because he washed mens’ feet,” I read to her. “I should have said he was a bisexual because he washed the ladies feet as well.”

“Oh, dear. Your poor mother must be so proud of you, Mooner.” She clasped her hand to her heart just as my martyred mother does, and added, she said to me, “Yes, I can imagine your mother is glad you came today.”

We Johnsons and Johnson affiliates were given a wide berth to enter and take our seats. I led us to the third pew from the front, turned and invited our procession to sit. Mother entered first and moved the full length of the bench to take her place on the far aisle, followed by Mr. Dave, Gram and Aunt Hilda carrying Dubbie-J (Hilda’s shrunken-head-in-a-box), then the P-cubed looking mighty fine in a frilly pink sun dress, then Gnat and her beau, Sister’s wife Anna the Amazon, then Sister herownself, and then me.

After we sat, it dawned on me that I needed to tell the nice lady to add Dubbie-J to her prayer list. When I turned to look for her, an older gentleman behind me caught my attention, and said, “Mooner, who is that man seated with your mother? My wife thinks she knows him.”

“Well, sir, that is the famous Mr. Dave, famous for the Japanese eggplant-sized pecker he uses to service the genteel older ladies of Austin. Perhaps your wife has made his acquaintance at tea.” I looked at the wife and she had that classic “holy fucking shit, now I remember him” look, and it was literally plastered on her face.

I winked at the lady and said, “I think he has an opening Wednesday’s at three o’clock.”

When I turned back to face the front, the harsh noises of a whisper-fight were almost concussive on the back of my hoodie. The service started with the organist playing a stylized version of “I Walked Through the Garden Alone” and it was hushed and quiet—almost eerie. I liked it and was feeling calm. I wasn’t expecting to feel calmed.

Then the children’s choir walked to the stage and started singing “jesus Loves Me”[.]

My sister—my sweet, strong, kind and big hearted lesbian sister—started crying. Quietly and with fat tears rolling down her cheeks. She was holding Anna’s hand and reached for mine. She has the grip of a steel worker and I thought my knuckles would break from her grasp, and she cried through all four verses of the children’s song.

It dawned on me then that my sister still believes in the full-blown accept-jesus-as-your-savior-and-gain-everlasting-life stuff. When we were kids “jesus Loves Me” was always her favorite song. She sang it to herself whenever people called her queer or fag or lezzie, and that happened often. She told me that she found solace in the song’s words.

I was moved. I stood from my seat and turned to the sea of faces behind me. I opened my hoodie and displayed my tee shirt, turning once each to left, then right. I sat down.

There were no boos or angry words or even gasps at my shirt. I managed to take some air from the big chapel, but I didn’t disrupt it. The rest of the service went as Pastor Browningwell planned, but he made a concerted effort to avoid looking my way.

If jesus truly was the actual savior as christians think, then he loves all the children in the world. He loves the gay ones and the dumb ones and the different ones. If he doesn’t, he is an asshole.

Which reminds me. Why is ham a favored meat on easter tables? Me, I love me some ham and all things of the pork persuasion. But why ham on easter? Think about this one with me, OK? Since he was an oldie-times Jew, then jesus didn’t eat ham, right? Hogs eat slop just like crabs eat ocean slop, and bottom feeders are verboten in a Kosher diet.

So, again I ask you—why ham? Why not goat or rabbit, or maybe one of those big lizards that roam the sand dunes back to the Middle East? Do rabbits live back there? Maybe Jackrabbits could take the harsh conditions.

Isn’t ADHD fun?

I smoked our ham this year, and it was actually a whole smoked hog leggie. Yum-my! I drank too many beers and told too many stories and ate way too fucking much smoked pig. From the moment we walked out of church and until I went to bed easter night, I was waiting for the eruption from Mother. I expected her to go all ballistic on my ass about my tee shirt display. But not a single word.

Then again, she had Mr. Dave for the day and he likes everyone to stay chilled. Which reminds me. Little Timmy Tebow spoke to an area church easter to tell people to make more and bigger public displays of their faith. I’m too mellow to rant on that now, but know that the turnout was less than half of what they expected, so they sold less than half of the Tebow gear expected. I hope the church that sponsored the visit took it in the shorts on Tebow’s speaking fee.

Manana, yall.

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Today’s News Sucks; Let’s Go Fishing

Friday, March 30th, 2012


So. Today is Friday and I first want to shout out to Mel, the recipe maven found over there ===}}}} on the Bloggie Roller. Hang tough, sweetie, our thoughts are with you. Second, I want to thank BJ, also a B-Roller listee as Dumb Perignon, for a care package he sent. I’ve been missing Tennessee since I left in November after my visit, and he sent me some trinkets to ease the miss.

Is that how you say that? I’m assuming that missing is to actively miss, so wouldn’t a salve ease the miss? Or would it reduce the misses?

Today’s paper is, as Gram would say, “a real pippper”—Gram’s version of the word pip, and meaning someone or something difficult and not a dimple. Here are some of the items that caught my mother’s eye as she read us the front page.

“Senate blocks effort to end oil tax breaks,” reads item one. All the republicans and enough Democratic Senators from oil states voted to keep tax breaks for oil companies in place, thus proving my mother’s position that Democrats can be self-serving assholes too. Mother actually has a decent heart, she just misplaces it, and often. After reading this story to us at breakfast a couple hours ago, she said to me, she said, “Now, if we can just get a few of those smarter Democrats to keep up that sort good work, we can fix what’s wrong with America.”

“Fuck that. If all the asshole christians would move to Australia we’d fix things faster,” I told her. “We could plant a story that jesus is coming to Melbourne or down to the Outback this December. Then we’d cancel everybody’s passports while they’re over there and not let them back in.” I waited a beat and added, “You’ll like Australia.”

Mother looked at me like I’m the crazy one and said, “You’d miss me, Mooner.”

Next, she read the story with the headline “House approves republican budget”[.] I told her, “Of course they did. Those silly fuckwads want to kill as many social programs as fast as they can.”

“Those fine men are doing god’s work, son. They should be applauded.” With this, my mother grinned at me over the top of the folded newspaper. It was a shitty grin.

“Did I tell you that I’m going to start going to church again, Mother?” I delivered this with a shitty grin of my own. “I’m printing up tee shirts with each front saying, ‘I’m Mother Johnson’s Son, Mooner’ along with that photo of us at Sister and Anna’s wedding—you know, the one with us standing beside the two brides. Then each of the backs will say something different. Like, ‘A woman’s right to choose is sacred,’ or, “If your god is an asshole then fuck your god,” or my personal favorite, “If god didn’t want homosexuals then why did he make Dr. Marcus Bachmann?”

Mother’s face turned beet red, but she ignored me and read the next story. “Says here that conservatives distrust science more now than ever. The big trend appears to be with the better educated conservatives.”

Well fucking duh. College educated conservatives will always see a way to control uneducated conservatives, and use it like a hammer. That’s how they roll.

“And would you look at this! Mr. President Bush Senior has endorsed Mr. Mitt Romney. That’s quite a surprise,” Mother commented. Whenever Mother disapproves of a powerful or influential person, she calls them Mister with first and last names. Like Mr. Mooner Johnson. OK, except that for it’s Mooner Einstein Johnson on my account, and with no Mister.

Now me, I already knew why Mother was surprised at this, because I already knew my mother is a right-wing conservative christian fuckball. But I must admit that I enjoy, sometimes, hearing her confirm it. “Now why is that such a surprise, Mother. Herr Rommel is a fine christian man, isn’t he?”

Now I get a serious face peering over the top edge of the paper. “Mooner, you know that Mormons aren’t real christians. I’ll just never understand how they can believe in all of those silly miracles of theirs.”

Riiiight, I’m thinking to myself. “Riiiight,” now out loud. “It isn’t like the burning bush or fishes-and-loaves or rising from the dead, is it? Hell, that’s not even like parting the Red Sea, for shitsakes. Those Mormon miracles are just so silly.”

Have I told you guys my take on Mormons? Here’s my Mormon slogan: “Mormon- one little ‘r’ from the truth.”

“Mooner, are you still committing heresy on your Internet thing?” Now I’m getting “serious concern” look from Mother.

“Why of course I am, mommy dearest, it’s how I roll.” Sometimes I’m a funny guy. “Anything in particular concerning you?”

“She “Hmffed” and said, “I want you to start capitalizing god and jesus and all their pronouns like you’re required to do. What you are doing is blasphemous and I won’t allow it ANY… MORE!”

Sensing a chance to use compromise to the benefit of world peace, I said, “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll start capitalizing stuff again just as soon as you agree to be 100% supportive for gay rights.”

If you were to look at Mother’s face at this point you’d think she’d eaten a bucket of green quince. My guess was that her mouth and asshole were both pinched so tight you couldn’t drive a needle into them with a sledge hammer. “I’ll never endorse the devil’s deeds, Mooner Einstein Johnson. NEVER!”

“OK, and fine. And I’ll not endorse asshole gods.” Here I paused for effect, and affect as well. “Have you decided what you’ll be wearing to church Sunday?” Two, three four… “I want to wear a tee shirt that matches your dress. This Sunday’s shirt says, ‘Jesus Loves Homosexuals And Mormons Too!’ I can make it in any color you wear.”

I know I shouldn’t be so hard on my own mother, but I can’t seem to help myself. Just because she’s family doesn’t excuse her prejudice. So, fuck it, I’m taking the animals fishing now.

Manana, y’all.

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pope Still A Two-Faced Prick; Lesbians Are Always Welcome In My Soup

Thursday, March 29th, 2012


So. I had hoped to get my pissiness with the fucking pope over, and done with, yesterday. But that silly old queen can’t stop saying stupid shit. He’s in Cuba if you haven’t been informed, and he’s continuing to accuse Castro of governing Cuber with the same dumbass rulings as the pope himself uses to rule the holy roman catholic church.

Please allow me to quote an Associated Press report of the popester’s speech yesterday as he addressed a crowd in Havana:


… benedict’s homily was a not-so-subtle jab at the island’s leadership… “Cuba and the world need change, but this will occur only if each one is in a position to seek truth and chooses the way of love, sowing reconciliation and fraternity,” benedict said.

… “There are those who wrongly interpret this search for the truth, leading them to irrationality and fanaticism; they close themselves up in ‘their truth’ and then try to impose it upon others,” he said from the alter… By Anne-Marie Garcia and Nicole Winfield, AP


Holy… fucking… shit! Is this guy for real?

This sounds like Fiddle Dee calling Fiddle Dumb lazy. When was the last time the catholic church and his holiness sought the truth and chose the way to reconciliation? Oh, right, that’s how they are handling the priest pedophile issues right now today. That’s right. They have been seeking that truth for fifty years so that they can make things right with victims and sow some fraternity.

Maybe the fraternity his holiness was talking about was the multitude of catholic fathers who rape children, and as for the sowing part, well I’ll let you fill in that blank.

And that whole second quote where he speaks of those who close themselves up inside their own truths and then try to force their beliefs on others… “Hello, popie bentdick, is anybody home? Do you ever look in the mirror, asshole? Have you listened to your shitty little mouthpiece, rick santorum?”

I think the old pope is sex deprived. Maybe sex depraved as well. You Have to be a true asshole to call other people fanatics for doings things you do yourself. He’s blasting Castro for holding the people of Cuba back from making civilized progress. At least the Cuban people are more advanced and civilized than they were 2,000 years ago, and catholic dogma is unchanged since before the Dark Ages.

At least Castro doesn’t wear pounds of stolen gold and flaunt it in front the descendants of the people his church murdered and plundered centuries ago when they stole that same gold At least Castro is honest about his motivations and intents and doesn’t attempt to use sorcery to confuse his people.

At least Castro is working to make things better for his people. Hell, I think old Fidel would make a better pope than benedict. At least Castro would tell catholics that he doesn’t give a shit about right and wrong or humanity or justice. At least Castro tells the Cuban people they’ll be getting fucked.

Which reminds me. I want to name a new addition to my Bloggie Roller. Her name is Katy Anders and her site is Lesbians In My Soup. Her site’s name reminds me of cooking with Sister and her wife in the kitchen with me. There was this one time when I wanted to make fish stew but not use any saffron, like in a Bouillabaisse. I like saffron but mostly in Indian food, so I guess I wanted to make something more akin to Cipollini. Except Cipollini always calls for Dungeness crabs and fuck that, I’m not paying $20 for five buck-worth of crab meat. If it costs more to ship seafood than it did to catch and get it to the shore, it won’t be on my table in Texas. Sister wanted me to use some fresh sardines in the soup and I made a tasteless lesbian joke re: the taste and smell of sardines.

I love my sister, but she can punch like a mule. In fact, she and her wife (my third ex-wife, Anna the Amazon) are my second choice as back up to Streaker Jones when I get into bar fights. You can buy my silly fucking book by clicking over there ====}}}} and you’ll find a story that proves that point. I think that story is in Chapter 12. You’ll learn all about smiting Johnsons. You’ll also learn about smitten Johnsons.

Katy reminds me of Sister except younger, and Sister looks like Demi Moore butt Katy reminds me of that Titanic actress, you know the one, right. Kate Winslett? Is that her name, Kate Winslett? Or is it the woman who played June Carter Cash? Not Sissy Spacek—she played Lowretti—I mean the other one. I’d try to date Katy under differing circumstances but I think I should stick to recommending her as a good reading resource. I’m guessing Katy packs a wallop too.

She’s got this one guy over there commenting on her site that I could almost swear was our old buddy Theo. Calls himself Teddy something. Katy’s got way plenty patience with dumass Teddy. Way more that I’d be able to show. Anyway, please hoist your Carta Blanca beers high and help me salute Katy.

Manana, y’all.

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