Archive for the ‘Religion’ Category

Mooner Decapitalizes Religion; Why Are We Still Fighting For Equal Rights?

Wednesday, March 28th, 2012


So. In big news today, the Pope has declared that Cuba should loosen it’s grip on peoples’ lives and the far right-wing christian fuckballs are now proven to be behind attempts to disenfranchise Black and Hispanic Americans from Democracy using gay rights as their weapon of choice. One of the silly “save marriage for christian heterosexuals” groups has been outed as waging war on gay people, and using gay people to provoke other minorities.

Of course, I’m assuming that gays really are a minority. I’m also starting to think that half of these religious zealots are actually gay people (here you need to think Dr. Marcus Bachmann for reference) who are ashamed of their true selves. I’m getting a new anti-anti-abortion sign made. One side will have my tried and true “A Woman’s Right To Choose Is Sacred” and on the other it’ll say “I’m Not Gay But I wish I Were”[.] Maybe I should say “…But I Wish I Was” since so many of those super christian cracker heads are somewhat thick.

And you know what, for me it’s now the pope, in lower-case from now on. Two-faced greedy fucking priest-rapist-protecting frilly dress wearing shitwad catholic asshole. How dare he call Cuba’s government oppressive when he himself oppressively governs over more human beings than have ever even inhabited Cuber. The holy roman catholic church has murdered, assassinated and burned at the stake more humans in their history than died in WWII—my conservative estimate. And they use the fear of god to wield their power like cannons.

Two-faced asshole pope.

And this shit down to Floriduh with the kid, murdered by a racist because he was Black, and how the right wingers are now attacking the kid’s character to justify it. Kid might have been an ax murderer for all I know, but the racist cop wannabe killed him in cold fucking blood because he was Black. Why would any man with a clear conscience want to try to make this kid look deserving to be murdered?

Wouldn’t it be nice if these topics weren’t on our minds. Wouldn’t it be nice to not have racism, human rights and religious hypocrisy at the forefront of the news? It’s 2012, for shitsakes. Why are we having to fight for funding for public schools? Why has the leading Republican Presidential candidate spent years killing American jobs for his own profit and calling it good for America?

I’d much rather be focusing my attentions onto feeding hungry people, being a good father to the menagerie of pets I husband, and rubbing my body parts on the body parts of a certain Special Agent In-Charge, US Department of Homeland Security.

SAC Ellen has been out of town so much lately that I’m getting some serious “squint” lines around my eyes. I’ve been forced to take matters into my own hands so often it looks like I have undertaken a hostile takeover of the company that makes Ivory Soap. I had to have the sink drain snake cleaned yesterday because of excess Ivory Soap residue inside the pipes.

Ugh. I’m sick of this shit. Maybe I need some mood-enhancements. Manana, y’all.

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Why I don’t Own A Handgun; I Am, However, Shopping For A Nuke

Monday, March 5th, 2012


So. I don’t know if you guys have been keeping up with events over to Iran. If you have, you know that the conservative religious factions puppeted by the one, the only—the O-fucking-riginal—Ayatollah Khomeini—have gained control of government. The conservatives lost much of their power over the last decade and a more moderate have emerged, assuming you can say that any Muslim extremist is more “moderate” than another, and their current President has shown to be the most moderate of them all.

It has been this moderate President from among all of those conservative right-wing religious zealots who has given the rest of us a thin shred of hope that things will approach stability in that region. When combined with the Arab Spring movements, the moderation of the extreme conservative pogrom-based inclinations in Iran have been heartening for those of us seeking some limited vision of world peace.

But, and alas, the arch conservatives have won a contentious dogfight for control of Iran’s central government, an action that has, effectively, granted the Ayatollah total fucking control. That batshit crazy shitball will now be making decisions about Iran’s pursuit of a nuclear bomb, pursuits to infiltrate America’s borders to reign terror, and put Iranian women back into conservative garb and stuff their semi-Westernized asses back into the rear seats on society’s bus.

As the extreme tenants of conservative Muslim control eased over the last ten years, Iran could have been almost looked at as a model for how to change an autocratic, religious-based oppressive society into a more civilized one. By lessening the conservatives Koran-based ideologies and letting people enjoy increasing freedoms of choice, Iran’s economy improved and the standard of living enjoyed a remarkable up-tick.

Iran’s increasing moderation away from conservative religious fundamentalism had an interesting, and to me amazing, side benefit. A never-before-seen middle class began to form and emerge from the abject poverty. Abject poverty was the norm for typical Iranian citizens under the Shaw, as he and his family and a few chosen buddies controlled the huge share of Iran’s wealth and privilege. Iranian society was controlled by extremes—mega wealth and abject poverty.

When the Shaw was ousted, the only thing that really changed at first was that the Shaw and friends were replaced by the conservative religious clerics. Those assholes took control of the power and wealth and the common citizens remained the poor masses.

But things were getting better for everyone in Iran until now, with this recent conservative party win.

Is this shit funny yet? Has anybody reading this mess gotten a glimpse at where I’m going here?

Let me say it this way. Change the word “Iran” and replace it with America. Change Muslim for Christian and trade your Bible for the Koran.

But you don’t need to change the words “conservative” or “right-wing” or “autocratic” or “fuckwad” or “middle class” to get my drifts. And you don’t need to be a genius to see that America’s right-wing religious conservatives are trying to do the same thing here as what happened in Iran. Hell, Prick Santoria and Mitt The Schmidt Romney look at Iran with stars twinkling in their eyes.

Wake… The Fuck Up, America. There isn’t one degree of separation between the Ayatollah and his henchmen and America’s conservative Christians. They each want absolute power to rule lives based upon their personal religion. They want women put back in their proper place and they want to take America back to times where it was “Great”.

Mitt Romney is a fucking Robber Baron, folks, and Rick Santorum thinks Senator Joe McCarthy was a liberal. Mitt wants to return to the times when the foundations of America’s wealth were built on the skeletons of its burned-out workers. Rick Santorum actually said that he wants religion to rule government.

He actually said it. Are you not pissed and angry and really fucking scared that a major contender for President has publicly stated that he wants to overrule the Constitution? He said he wants gay people in their place. Do you know what he’s actually saying there?

Ugh. It turns my stomach to think that one of those two asswipes could be my President.

Fuck it. I’m going fishing. Manana, y’all.

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Back To Normal- A Psycho Therapy Success Story

Friday, February 24th, 2012


So. I have now discovered that I am the Aeolus of shit storms. Sure, Zeus was the Greek’s thunderbolt God but it was Aeolus who controlled the winds—both fair and foul. I have managed to blow a wind most foul and cast a pall over the Johnson family household. And, “Yes, Mother, “ I did spell that non-Christian’s god with a capital “G”[.]

I’m sick of the Christians having the only capital G god. I’m either making everybody’s fucking god a big G God, or they’re all to be small gods. I wonder if it was Aeolus after whom one of my favorite parts of a woman’s body was named.

My hours yesterday were spent getting hammered on all sides about my temper tantrum and what is now viewed as a “threat” to kick my mother out of my house. I didn’t do any such a thing. I told her that if she was so offended by my beliefs that she could move her rosy-red ass out of my house.

It is, after all, my fucking house. I won’t tell you the entire story as to how the Johnson family homestead became mine before the deaths of Gram and Mother, because it would embarrass them both. If I was the kind of man I’m now accused to be, I’d tell you the full-disclosured details and say to them, “How’s that ass taste, ladies?”

What I will say is this. I own this entire insane asylum lock, stock and barrel, and I didn’t want to be its owner. I was forced to take sole ownership in order to keep said asylum under family controls. In the many years the title has been in my name, I think I have been a fair king—a just king. I’m an asshole and likewise crazy, but I’m not, usually, a tyrant.

The only woman in the house who was speaking to me was the Squirt, and the only conversations we had had since breakfast yesterday were on the subject line reading “Mooner’s a giant flaming asshole”[.] “You, Mooner middle name Fuckhead Johnson, are a giant flaming asshole,” have been the words out of Squirt’s mouth.

Save for Mother, who didn’t speak to me all day, I was dressed-down by each Johnson woman at dinner last night. It was pointed out to me that I’m a giant flaming asshole, I act as if my feelings are the only feelings that matter, I throw my weight around like a Sumo wrestler, I speak disrespectfully to my elders, I am inappropriate, and oh yes, that I’m a giant flaming asshole.

Do you guys think the proper grammatical methodology for that would be to add a comma before flaming? Like I’m a giant, flaming asshole?

When my dressing down was complete, I thanked the ladies for expressing themselves in a confident, active way and without passive-aggressivnesses, and I told them that I would take their critiques under advisement. I also apologized to my mother publicly, as she sat poking at the chicken salad on her plate. She hadn’t looked me in the eyes nor has she spoken a word since my temper tantrum. She made no response to my public apology same as with the private one made earlier in the day.

I’ve been in a quandary over this one, having difficulties with what to do. I felt that I should get this issue in front of my psycho therapist with great alacrity, so I made an “emergency” appointment for after dinner at 7 pm. Why I thought I’d get insight in the office of my therapist and first ex-wife is beyond me. The longer I’m in psycho therapy the more I come to understand that the goal of psycho therapy is to create the need for more psycho therapy.

When I called Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson to make the appointment, she asked me, “What is so important that I need to cancel my facial?”

When I told her about yesterday’s indecent, she said to me, she said, “Aaaah. I’ve been waiting for this one to raise its ugly head for years. See you at seven.”

She’s been waiting for this one to raise its ugly head for years? Whatthefuck?

“Look, Mooner, you crazy redneck fuckbrain, those women are all grateful to you for saving the family homestead and providing a pleasant life for them. But when you acted to keep the ranch in the family, you upset the family apple cart. You destroyed the hierarchy.”

I caught that load of shit before my ass was even settled onto her couch. “Whatthefuck, Sammie,” I started, “I don’t abuse or mistreat those women in any way. I’m respectful of their peccadilloes—and trust me here when I say that Chez Johnson has got itself some fucking peccadilloes—and I always try to be sensitive to their needs and delicate sensibilities.”

“This isn’t about you, shit brain, this is about them. How many times do I have to tell you that the yin to gratitude’s yang, is embarrassment?”

“Oh for shitsakes, Sam. I am incapable of pretending to be something I’m not, so what am I going to do about this? And what is this stain on your couch cushion?”

My ex-wife/therapist blushed, then waived-off my cushion stain question with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Mooner, what you are going to do, is nothing. You apologized, you tried to get Mother to understand your side, and we all know that your mother is controlled by her fears. If I were you, I’d pretend that nothing has happened and just go on as usual. Things will settle back to normal before you know it. You do need to control your temper though. It concerns me that you blew up so much.”

“Don’t you worry about me and my temper, I’m managing fine. Well, I was hoping for insight with a keener edge to it, Sammie, but I guess you’ve got this one pegged. Thanks.” And with that I dragged myself off her couch and headed out.

“Oh, and Mooner. Tell Gnat that your bill will show charges for a facial, a bottle of Dom and a triple-times hourly rate for tonight. Some way or another we’re going to get to to act right.”

Anyway, I took the advice to heart and at breakfast I got up early and made pecan waffles, huevos rancheros and pork meat three ways—bacon, smoked ham and savory sausage. As they came to the kitchen I addressed each lady with a, “Good morning, sunshine. Have a seat and I’ll pour you some coffee.” OK, except I popped the cap on a bottle of Carta Blanca for Gram and myself—we both like beer with the rancheros-style eggies.

The reactions from each woman was different but all had the same cool sentiments. “Everybody want runny yolks this morning?” I asked when the chilled matrons were all were seated.

“Can I have mine hard, Mr. Johnson?” Robert asked. “I’m in an agriculture class at A&M as an elective, and the professor said that you should not eat uncooked egg yolks. Not safe.”

“Robert, my boy,” I instructed. “These eggs right here were snatched from the hen’s ass before they were half-way laid and washed in that sink right over there while still warm. I have a pretty good idea where you mouth has been since the weekend, and these eggies right here might be the safest things you’ve had.”

At that, Robert—one of the pair of young Texas Aggies spending the week with us looked adoringly at Gram as if to get her affirmation on the eggs. “What you need to be wary of, Robert, is that look of love in your eyes. That old woman will rip your heart in a dozen places and leaved you wrecked and broken,” I told him.

I fixed all the eggs runny-yolked and the entire table ate greedily. Mother sat in a quiet solitude, her face in the pinched pose of martyred motherhood that has become her permanent countenance. “So,” I started, “how ’bout them Cowboys?” The Dallas Cowboys are my mother’s football team. “America’s team” and all that silly shit.

The entire went still. The half-minute of silence was broken with, “We need a cornerback,” Mother almost whispered. “And some Christian counseling for Dez Bryant.”

“Oh, fer shitsakes, Mother, fuck yer Christian canoing. All Dezzie needs is a little bit of a good woman ta fix his shit. Maybe me an’ tha P-cubed can make a swing up ta Dallas fer ya. Now quit yer bitchin’ an’ pass me tha syrup.”

I looked at Robert when Gram made her offer to head to Dallas and fix Dez Bryant’s shit and the look of shock registered a hit. The other, nameless Aggie ate without uttering a word. Aunt Hilda was telling her shrunken-head-in-a-mahogany-box that the Texas Longhorns just landed a top prospect for the 2013 recruiting class, and Mother reached for the remote and turned on Good Morning America.

She raised the TV sound with the volume button. “…and new in the Republican Presidential race, Rick Santorum said yesterday that Mitt Romney…”

Dr. Sam I. Am was right. Good as new. Manana, y’all.


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In The Name Of Christ?; Fuck Rick Santorum

Thursday, February 23rd, 2012


So. We’re all at breakfast this morning, sitting at the big table. The table is crowded today since the two most recent Texas Aggie underclassmen victims of Gram’s catch-and-release man-fishing practices have stayed close to the boat after their release. Gram snagged these pimply-faced engineering students while trolling the A&M campus in her Ferrari on Saturday afternoon and when offered the requisite ride back to College Station Monday afternoon, the one named Robert asked, “Can we stay a few more days, please. We haven’t eaten this well since we moved into the dorm.”

Usually, the young fish Gram hooks with her shiny sports car come to their senses within the first forty-eight hours of captivity, become severely embarrassed with the knowledge that they have rubbed blisters on their pecker bumping uglies with a woman who would make a good model for a garden scarecrow, and get all meek and scared.

“Will you please take us home, Gram Johnson? Please?” are the first words most often heard uttered by these boys at the breakfast table the morning after. Oft times the words are whimpered and often the young Aggie Corpsmen don’t even make it to breakfast. Many is the time I’m awakened at dawn by the shrieks and howls a 12-cylinder engine makes when over-revved while cold when Gram hauls her catch back to Aggieland.

I’ve tried to get my grandmother to take a few minutes to warm her car’s engine before hauling ass. “I ain’t got tha time ta warm steel, Mooner, I’m a old lady what got tha hot crotchies.”

I figure my randy old grandmother doesn’t care that it costs $3,000 each to re-sleeve the dozen tight-tolerance cylinders that power her little red hot rod. I likewise figure I don’t care either as long as she keeps carding these boys to insure she lands legally caught fish.

Anyway, we’re at breakfast and Robert, and the other boy whose name I still don’t know, are bartering for room and board for the week. “If you’ll get Mr. Mooner to teach us how he cooks that tomato sauce with the secret ingredients, we’ll stick around and do chores ’till the weekend,” Robert told us.

“Son, if you call me “Mister” again, you’ll end up as fertilizer for the secret ingredients,” I told him back. “The secret to that sauce is my home grown tomatoes for their flavor and Gram’s magic mushrooms for their texture. The buzz is just a pleasant side effect.”

The boys giggled, I guess at the mushroom part, and the TV caught my ear. Pricky Rick Santoria and Herr Schmidt Romney were on the tube in a lowlights dealie from last night’s Reflublican debate. “The problem with America is the family is becoming fractured,” is what I heard that Catholic bigot Santorum say.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I asked the TV and the room. I grabbed the remote out of Mother’s hand and jammed a finger to the Off button. “Mother fucking asswipe Christian chalky-skinned religious shit-headed Catholic right-wing Republican fuckball!”

I took a deep breath while I wished I could have said how I really felt. I’m finding myself getting truly angry with the Republican’s political issuing for this election. I’m pissed at them because they are true bigoted assholes. But I’m getting really pissed because I clearly understand that the reason the Republican issues are political issues is because their voter base has been polled, and those polls say their base thinks that way.

I sat and fumed at the table while my fellow diners sat quietly poking forks at their plates. I guess my little diatribe had caught them by surprise. But I quite simply didn’t give a shit. As stated, I was fuming.

I slammed my fist on the table. “Jesus fucking Christ, what is wrong with people? Are sane Americans actually supporting this bullshit? Are grown up adult women really in favor of giving Rick Santorum control of their bodies and minds?”

“Mooner,” Mother sternly said. “You will not take the Lord’s name in vain in my presence.”

I felt my blood pressure pounding in my ears and the blood vessels of my eyes engorge with anger. I jumped from my chair pitching it backwards where it slammed to the floor, and then I pounded both fists on the table top. “Fuck Jesus, fuck God and fuck you too, Mother. If you don’t like the way I act then the three of you need to get your asses out of my house. This shit has gotten out of hand!”

In all the years my mother has thought of me as her son-tyrant, this was the first time I have ever actually been one. “Fuck you, fuck you and fuck you some fucking more!”

And with that, I steamrolled out the back door.

For the first hour I sat on the fishing dock staring at my reflection in the murky water, I wondered how my own mother could be so terribly stupid—ignorant even. Mother is a smart, honest, hard working and quite decent educated woman. I spent the second hour wondering what has happened to me that I would lose my temper that way. I don’t lose my temper like that—I’m always the level head in a crowded bar.

I think I understand why my mother, and millions of other Americans think as she does on these political issues floated by Republicans in this Presidential race. It came to me when I remembered a conversation I had with Mother last week when she drove with me to take some things down to the Food Bank.

Out of the blue she asked me, “Do you ever worry that you won’t make it to Heaven, Mooner?”

“Not for a single moment, Mother,” I answered.

My mother sighed and turned to look forlornly out her side window, sighed again, deeply. “I sometimes worry I haven’t done enough, been a good enough Christian woman. My only daughter is a homo-sex-u-al and you’re… Well, Mooner Johnson, you are my only son.”

When we had this conversation, I thought it was typical martyred Mother talk—Mother’s usual lament that neither of her offspring were good Baptists. Sitting on the dock in reflection, I decided instead that my mother is fearful that the sins of her children will be judged as the sins of the mother come Judgment Day.

I decided that my mother is driven by fear. My mother thinks it isn’t good enough to be a Christian, she worries that she must be the right kind of Christian to get into Heaven.

That is the answer to my question. That, dear friends, is what is wrong with those people who support the likes of Rick Santorum and the other pricky Rick, Texas Governor Perry. People are afraid to not support them.

It’s fear Mooner, you dumbass, fear is the fuel for this rhetoric.

I walked back to the house and into the kitchen and found but one occupant. Mother was at the sink doing dishes with her back to the door. “Mother,” I said in a hushed voice, “Mother I’m sorry for what I said.”

I got no response other than the chilled silence she so often gives me when I disappoint her.

I walked and stood behind her and put my arms around her waist. I rested my chin lightly on top of her head and stood quietly. I could hear her sniffle and felt her body twitch as she cried.

“I love you,” I told her, “you know I do. And I know that you see me as your biggest failure. But it isn’t your fault that I learned to think for myself.”

“I did the best I could with you and Sister, Mooner, and you’re both going to Hell to burn for eternity. Don’t you know what a burden that is for a mother to bear?”

“I guess I don’t,” I told her. I squeezed her and kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled of lilac perfume, the scent of which told me she had spent the night in the company of Mr. Dave. Mother likes to dress all the way up when she schedules a visit. I suppose she sees these conjugal moments as courting. I know she doesn’t see Mr. Dave as a male prostitute whose services are paid paid this self-same Hell-bent son.

The humor of the hypocrisy started niggling in my addled brain, and I felt the laugh start as a tingle at the nape of my neck. The tingle worked down my sides and when it made it to my belly, my belly started laughing. Once I started I couldn’t stop. I was “Ho-ho-hoeing” like a manic Santa Claus. I laughed so hard I lost my breath and sank to the floor with the giggles. When I could catch enough air to speak, I decided against it.

My poor mother thinks she is going to hell because she is sexing it up with Mr. Dave. What a dilemma that must be for her. She’s so horny and lonely for male companionship that she’ll risk going to Hell to bang Mr. Dave.

People do terrible things in the name of religion. This current crop of Republicans are feeding Christ’s followers a steady diet of bigoted fear, and that might be the most terrible thing a man can do in the name of Christ.

Like I said, fuck them all. Manana, y’all.



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Southern Baptists Look For New Name; Mooner Suggests: “Ignorant Bigot Asshole Baptists”

Tuesday, February 21st, 2012


So. I’m having some work done to the house and it might drive me crazy. Restorations include re varnishing and repainting outside doors and wood house trim, repainting the walls and ceiling in my closet after installing soundproofing and metal rings strong enough to hold 1,200 pounds on the walls, building a fucking cat play-scape in my bedroom, sealing cracks in my concrete flat work an other stuff.

For those of you in wonderment as to the 1,200 pounds part, if you add 650 pounds of gay pig to 350 pounds of African ostrich—likewise gay—you get a calculated need for 1,200 pounds of towing capacity required for the bondage equipment I promised my closeted same-sex lover pets. I can’t get Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry to come out of the closet and they refuse to play their sex games out to the barn where all that equipment is already set up.

And will somebody please tell me whyinthefuck I can’t say “revarnish” but I can say “repaint”[?] What’s up with that shit? If I can re the finish on something with paint then I should be able to re the finish with varnish, right? Sometimes I think I could choke the life out of whomever it is that made up some of these silly-assed grammar rules.

The first person to start with me about the repairs was, of course, Mother, and she started in on me at breakfast. I can always count on my stuffy-assed mother to take the first shit in my mess kit.

“Butcher Einstein Johnson, you will not play a role in the ungodly homo-sex-u-al relationship between Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry. Isn’t it enough that I must endure living under the same roof where Sodom meets Gomorrah? Now you’re turning your closet into a homo-sex-u-al sex den? I’ve seen how the gays are with those chains and rubber penises. It just isn’t right!” Anytime my mother is feeling especially martyred, she’s compelled to use my full, given name. Which brings up another issue. Why don’t we spell it “unGodly” with a big G?

Anytime Gram hears Mother use my given name, she’s compelled to come to my aid. Gram sniped at Mother, she said, “Mother, yer a bigger pain inna ass than them hermatoids I had that one time. Now, you quit yer fucking bitchy-achin’ an’ pass me tha bacon?”

My grandmother swiped a chunk of crusty ciabatta bread through the remnants of runny egg yolk left on her plate and jammed it into her mouth. The yellowed bread was half swallowed when Gram added, “I swear I don’t got a clue the first one as ta what that big-assed bird sees in Mooner’s fuckin’ pig. Bird’s a pretty little thing an’ that piggie’s a mess. But they’s in love, Mother Johnson, a little sumthin you need ta git a taste of. Now finish yer breakfast an’ go schedule a visit with Mr. Dave.”

My mother blushed and started to deny she has spread her wings with Mr. Dave, the giant-peckered old geezer I’ve hired to keep the Johnson women happy. But Mother won’t tell lies, so she started, “Well I never heard of such a thing, Gram. How dare you to insinuate that I… That… Uh, that, ah… Well, it’s against God’s laws to engage in homo-sex-u-al activity, and it’s blasphemous that my own son—who I raised correctly in the Southern Baptist way—would name a filthy hog after Mr. Limbaugh and that smelly bird after our dear governor.”

Here, Mother did her left-hand-fans-face-right-hand-to-the-forehead martyr pose. “They say God doesn’t give you any burdens you can’t carry, so I guess I must be the strongest woman in Texas.”

“I’mma kick yer bourbon up yer ass if’fn ya don’t shut yer yapper. Now pass me tha bacon fer shit sakes!” I’m not the only Johnson who loves his bacon.

And here I’m reminded that the fucking Southern Baptist Convention has decided to broaden their fan base. I guess that since an asshole like Rick Santarum from Pennsylvania can spout the same idiotic exclusionary hate swill as a Southern Baptist, they need a little name adjustment. They’ve decided to add “Great Commission Baptists” to their name. Seems like ignorance, racism and bigotry has finally escaped the South and infected its way up to the North.

Me, I’m starting to think that if we were to draw the Mason-Dixon line today, there’d be a fight to move it up to include the fucking rust belt states.

Anyway, we all ate some more bacon and I grabbed a beer to go back to my wing of the house to plan the animal’s renovations. When I got there, Ricky and Rushie were engaged in a terrible row about paint colors for their closet. Their closet?

“All right you two melon heads,” I told them, “break it up or I’m taking the both of you to the butcher shop. SAC Ellen has asked for a pair of ostrich skin boots and my pork meat freezer has an opening just about your size.”

They kept snipping at each other like little kids so I sent them outside. I went looking for my puppies and found that Squirt was in the bathroom talking to the fucking cat, and Yoda was playing with the new toy I made him. I cut a little triangle hole in an old tennis ball and stuffed dandelion leaves inside. It’s driving him nuts trying to get at the tender shoots.

The Squirt informed me, “Honor says she wants it built with unfinished cedar and strapped with hemp ropes, like in the movie Tarzan The Fearless, and she wants a scratching station in each corner. She says if you’ll do that she’ll promise to stop using SAC Ellen’s diaphragm.”

“What!!!” I almost came out of my sneakers when I flinched.

Squirt and Honor were rolling on the floor with their laughter. “Got you, shithead. You should have seen the look on your face. Now listen, she wants a scratching station in each corner, and she wants you to know that…”

I didn’t hear anything else Squirt said. Until that very moment I haven’t thought about having a baby for years. I need a vasectomy, I thought to myself.

“You need to reverse that lobotomy first, Bwanna Mooner, then worry about a vasectomy. You aren’t getting enough sex to warrant making a nut cut number one.” I guess I must be thinking out loud again. Squirt followed up with, “Prioritize your medical needs, dude, you know how tricky it’s getting to get health insurance to cover shit.”

And with that my dogs and the fucking cat were all rolling in laughter.

I packed a cooler with Carta Blanca beer, made myself a couple BLT’s with the leftover bacon, rolled a fat one and headed to the dock to fish by myself. To fish and reflect, by myself. That’s when my cell phone started playing “You Can’t Get A Man With A Gun”[,] SAC Ellen’s ring tone.

“Mooner Johnson’s the name, heavy petting and sex is my game,” I answered.

“Pick me up at the airport in an hour. Drive the truck and bring something to cover the windows, my layover is only ninety minutes.” SAC Ellen’s voice was deep, raspy.

“I guess that means no stun gun foreplay, huh?” I had to ask.

“No time, baby, and bring my diaphragm and some moist towelettes. I can’t be traveling with my boss when I’m stinking of Mooner Johnson.”

I hung up the phone and decided to reflect at a later date. I did, however, hold her rubber contraceptive devise to the harsh light of the afternoon sun to check for perforations.

“Good to go,” I said to myself as I placed the disk back into it’s little case.

At least I think I said it to myself. Manana, y’all.


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Final Words On Catholicism; How About That Wisconsin Diocese?

Friday, February 3rd, 2012


So. Today is the last day that I’m saying anything about my quest for answers about Catholic Church dogma. I started this quest using the word “beliefs” instead of dogma, but the results of my research has beaten me like a dog, and I have come to realize that the entirety of Catholic rules are man made, not the Rule of God. Are those the origins of the word dogma—beaten like a dog and man?

That disappoints me for some reason. As you know, I was raised Baptist. In fact I have the distinction of being baptized twice in the same church by the same preacher—an events sequencing that was frowned upon by the church’s elite, including my own mother. I was saved and dunked the first time before puberty, a trip to Pastor Browningwell’s alter under the required repentant trance.

First time I was petrified of going to Hell—I was a sinner with my first breath of worldly air and never stopped sinning—and I was convinced that Jesus, sweet Jesus, was my only salvation. From that date until I was raped by my Boy Scout Leader—one of the same Deacons who approved of my baptism and membership into his church—I was a devout Baptist boy.

Post rape I was a changed man, and I didn’t even attend church until I fell in love at aged fourteen. She required me to rededicate myself before letting me fondle her breasts. I’d have become a fucking Catholic priest if that was a requirement to fondle her breasts.

Now you might think that I’m off the tracks here, but I’m not. See the Baptists have a hard-and-fast rule, a rule that says, “Once saved, always saved.” That’s right, folks, since I walked the aisle and honestly pledged my faith to Jesus, I can do nothing to that will put me in Hell. And since I walked the aisle twice, I figure I’ve got chairs reserved at both the right and left hands of Jesus.

As a Baptist myself, I can say with absolute surety that the Baptists make shit up. They might use the Bible as a false front man, but they just make shit up. They “interpret” Biblical words in ways to further their self interests.

As a somewhat-thinking man, I know that the very Bible itself is a confusing sequence of interpretations itself. If we believe the Bible, its oldest stories predate written language by thousands of years, which means that God’s original words had to be passed down through hundreds of generations of interpreters before anything was even written on rocks. If you then factor the changes of language that happened with all the wars and the transitory lifestyles of those olden days, you can only imagine how much of God’s Word was lost in translation.

As BJ said in a comment on an earlier post, the original religions served as the lawmakers for early civilizations. That vested power and authority into the religious leaders, many of whom were, simply put, the strongest. Not necessarily the smartest, nor the nicest.

Which raises another issue for me. Let’s say I’m the scribe for an early sect of Jews in the era before papyrus and lambskin paper. My fictional tribe actually pre-date formal Jewishness by a few hundred years. Here I sit with my limestone slabs, flint hammer and point. Maybe I’m smart and have invented a mallet using a rock tied to a stick with a catgut binding. I’m at the feet of our tribal leader and head Priestess, Remarka.

Remarka has grown old and wishes to pass her knowledge to her successor and I’m the clan’s scribe. I’m named scribe because I’m not strong enough to fight or hunt, and I’ve an artistic bent which lends itself to neat handwriting. Remarka has just finished dictating early Genesis and I’ve scribed my way to the fourth day.

The Priestess is growing weak, so she tells me to listen to the rest of Genesis while she has the strength. She doesn’t have time to wait for me to painstakingly scribe onto the stones, so she asks me to listen to the entire story and then write it all down. Remarka restarts the story with how God created Eve in Her image and then made man from an unnecessary flap of flesh that covered Eve’s butt crack. Early on God thought that assholes were going to be ugly and would need to be hidden under the fleshy cover, but She changed her mind. As a woman deity, God felt OK changing Her mind. This flesh became Adam’s pecker, and therefore was how man’s obsessions began.

I listen to the whole thing—all the way to when Remarka’s predecessor, Noahina, had saved all the living things in the Great Flood. Remarka sighs deeply and says to me, she says, “Lunarius, I want you to tell the clan that I name as my successor…”

The great High Priestess coughed, and without another word, she died. And the rest is history.

How many times did that sort of shit happen over ten thousand years? And have you ever thought of this? How fucking hard is it to erase a mistake from a stone tablet? “What do you mean you said ‘Jessia’ Master. I thought you said ‘Jesus’ was to be the Messiah’s name. Don’t worry, I’ll change that to Jessia” later.”

I actually feel a little dumb for thinking that I could find God’s hand in religion. Modern Christianity has killed spirituality and replaced it with the self-serving of the old men who rule each Christian cult.

I, for one, hope that there is a heaven. How cool would that be? But no God that I could trust would require me to act like a perfect contemporary Baptist or Catholic. My God isn’t an asshole.

This shit has absolutely worn me out. Manana, y’all.

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Read At Your Own Risk; Mooner’s Confusion Is Confused

Thursday, February 2nd, 2012


So. It’s Thursday and a beautiful day here to Austin, Texas. Texas state Governor Rick “The Prick” Perry is still too wounded with embarrassment from his national political debacle to restart his dismantling of our infrastructure. The pompous little bastard is hiding out, no doubt meeting with his big money handlers to determine just how bad his national exposures damaged his state authorities. So, as I said, it’s a beautiful day here.

I have never failed to credit the right-wing Christian religious of Texas, and I suspect Ricky will soon start blowing his fetid, stupid air up their dresses again and re-inflate that balloon. I wonder if those of the religious right have ever stopped to wonder why it is that their best political spokesperson is dumb as a rock. OK, that was an unfair statement. He’s not dumb “as” a rock, he’s dumb “like” a rock. Like the painted rock at his family’s hunting lease.

I also wonder if those same supposed “models of Christ’s image” realize that it is we, the hedonistic, agnostic and heretical liberal left who are actually the ones pushing Jesus’ “love your brother-take care of your weak and infirm” political agenda. Do those guys realize that their right-wing me-first attitudes have made us look more Godlike than them. (they?)

Which reminds me to tell you that I heard from a spokesperson from the Holy Roman Catholic Church late yesterday afternoon. Please allow me to say, here in advance, that I had already cracked a couple icy-cold Carta Blanca beers and also ingested one of my Gram’s magic mushroom potions she calls “A bruised peach ain’t right”[.] The bluish spot high on my arm where SAC Ellen “tapped” me night-before-last had turned into a purple and yellow, swollen lump. Gram gave me the potion to reduce swelling and I guess also to stop my whining about it.

I’m still amazed at how much unwanted attention I bring to myself.

Those of you with inclinations to stay abreast of current science know that studies now show how psychedelic mushroom juice can enhance concentration as well as imagination. I have always attempted to tell people that Gram’s potions straighten-out some of my ADHD’s worst habits, and now I have proof. I tell you this to provide additional clarity to the information re: the call from the Catholic guy. I was on my third beer, which likely dimmed my wits, but I was also in a state of altered ADD and AD-with-an-HD effects with enhanced imagination from the mushrooms.

OK, let’s face it, I was shit-faced when my phone rang.

The call wasn’t from Christian Gonzales, the communications guy, but, rather, from Larry Covington, who is the “Ecumenical Officer” of the Austin Diocese. Turns out Larry is a Catholic who attended a Baptist Seminary and he was the perfect man to answer my questions when doing a compare/contrast of Biblical foundations between Baptists and Catholics on three key issues: birth control, abortion and homo, I say homo-sex-u-al-ity.

At first I wondered how it was known that I was ecumenical as it relates to the Catholic Church. I mean really, how did they know I wasn’t Catholic? The answer, of course, was in my question. As I later learned, only a non-Catholic would ask such a silly question.

I’ll preface my remarks by saying that Larry was forthright, forthcoming and didn’t blanch at any question I asked. He didn’t attempt to avoid or deflect except when he felt directing me to printed Catholic stuff would serve to clarify. Unless Larry is a devious little Catholic fucker and the same Larry I’ve met over to the Planned Parenthood where I anti-anti-abortion protest. Short of that, if I were a Catholic I would want Mr. Covington in my corner.

I also wonder if the local Catholic clan has other Ecumenical Officers who attended Church of Christ, Mormon, Lutheran and other seminaries who stand at the ready for callers like me. My simple request lead me through four entire departments and six people. They’d need like at least a dozen specially trained Larry guys each with training in a different world religion. I wonder how many of those guys convert to the religion they study?

It’s no wonder that need so much money.

To understand my quest you need to know that I was raised Baptist and one, Baptists believe in the “literal” words of the Bible, and two, Baptists believe that Catholics are not “real” Christians. I never really gave a shit as to why Catholics were viewed as heretics at my church and I stopped going at an age that predated my quest for knowledge. I’m pretty well-versed on the Catholic Church’s stand on the centuries of child rape committed by its priests and also its stand on women.

But I had never bothered myself with the Bible verses either the Baptists or Catholics stand upon to justify those stances. I made the call to the Catholic Bishop of Austin because he started whining about new health care requirements that require health care providers, those that that accept payments under government programs, cover birth control. I got all pissed off that the Bishop was pissed off about such a basic human right of women.

I had +/-thirty minutes of conversation with Mr. Covington and while I can say that he cleared several things for me, I am even more dumb founded than before making the call. See, according to Larry, the Ecumenical Officer of the local Catholic Church, The Holy Roman Catholic Church doesn’t rely on the words of the Bible for their positions on those three issues. Instead, they rely upon what they choose to call “Natural Law” and then through “The Theory of the Body” the Church pontificates modern beliefs.

Only after filtering whatever original intentions God might have had in regards to my issues through a succession of dried up old men—that would be the Popes and masses of Cardinals over time—several re-interpretations of the Bible, The Dark Ages, The Inquisition, the Catholic Church plundering of the New World, and the actual acceptance of a New Testament that totally changed Christianity, can the Catholics even decide how they rule.

I want to thank Larry Covington for clearing a few things for me and also for confusing the shit right out of me. I’m way too confused to know how I feel about all of this right now, because basically, Larry told me that over the course of Catholic history the high muck-a-mucks of their church have decided how to act, not the Bible. And in these three modern issues, the only reliance on the words of the Bible come AFTER we apply the Catholic interpretation of the Catholic interpretation of Natural Law.


OK, then we’re required to re filter all of that through “The Theology of the Body” which is the last Pope’s cogitations on life.

Let’s start our journey through the mind of Catholic dogma with Natural Law. I apologize for the highlights, funky lines and dead-end hyper links, but here is some of the info I pulled on a Google search of “Catholic Natural Law”[:]

“From Wikipedia:

Paul of Tesarus wrote in his Epistle to the Romans: “For when Gentiles, who do not have the law, by nature do the things contained in the law, these, although not having the law, are a law unto themselves, their conscience also bearing witness.”


(Author’s note: Holy fucking shit!)


The use of natural law, in its various incarnations, has varied widely through its history. There are a number of different theories of natural law, differing from each other with respect to the role that morality plays in determining the authority of legal norms. This article will deal with its usages separately rather than attempt to unify them into a single theory.

In English this term is frequently employed as equivalent to the laws of nature, meaning the order which governs the activities of the material universe. Among the Roman jurists natural law designated those instincts and emotions common to man and the lower animals, such as the instinct of self-preservation and love of offspring. In its strictly ethical application—the sense in which this article treats it—the natural law is the rule of conduct which is prescribed to us by the Creator in the constitution of the nature with which He has endowed us.




According to St. Thomas, the natural law is “nothing else than the rational creature’s participation in the eternal law” (I-II.94). The eternal law is God’s wisdom, inasmuch as it is the directive norm of all movement and action. When God willed to give existence to creatures, He willed to ordain and direct them to an end. In the case of inanimate things, this Divine direction is provided for in the nature which God has given to each; in them determinism reigns. Like all the rest of creation, man is destined by God to an end, and receives from Him a direction towards this end. This ordination is of a character in harmony with his free intelligent nature. In virtue of his intelligence and free will, man is master of his conduct. Unlike the things of the mere material world he can vary his action, act, or abstain from action, as he pleases. Yet he is not a lawless being in an ordered universe. In the very constitution of his nature, he too has a law laid down for him, reflecting that ordination and direction of all things, which is the eternal law. The rule, then, which God has prescribed for our conduct, is found in our nature itself. Those actions which conform with its tendencies, lead to our destined end, and are thereby constituted right and morally good; those at variance with our nature are wrong and immoral.”

*** OK, I’m back, and please allow me to repeat myself when I say, “Holy fucking shit!”

I need BJ to help me work my way through all of this stuff, I’m just not smart enough. One thing that Larry told me is that women can’t be priests because priests are stand-ins for Jesus and Jesus was a man. I assumed that to mean that Priests are supposed to only act like Jesus, but I’m again confused because the Pope is a priest first and he is bigoted towards many people and balks when given the chance to do what Jesus would have done.

Here’s my rationale. The only time Jesus EVER got angry to the point of physical acts against another was when he kicked the money changers out of the temple. Jesus was physically angry and assaulted these guys for the act of currency exchange on church property.

Yet this current Pope, and those several before him, have been mealy-mouthed about the priests who have raped and otherwise molested thousands of children while wearing the collar and performing the Holy sacraments. Pope’s have not only approved of the slaughter of millions of non-Christians, they have blessed and financed the missions to conquer. Popes have endorsed the killings and taking of slaves in God’s name, but they don’t want us to terminate a two-month pregnancy?

Have I managed to confuse you guys now? My head is spinning and I haven’t even addressed the Theology of the Body. Wait until you see that one. What I wanted was simple answers to modern issues and maybe in all of this confusion I have them. Maybe it’s one, simple answer.

Just like we Baptists, Catholics make shit up to suit us. Manana, y’all.

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Mooner Panders To Gay Readers; No Word From The Catholics

Wednesday, February 1st, 2012


So. BJ over to the Dumb Perignon told me that I had additional webber commenter information available to me that would prove his innocence in a formerly-raging commenter debate, and when I looked into his suggested bloggie administrative functions I stumbled upon an interesting tidbit upon which I will now act.

OK, let’s stop here and examine that last sentence. Let me first say that I have read that little ditty thirteen times, and while each reading has brought new meaning to those words, I remain convinced that I said exactly what I meant. And they say ADHD prevents focus and concentration.

The tidbit I tripped over was that many of my recent first time visitors had come here via Good To Be Gay

What the fuck? I can’t continue typing up there in the last paragraph without having it continue the Good To Be Gay hyperlink. I had to leave that paragraph open like that to get out of the linkster, and that shit drives me nuts.

Anyway, I was banging around the Admin section yesterday after BJ told me something, and I discovered that one, I had a significant number of new visitors, and that two, many (most) of those newbies had arrived from GTBG.

I received an email from one of those viewers that said in part, “… and while I find much of your writing interesting, I feel lost with some of people and situations. Might you give your new readers a refresher?…”

For some reason this Emailer wished to go nameless and I hope that isn’t because she is still in the closet. I prefer to think that she’s the mother of a gay person and that she finds me attractive and that embarrasses her. Join the club, Ma’am.

Anyway, I though about her request and decided she’s right. It’s been over a year since I did the Cast of Characters button up there ^^^^^ and things change. So here is my best effort to clarify things:

Mr. Dave is an elderly gentleman in possession of a penis the size of a large Japanese eggplant, said penis is a physiological phenomenon when under the influence of Viagra, and my randy old grandmother rescued him from the nursing home and brought him here to the ranch where he services the matrons of the Johnson family ranch. Mr. Dave is a true gentleman who shares his bounty without prejudice and burns through extra large rubber like a drag car.

I have a menagerie of household pets that includes regular domestic varieties and also pets not typically considered to be of the household. Squirt, the half-Chihuahua/half-Dachshund puppy, currently speaks at least a dozen human languages and is taking the place of Dixie, my long-suffering Golden Retriever and personal translator for the previous sixteen years. Yoda, the supposed same half-Chihuahua/half-Dachshund puppy who is actually a mix of Chihuahua and fucking Whippet, is a bugeyed little shitball who is so ugly that he’s actually cute, and thus aptly-named. He was rescued from a puppy mill over to Oklahoma where they beat and choked him. He has resultant bladder control issues and he sounds like an old man with throat cancer when he barks. Only had him six months and love him like a son.

Honor the fucking cat is a minor character in my life and not because I have anything against cats. It is, quite simply put—because she’s a fucking cat. Honor is with us as the result of a therapy assignment (read “experiment”) forced on me by Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my first-of-ten ex-wives and only psycho therapist. The cat “adopted” the Squirt and me when she escaped from the crazy cat lady’s house and hid in the back seat of my old GTO.

Maybe I should spend more time telling you about what little the fucking cat does. Do gay people have an especially strong leaning towards cats to where I should add some silly cat talk for their/your edification? Would I be showing a prejudice should I allow the construction of my viewer constituency to sway my content? Did Lee Harvey Oswald really act alone?

Rush Limbaugh is 550+ pounds of domesticated porcine drag queen, a pig named after the gigantic asshole of radio fame. If you buy my book, Full Rising Mooner, you’ll find the back-story on him. Rushie and his lover, the ostrich Rick Perry—a 350-pounder in his own right—live in my bedroom closet where they pretend nobody knows they are gay. The two of them are likewise aptly named as Rush Limbaugh is a pig in every way, and Rick Perry is a pretty bird who runs in circles and has a usable brain the size of a pea.

I love all my pets and treat them like family, a condition they return on me.

As far as prejudices go, I have several. Right-wing Christian shitballs, the Baptist church, Her Royal Highness The Pope, and people who are bigoted against other people because of differences in color, religion and sexual preferences headline the recipients of my prejudice. I am a liberal of just past rare cooking and I am an anti-anti-abortion protester. I think Dr. Marcus Bachmann IS out of the same closet where Michele Bachmann hides deep within.

My sister, named Sister, is a lesbian woman who happens to be married to my third ex-wife. Sister and Anna the Amazon are quite an attractive couple and next to Streaker Jones, my first choices as backup in a bar fight. Each is quite feminine and both are well-trained in the martial arts. They and my long-time friend Lloyd are gay persons who mean very much to me. Lloyd is the man I most admire of all men I have known.

Do you guys have men and/or women you most admire? For me the choice of a woman for the category is a difficult choice. I have so many strong and amazing women in my life that I’d name different ladies at different times. Even though I’ve had some incredible men near to me, Lloyd is the one man I wish I was more like. More alike? Lloyd’s actual first name is Curtis, but I guess that really doesn’t make a shit in this context.

OK, I’m going to stop with this line of discussion because I feel like I’m starting to pander to my gay readers. I’m not opposed to pandering buy I always attempt to pander with a specific goal in mind. Let me just say that I am a non-denominational admirer of good people regardless of their persuasions.

I’m also crazy. My aforementioned psycho therapist calls me a, “crazy lunatic redneck fuckbrain,” a diagnosis not found by me in any psychiatric journal. I am an environmentalist who owns a compost business, I ingest every known organic mind-altering substance so far identified, and when I drink beer I demand Carta Blanca.

Fuck Two X’s beer and those silly commercials. Have you ever had a Dos Equis beer? (imagine the sound of me spitting) Hopped and malted rat piss.

Which reminds me. Mr. Christian Gonzales—the head muck-a-muck in the Communications Department over to the Austin Diocese of The Holy Roman Catholic Church—has not yet returned my call. I’m not prepared to call him a chicken and make clucking noises quite yet, but I’m warming up my clucker.

Which just caused a thought to hit me. When I was transferred to the Communication Department I assumed that meant the place where information is disseminated. Maybe Christian (what a fucking name for this guy) is in the Communications Department meaning he’s the guy that de-communicates a Catholic from the church.

Holy shit but isn’t the Catholic hierarchy a complicated and critical bunch of prissy old gasbags? Who is that guy at the Vatican who serves as Papal spokesman? You know, the guy I call Ratso Rizzo the Second. Has a pointy rat face and speaks with these red, pouty lips all pursed-up like he’s got a mouthful of spoiled piss in his mouth.

Anyway, I’m running out of steam and time as well. Welcome, new readers, and I’ll see you manana.


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Mooner Mucks-Up The Bachelor; Baptists Vs Catholics

Tuesday, January 31st, 2012


So. I’ve been mostly missing from the scene since Friday because I’ve been busy with planned activities. As a sufferer of acute ADHD and ADD Types I through XV, I have also been busy with unplanned activities. Just last night I was flipping between the Texas mens’ basketball game and The Bachelor on the TV and I got into an unplanned argument with my sweetie.

SAC Ellen is in town for a few days and spent last night here. I don’t usually watch “Der Batch O’ Dummies” as Streaker Jones calls the ABC show, but the SACster is hooked on it. Under normal circumstances I would have watched my game, because I’m hooked on University of Texas sports, without interruptions in another room. OK, wait. Under normal conditions, SAC Ellen would have been in the living room with the flock of old Johnson birds watching The Bachelor on the big screen with Mr. Dave.

Mr. Dave is home from his visit over to the P-cube’s house and arrived back to the ranch with an extra bag. P-cubed is now staying in the guest room in Mother’s wing of the house where she can fit herself into Mr. Dave’s routine schedule. Things have gotten so confusing with that poor old man’s sexing schedule that the ladies asked Gnat to organize it for him. My able assistant set up a spreadsheet, and here “spreadsheet” is apt grammatical syntax.

Anyway, last night I hit the “Previous” channel button—I swear by reflex—and flipped to the game just as the bachelor, Ben is his name, removed his undies to skinny dip with the crazy woman. They always put one crazy woman on these shows to garner viewer interest.

“Dammit, Mooner, you ruined it.” My sweetie snapped at me and punched my arm high, near the shoulder. As I’m writing this my arm still hurts from the punch.

“Ow, dammit, ow, ow, ow!” I didn’t actual cry out in pain, but it hurt.

“Oh, stop being a cry baby, I barely tapped you.”

Have you ever noticed how persons with hands that are dangerous weapons always say “I barely tapped you” after they punch a bruise on you? My buddy Squatlo can back me up on this one. Right Bob? His sweet wife looks like a school teacher and has the balanced countenance of an Earth mother. But Bob says she can split a bowling ball with a stab from one finger.

I didn’t need to attempt the bowling ball dealie to know that’s quite a feat, and I suspect SAC Ellen might possess similar abilities. Her “little tap” left bluish imprints of her knuckles.

Holy shit but I have left the fucking building. I wanted to tell you about my little research project. The local Catholic High Muck-A-Muck, Bishop Joe S. Vasquez, issued a statement last night that he is pissed about “Obamacare” because it requires health care insurers and providers to cover contraceptives costs if they participate in government programs. I know that last sentence was poorly constructed but you catch my drift.

Le Bishy-Poo was pissed that his church’s dogma were required to take second place to the law, and he started that tired old “separation-of-church-and-state” argument where the church takes the opposite side of the coin than what was meant in The Constitution. They try to twist the Big C to say that a law shouldn’t ever contradict religious dogma, when the actual words are different. The new health care package does not REQUIRE Catholic hospitals to sell/offer birth control pills. But it does say that they need to offer the same full coverage as other health care providers on government programs.

Or said another way, the Federal plan needs to be administered in like kind at every fucking institution it is administrated. Another awkward sentence with specific meaning. The new program is designed for the human recipients of the health care and not the fucking institutions providing the health care. I know this is a change from the Bushie White House years where the providing institutions got all of the consideration in health care regulating.

But that debate isn’t what got me off track. It was, rather, that I started wondering what specific Bible verses (versi?) does (do?) The Holy Roman Catholic Church base its positions re: contraception and abortion? I was reared Baptist and those silly shitwads cannot make a clear decision where in the Bible they come up with some of their crazy ideas. But the Catholics are waaaay more organized and have been at the business of silly dogma for hundreds of years longer. Hell, the Catholics invented the fucking Inquisition, so you know they’ve got the whole dogma dealie down pat.

So, I called Bishop Joe (Jose) S. Vasquez to get some answers. I wonder what the S. is for—Stephen, I bet, or would it be Simon after the Apostle? I was passed from department-to-department as nice-sounding women answered the phone in each department. I guess the local Diocese of the Catholic Church don’t have the same rules as up to the Vatican. I guess women are good enough to be secretaries down here at the lower ranks of Catholicdom, but lack the needed proximity to God for holding the higher offices.

Anyway, I landed at the Communications Department and the voice mail for Mr. Christian Gonzales, it’s head. As I listened to his message I had a bigoted thought. I was thinking that I might have found the level at which the gender barrier was erected at the Diocese. I know that I have a quite real bias to bigots, and having that bias is a bigotry all its own.

I left him a message that said, “I’m doing research on the differences in Catholic and Baptist beliefs on several topical subjects and I would like an official position of your church.”

I’m going to ask him which specific Bible verses The Pope relies upon to make his edicts on contraception, abortion and homosexuality. I’ve tried since last year to get The Pope to answer for himself but my queries have gone unanswered.

I’ll let you know what I find out. Mooner Johnson, Investigative Reporter. Manana, y’all.


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A Letter To Texas Governor Rick Perry; God’s Will Was Done

Friday, January 20th, 2012


So. Now that he has walked away from the Presidential campaign, I’m thinking that I might have an opportunity to get through to my Governor. I’m thinking that he might have been humbled by this experience and that he could listen to my requests. This is my open letter to Texas Governor Rick Perry:


Dear Governor Perry:


As a resident of the state of Texas, I write this letter with mixed emotions. While I regret that you will now have time to restart your inane and systematic dismantling of my home state’s infrastructures, education systems and social support agencies, I find myself grateful to you for not continuing your pursuits to inflict those same damages on my entire fucking country. I can always move from Texas if things get too bad here, but I would have no place to go if you screwed up America.

It burns my ass down to the scorched bones beneath to say this to you, but please allow me to be the first to say, “Welcome home, Governor.”

Since you seem to be all about saving the state government money, as the first action you take back home, I would like you to please pay the state the sum of $2,315,342.46, which is 159 days of your $150,000 salary as Governor ($65,342.46) and 159 days worth of your out-of-state security costs at $14,000 per day. Those are but the two most easily-calculated line items from your presidential campaign budget that were direct drains on State treasuries.

I would think that if God told you to run for President because it was, “… the right thing for our country…,” then I think God will want you to do the right thing and repay your state for supporting your now-aborted run.

Your God seems to be all about doing the right thing, or does your God practice the same selective applications of the rightness of things as do you? Does your God play fair only sometimes?

Interesting word, aborted.

Which brings up an interesting point—a point that many Texans have raised. Tell us, Governor, since your God told you to run for the Presidency, did He also tell you to abort your run for the country’s highest office? If He did, did He tell you why? Please tell us why He wanted you to quit.

If He didn’t tell you to abort the mission, to abandon His ship if you will, then why did you go against God’s wishes? I find myself thinking that either He, your God, or you, Mr. Governor, is a two-faced polliwog. I’m no longer a practicing Baptist, sir, but I hesitate to call any man’s God two-faced without serious evidence to lean upon.

Are you the two-faced polliwog, Sir?

And that brings another thought to mind. You threw your support behind Newt Gingrich. Newt Gingrich? Really? Are you fucking kidding us? Did God tell you to do that? Would you please tell us what God said? Might you elucidate how God can think that a lying, two-faced racist and serial adulterer is a better candidate to be President than you? I mean, really, Mr. Governor, what the hell is there about you that God would prefer Newt fucking Gingrich?

Also, with you having such a close and quite personal relationship with God, what has He said about Mitt? Come on, Rick, your God must really have some funny insights into that entire dealie. Maybe Newt secretly wishes he was a Mormon—a solution to many of his image problems. Does God believe in Mormonism?

Wouldn’t that be a kick in the pants?

Reason and logic would tell you that you should come home and sit with an icy-cold Carta Blanca beer and reflect upon the debacle that is your aborted run for President. Were you to do so, you would be forced to conclude that God deems you unfit for that office and that your politics are wrong. Wrong for America and likewise wrong for Texas.

But I fear you to be an unreasonable two-faced polliwog, and logic appears to be a foreign principle of science to you, Governor. I fear you will take a deep breath, curse the National Media, blame them and not God for your demise, and take your anger and frustration out on the people of Texas.

You have managed to fool the majority of people who vote in elections here for many years. Fool us again, Mr. Perry, and show that you are humane. Stop ruining this fine state. Restore some sanity to your Public policies.

If you will, I’ll say, “God bless Governor Perry.”

If not, “Fuck you, sir, and the ass you rode in upon.”


Written with intentions most sincere,


Mooner Johnson- Austin, Texas



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Parental Concerns; A Religious Sentiment

Monday, January 9th, 2012


So. It’s 5 am and I can’t sleep. I’ve been without my two adorable puppies and the fucking cat this weekend, and I miss their pesterings so much I can’t sleep. Who knew that the absence of pain could cause insomnia? I miss getting crowded out of my own bed and I actually miss the cat’s needle sharp caresses.

I have a 10:30 psycho therapy session wherein I’ll get Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s evaluations of one, my animals’ states of mental health, and two, her clinical opines as to my mental health as reflected in my parenting said animals. Based on these evaluations, I’ll bring the animals home with me, or not. I’m not really worried about the results except that the Squirt is fully capable of fucking with me on this dealie to gain an advantage somewhere. It wouldn’t surprise me to hear that I need to be more responsive to their needs, or some silly shit like that.

If I was writing a book, that last sentence would be foreshadowing. Here, it’s but a simple prediction.

There is some foreshadowing in my just-released book—Full Rising Mooner—available by either clicking over there ===}}}} to the linksters, or by clicking on the STORE tabbie up top^^^. I would consider it a personal favor if you will at least investigate a purchase. Check out the book trailer—a 30-second video ad for the book. I put it over there on the Bloggie Roller as well. Over there ===}}} where it says “Book Trailer”[.]

Which reminds me. If you have been here before, you know with certainty that I am a staunch supporter in a woman’s right to choose. I support a woman’s right to choose any and every fucking thing as it relates to her body, person and mind. While that might have been a tad redundant there, it does properly describe my levels of support for a woman’s rights.

In my last posting, I mentioned my support of a woman’s reproductive rights and I showed a picture of my latest anti-anti-abortion protest picket sign. That’s the sign I’ll use when the anti-abortion protesters show back up over to Planned Parenthood. Squatlo made a comment that, “… conception begins at puberty…,” a comment aimed at the silliness of recent right-wing Christian statements that the instant a sperm sniffs out an egg you have yourself a baby.

That silly sentiment was debated by the Catholic anti-abortion lady and me on one of my last visits with her. I think a baby is what gets born outside a woman’s body, a plain and simple belief. Catholic A-AL now believes the sperm-meets-eggie bullshit. Since we’ve been protesting against each other, her “belief” as to precisely when a human exists in the procreation process has regressed from during the third trimester, to the second trimester, to when a sonogram can determine sex, to when you can detect a heartbeat, to now—egg meets sperm.

Following that illogical pathway, Squat decided the next place to look at conception would be puberty. The idea would be that as soon as you CAN conceive, you HAVE conceived. Not a silly idea in the previous context.

But here is my thought. When Catholic A-AL and I argued this issue, I asked her why she kept changing her tune, why she has so much trouble making her mind up about all of this. Her answer was somewhat confounding. “God is a living God and the Bible is a living book.”

Translated, she meant that whatever her priest/preacher told her to think is what she believes. So my first question to her was, “But I thought you previously told me that God knows all, sees all, and is the Maker of all things. Right?”

“You got that right, heathen. Everything that ever happens is God’s will. Ev-er-y thing ev-er!” she replied.

Oh, re-a-ly? Everything that happens is God’s will? This was the last time I was slapped. I said back to the lady, I said, “Well, then, if everything that happens is God’s will, then a woman getting an abortion is simply doing God’s will. She doesn’t have a choice. So, since you don’t want a woman to have a choice you are getting what you want when the woman gets the abortion.”

She looked at me dumbfoundedly and said, “But God gives us free will.”

Two… three… and four. “Now wait, little darlin’,” I advised her. “You don’t get it both ways. Either your God decides everything that will happen and then makes it happen, or He lets us make our own choices. But you can’t have it both ways just to get your way. But whichever you choose, your God is OK with a woman making her own choices about her own body.”

Again I got the dumbfounded look, which turned into a squinty-eyed stare, which lead to a, “Slap!”

To me, this underscores the absurdity of any attempt to force any religion or religious belief system on persons not followers of that religion. Faith-based religion is illogical by definition, so once you push your religious dogma past the pulpit it is illogical to the rest of us. You can attempt to convert us to your way or you can try to convince us that your way makes sense.

But what makes you think you can tell us what to do? Why should the rest of us be forced to follow your illogical beliefs? What gave you the right to force your shit on us?

I really don’t care what you believe. Think whatever you wish. If you choose to think that Earth was created in the course of a week 4,000 years ago—knock yourself the fuck out. If you want to believe in an exclusionary deity, go right on ahead, asshole.

Just leave me alone.

On the ADHD front, not having the additional stimuli of the dogs and fucking cat around has been a mixed bag. I don’t have the stress of being a good parent ever present in my skull, but I do have a parent’s concern about whether they will embarrass me when out of site. I usually don’t worry about getting embarrassed. I do way plenty stupid shit all the time so I suffer no embarrassment at my own hands. But I do suffer from that silly parental concern.

OK, I need to get ready for therapy. Please buy my book and I’ll see you, manana.

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Iowanianians Speak; Rick Perry Fucked!

Wednesday, January 4th, 2012


So. In this morning of aftermath, as the Iowainians have nothing left to revel in, or about—save the afterglow of their every-four-years national media migration—I have something to say.

God has spoken in Iowa, and bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha! Pooooor Ri-ckyyyy, poooor Ri-kyyyyy!

In response to the prayers of the many Republican presidential hopefuls, whose visits almost doubled the Iowa population, God has finally made his decision as to which of those silly fuckballs He has chosen to support. God, in His infinite wisdom, has decided that the Mittster shall be blessed with a narrow first, the other Ricky gets second, blah, blah and blah, then Rick “The Prick” Perry gets fifth and Michele “Oh Marcus, That’s Not My Vagina” Bachmann came in dead last of the long list of candidates who actually visited Iowa.

I find myself in a state of elation, a state which is balanced with queasiness. God, with the assistance of the conservative right-wing Christians of Iowa, has decided that Ricky Perry shall not be President. As it turns out, God has listened not to the prayers of the Texas Governor—a pious man with deeply conservative Christian values—and rather listened to me, Mooner Johnson, an unpious and excessively liberal reformed Baptist ADHD-addled dingbat. Maybe I’m piousless. Or piousfree.

Please, allow me one more time to say, “Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha. Poooor Ri-ckyyyyyy!”

Rick Perry said he was praying for a win, or at least third place, and for God’s guidance. I prayed that God would make the people of Iowa way smarter than those of us in Texas, and hand the Prickster his first political defeat.

Scoreboard, mother fucker!

If Rick Perry had finished in third place or better, you know he would have thanked God for the success. If he’d been a winner, the win would be all about God. But will Ricky now say that God has told him to go back to Texas and stay put, or will the pompous little asshole say that God let him down? Doubtful.

All of this leaves my stomach somewhat unsettled as well. Do you realize that 25% of the super arch-conservative Christians in Iowa voted for a Mormon, a man who wears magic underwear to protect him from all evil? OK, they call them vestments, I think, but you get the picture.

Which reminds me. Go over to Squatlo Rant and find the Penn Jillette video, crack an adult beverage, like a Carta Blanca beer, and watch. It will take you the better part of twenty minutes to watch the entire thing, but you will be better off for it. The linkster is over there ===}}}

I’m also queasy in the knowing that the people of Iowa are now, as a result of my prayer, way smarter than those of us in Texas. They managed to see Rick Perry for the dolt that he is, and we keep electing Ricky as our governor. He and his cronies in big business and energy have raped and pillaged our state, and we keep electing him to our highest office. My best hopes for all of this is that we Texans learn by observations.

But overall, I’m happy with the results. I prayed and said, “Fuck Rick Perry,” and, dear friends, Rick Perry is fucked. I’m thinking that since my prayers are more powerful than Rick Perry’s prayers, I can start a new business.

Mooner Johnson’s Prayer Emporium will be a fee-based prayer service. I don’t have all the detail worked out yet, but I think this one will be a winner. With God on my side, how can I lose? I’ll charge rates based upon your need and I’ll even make some prayers free.

Which reminds me. The Squirt woke me early this morning and asked me to have a private conversation with her. We grabbed a cup of coffee and went out to sit in the courtyard. It was near-freezing out this morn and the little puppy shivered with every breath.

Squirt took a deep cleansing breath and released it slowly. Then she looked up at the stars, took another breath and shivered hard. “What is it, little lady? You seem to have something powerful on your mind. You want me to talk to God for you?”

She squared her solid little body to face me and said, “No, Bwana Mooner, es ist nicht ein Gebet Ich brauche. Quiero invertir mi histerectomía.”


“You want me to reverse your hysterectomy—you want me to undo your spay?” This was dumbfounding to say the least. Squirt has been quite vocal as to her happiness with a sexless life.

“Si, oui, and yes, Mooner. And the sooner the better. Mr. Dave won’t live forever.”

Turns out that Squirt was heading to Aunt Hilda’s room to deliver a package from UPS, and she walked in on Mr. Dave standing, nekid, at the foot of the bed. I’m starting to think size might actually matter.

“Well, my furry little sweetheart, that request will require a prayer.” A first client for Mooner Johnson’s Prayer Emporium, and a charitable one at that.

Anyway, all of these mentioned matters require more thought before I get too carried away with myself. Gram makes a magic mushroom potion blended to give a person clarity of thought. She calls it “Shut yer yapper and think fer a second”[.]

But I’m up to the task. Mooner Johnson- deep fucking thinker! Manana, y’all.




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Mooner’s 2012 Wish List; Fuck Rick Perry

Saturday, December 31st, 2011


So. Today’s last posting of the year shall be what I’ll call Mooner’s Wish List For 2012. I’m down to fifteen hours of freely giving of myself and I’m feeling pretty good about stuff here at the end of 2011. I started thinking about my wishes for the New Year, so I thought I’d give you my list. Here it is:


  1. I wish that my silly sentimentality will grab a rein on itself. It really is OK with me that I cry at the drop of sincerity, but Tuesday I started leaking tears when Gram put an Air Supply cassette on the stereo and I’m All Out’a Love came on. I’m fine if The Beatles or Don Henley or Classical music, or Simon and Garfunkel bring me to my knees in a weeping mess of tears and snot bubbles. But Air Supply?
  2. I wish that Jesus Christ would return for a few months—not the big End-of-Days return, but rather a short visit—and remind the fucking Christians that He was/is all about love and inclusion. Modern American Christians have become so exclusive about every aspect of thought and life that their practices don’t even resemble Christ’s preachings. Now that I think about it, maybe that’s why the Air Supply song brought tears to my eyes. I was raised in the Baptist church and maybe I’m sad at what it has become, at their love lost.
  3. I wish that everyone could sing and dance and run and throw and make money equally. I wish that the only tangible differences among us were in how we think and act, and that our icons and idols were people who were special to us for what they do rather than what they CAN do.

    I wish that I could have been Mr. Dave when he was twenty years old until he was like maybe thirty-five.

  4. I wish I had a wish that wasn’t so wishy. I’m sounding like Oprah Winfrey for shitsakes.


OK, stop the presses. When I started this I thought I had some original thoughts about how to make the New Year a better new year. I don’t. I have nothing new to add to the same tired and trite wishes I’ve had for the last twelve years or so. I want to be happy with the state of politics in America—I really want us to return to be an inclusive society. I want America to mind its own business and mind our stores. Our mice on Wall Street are clearing out the cupboards while the cat is busy playing with other countries’ lives.

I want you to practice any fucking religious beliefs you want to practice just as long as you let me to practice mine. I want you to practice your silly fucking religious beliefs on yourself, and not on me. If you believe life starts when you first think about having sex—lock your kids in the basement until you marry them off to another member of your church. Don’t practice safe sex and don’t terminate any of your fucking pregnancies because that is your choice. But don’t tell others what to do, because a woman’s right to choose her own destiny is what is sacred. A woman’s right to choose is sacred!

If you think that homosexuality is evil and wrong, don’t suck another man’s dick. Don’t play ‘hide the two-headed vibrator’ with another woman. But if my sweet sister wants to marry Anna the Amazon—my ever-so-sexy and likewise sweet ex-wife—then leave them the fuck alone.

Which reminds me. It dawned on me just the other day exactly why Dr. Marcus Bachmann is soooooo very concerned and dedicated to turning gay men into husbands of women. I feel a little dumb for not getting it sooner.

And don’t you hate when a writer hits “Bold, Italicize and Underline” to provide emphasis to his words. I wish I could better communicate than to do that. But I can’t.

If you think that Earth was uninhabited until something less than 10,000 years ago, knock yourself the fuck out.

I wish I knew another word to use for the word fuck. Wouldn’t it be nice if there existed another English word to express all of those same thoughts and emotions and meanings as when you say, “Fuck?” Fuck is my favorite word, and you can go fuck your fucking self and all your fucking neighbors if you don’t fucking like it. Fuck you. But I would get more people to read this shit I write if I had another word.

Anyway, if you are one of those Christians who think the Bible says that the Earth was created sometime between four and ten thousand years ago… OK, let me first say, “Are you fucking kidding me? Are you truly that ignorant or stupid?” And second, please allow me to say, “Fine. If you want to ignore the facts, fine. Home school your own children or take them to your church school.” But leave the rest of us to teach reality in our public schools.

Said another way, I really don’t care what you want or choose to do with your life. I don’t care how you think you make it to heaven, or hell, and I don’t care if you think I’m a hedonistic, sacrilegious heretical and evil bastard. I don’t care about any of that. Think anything you want.

But leave… me… the… fuck… alone! Do not even try to force your shit on the rest of us.

Ugh. Ugh, ugh and ugh once more.

Isn’t it the final eleventh hour somewhere in the World? I need a Carta Blanca beer and an attitude adjustment. SAC Ellen is back in town and there is no way she’s sexing me when I act like this. Maybe I should take all the animals fishing. It’s unusually warm this morning and Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh could use the fresh air. Speaking of two-headed vibrators, my gay pig and ostrich haven’t seen the light of day since they opened their Xmas presents from each other.

So let me say “Happy New Year Everybody”[,] and I hope that all of your wishes come true. OK, look, I hope all of your wishes come true so long as they don’t infringe upon anyone else. If you have wishes that impinge on my rights then I say, “Fuck you, asshole! Eat shit and die.”

Manana, y’all.


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“Pay It Backward”; Mooner Challenges The Pope

Monday, December 26th, 2011


So. Xmas is over and how grateful can we be for that? For all of you shitball right-wing Christians who think that my saying, “Xmas,” is sacrilegious, you dear morons know less about your own obsessions than do I. If you bothered to be certain that “Merry Xmas” is a blasphemous remark before shooting off your silly mouth and making threats upon my person, you’d have been saved the embarrassment of learning the truth post-incident. You’d have likewise escaped the case of puncture wounds to your upper thigh, said wounds perfectly matching the denture patterns of a certain half Chihuahua-half Whippet puppy.

Of course, if said shitballs bothered to check their facts before taking stupid positions on things, they wouldn’t even be right-wing Christian shitballs. They’d likely still be shitballs, but of some other variety.

See, Xmas is the shortened version of Christmas—a code name invented by the Greek Christians to evade additional torments at the hands of the anti-Christian tormentors of their time. The “X” in Xmas is the Greek letter for our C, so Xmas means Christmas, shitballs. It is the same fucking word.

Which reminds me. Did you guys see the Pope’s Xmas routine this year. As usual on Xmas day, his royal highness, La Popie, stood as nearly erect as possible at the golden alter in one of his chapels—as erect as one can stand when wearing fifty pounds of gold thread robes, gold trimmed hat and I’m sure a cutesy red thong—to deliver his annual Xmas mass message. There’s gold everywhere and thousands-of-dollars of fresh flowers ringing the alter area.

We can’t have the Pope seen without fresh flowers, you know, and maybe he should do squats to build his strength. I tried to stand straight holding a fifty-pound dumbbell and I’ll tell you that it requires a solid core strength.

The gold used to weave the finery and plate the alter, the scepters and other artifacts that set the scene of the Pope’s lecture are all items stolen from third world countries over the two thousand years we’ve had Catholics to plunder unfortunate civilizations. In the photo I saw from this Xmas, I bet there was $10 million worth of gold pictured in the cropped picture published in our paper.

I’m talking $10 million of the gold at the market price per ounce and not the value as art and artifact.

There he stood—twin sister of Queen Elizabeth—in the immaculate, perfect framing that only the Pope of the Holy Roman Catholic Church gets to use. And guess what the theme of his message just happened to be. Come on, guess.

His theme was “The over-commercialization of Xmas”[.]

That’s right, that pompous and silly shitball lectured the population of the entire world about our crass commercialization of the holiest of all Christian holy days while standing in and among 2,000-years worth of evidence that the Catholic Church is the crassest Christian organization in history. In response to the old Popster’s message, please allow me to post my response.

Dear Pope,

Hey buddy, how’s it hanging? I hope the holidays have been good to you and yours. Things here have been quite nice recently, thank you, and if God sent Mr. Dave my way to service this hen house, please tell him of my gratitudes.

The reason I’m writing you is that I saw some of your Xmas speech and was moved by your words. OK, I watched your lips move while a very manly robed man translated for you. The translator seemed to be working quite hard to keep his voice low and emotionless. He sounded like Anna the Amazon when she tries to sound like a man, and I’m concerned that she might be manly more than your translator. Look, we really don’t care if you guys are gay, or not. But when you work so hard at looking straight, you cause us to think that all of you are gay and hiding in the massive closets there to Popeville.

“Come out, come out, whoever you are!” Really, we do not give a shit. Maybe if you guys come out of the closet you’ll stop molesting children and take full responsibility for those already molested.

But I digress.

Look, dude. You crazy fucking Catholics invented the commercialization of Xmas. Your entire dealie has been to take everything valuable away from everyone you meet. Since your first years as a club, you started stealing some food, and then a few gold coins—you know, the ones with Caesar’s face stamped on one side—and then things escalated from there. You moved on to stealing people’s land, their gold and other valuables, their livestock and other worldly possessions, and then you started stealing the people themselves, making them your slaves.

You did all of this stealing of commercial goods and services in the name of Christ, or “X” as the Christian Greeks-in-hiding called Him. You, dear man, are the head high muck-a-muck of the organization that is the original instigator of all things crass and commercial about Xmas.

The way I see it you started it, so you stop it. I’ll even make you a deal. I’ll give back every single thing that my family has ever taken from any other person without paying that person full market compensation, if your church will do the same. I mean I’ll give back every single item from forever in the history of Johnsons. I’ll give back that Navajo rug my grandfather bought from that old lady up to Amarillo that one time. He paid $10 for a rug with a current market estimate of $20,000, and I’ll give it back to that old lady. If she’s not with us, I’ll seek out her heirs and give it to them. I’ll give back the the quarter I stole from Mother’s purse when I was seven.

Hell, Mr. Pope, I’ll take Mr. Dave back over to the old folks home and tell him to stay there.

I’ll do that if you return all of the shit you guys have stolen. And if you do it and I do it, I bet we can get a whole bunch of other people to do it. We’ll call the movement “Paying it backwards” and then Steven Spielberg will make a movie out of it and let me write the screen play. We’ll get Jeff Bridges to play me and Chelsea Handler to play SAC Ellen.

OK, wait. SAC Ellen might prefer Sandra Bullock to play her part. Sandra already has experience playing a federal agent. Of course that was the FBI and it was a comedy role. If it was ten years ago, I’d say let’s cast Sharon Stone in the role. SAC Ellen is as steamy hot as I used to imagine Sharon Stone to be.

You claim to be close to God, talk to him for me. You share the same God with the Jews, right? Steven Spielberg is a religious guy from what I hear. I’ll bet he’ll give all of his stolen stuff back too.

Anyway, I just want you to know that you come across as an insincere and ludicrous sack of shit when you do things like that. You know, when you get pissy with the rest of us when we use Christ as an excuse to collect material things. You invented it, and perfected it long before the rest of us gained enough civilization to have any fucking disposable income to waste on fruit cake, Air Jordon sneakers and Xmas lights.

I mean really, has this shit not ever crossed you mind? Dude. Give this a little thought. We could make a lot of money from this idea and not need to steal anything.

And hey, I’m in such a great mood I’ll let you steal this idea from me without any payment of thanks or credit. One last theft to make it all worthwhile.

So until next time…

Hugs and three of those silly European air kisses,

Mooner Johnson

I need to print this letter and go mail it to the Pope. I’ve got his address somewhere around here from when I wrote the last Pope guy about Catholics’ Nazi support back in the WWII. Grab yourself an icy Carta Blanca beer and I’ll see you manana, y’all.

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Mooner Finds Solution At Whole Foods; Trolls With Dried Figs

Monday, December 19th, 2011


So. When I signed off yesterday, Mother and Gram had left for church leaving me in charge of things. Being left in charge of things is normally routine, but our routine is usually sans a randy old fucker with a Japanese eggplant pecker, Grade-A Extra Large, and the excessively high progesterone levels the ladies of the abode have been exhibiting this holiday season.

In honor of old Dave, the giant-peckered old fucker above-mentioned, I’m making this eggplant and turkey cutlet lasagna I invented for tonight’s dinner. I use thin layers of crusty-fried turkey and eggplant rather than pasta and if I must say so myself, it is a downright yummy use of ingredients.

I went to Whole Foods yesterday to shop for last night’s and tonight’s meals, and decided to take Gram’s little red Ferrari. It had stopped raining and I felt like winding through the gears of my grandmother’s little 550-horsepower hot rod.

The Baptist girls were home from church and they gathered with the rest of us in the kitchen before I left. I always take requests before shopping because I hate to hear, “Don’t we have any_____,” and then fill in the blank.

The list was complete and as I had my hand on the door knob to leave, Gram sidled up to me and pulled my head down to whisper to me. “Here,” she said, as she placed a paper in my shirt pocket. “You go stand in tha dried fruit an jerky section there to tha Whole Foodies and show that to any nice men ya see just a hangin’ out.”

I started to reply but she whisked me out with a, “Now git,” and a swat to my bottom. When I managed to get myself seated in the little sports car and start the engine, I pulled my shopping list and whatever it was that Gram gave me from my pocket. I always like to let the car warm up before taking off so that I can take off fast.

The papers in my hand were the list, and a glossy photo of my Gram standing beside this self-same Ferrari in a leather outfit of black with red piping. She was doing that “come here” dealie you do with your forefinger, a wolfish smile on her face. It seems the randy old gasbag who mothered my father was asking me to shop for men who hang out with dehydrated food stuffs at the Whole Foods market over to the Arboretum.

I guess randy old men shop for women at the grocery store same as younger randy men. Me, I’ll hang around the melon section or over with the avocados. I like my ladies not too skinny and round on top. After an encounter with a plump-crotched lady in the avocado section at the Sprouts store this one time, I also find the hunting good in the guacamole pit. We men look for reflections of the women we seek in our chosen sections of the store.

I’ve seen my grandmother nekid, regrettably, and the dried foods section is where I’d shop if I was looking for Gram. I saw her unclothed last summer when she and her best buddy P-cubed picked up some Texas A&M engineering students. The animals and I were all fishing on the dock when the girls brought their captives outside for some sunlight and fresh air. I was treated to the sight of both Gram and P-cubed’s nekidnesses when they decided to take the boys skinny dipping.

I know I should have diverted my eyes, but could you look away if you saw an airplane crashing from the sky?

Anyway, it’s raining again this Monday morning and I still feel pretty good about things. SAC Ellen flies in at noon, so she’ll be having dinner—after a little afternoon sexting delights—and then we’ll be headed to a Christmas party at eight. The stuff being done for the four-of-five stars Clarion reviewed book are still going well, and so is Yoda’s trainings.

He and I were in the shower with the Squirt today after breakfast discussing how I can assist him to learn to not pee anywhere but in the sink or outside, and how to only shit outside. I let the dogs shower with me whenever they want and also whenever I want them too. But no new theories came up in the discussion.

After the shower, I turned the Animal Channel on the TV in the living room and went to get SAC Ellen from her place. She’d left her car at the airport since her schedule is so flighty, and wanted to freshen up before I got there.

OK, wait a big fucking minute because I am fixing to go waaayyy off the reservation. The point of this entire writing today is to tell you that a vote was taken at dinner last night, and Mr. Dave has been invited, and here I’ll specifically quote the language of the proposed vote, “That Mr. Dave be invited to stay awhile to keep the ladies of the house company.”

The vote was fourteen “yeas” and one “abstained” and the abstained was Mother. But her abstention was done with a coquettish smile and flutter of eyelashes in Mr. Dave’s direction. “A proper Baptist lady would never ‘vote” for such a thing,” was my mom’s explanation for witholding her approvals.

“Oh, fer shitsakes, woman, git tha fuck over yerself. I’ll share ‘im.” My grandmother actually won’t share. She’ll get tired of old Dave and move on. She’ll likely come back to him during a dry spell, but she’ll pass him along for sure.

And me, I’m glad to have another man around to soak up the hormones. When things get bitchy at the Chez Johnson ranch, I’ll have a man to share the burdens, tote the bales.

So please, everyone, hoist your Carta Blancas on high with me, and toast to Mr. Dave. Manana, y’all.

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Forgive Me Father For I Have Screwed The Pooch- A Christmas Story

Monday, December 12th, 2011


So. It’s Monday and I’m already crazy with chores and errands enough to last the week. I get extra nuts this time of the year because it’s a tough time for me. OK, let’s back up. For starters, I said, “I’m already nuts,” back there a couple sentences ago, like I had just become nuts early this morning and it surprised me. Not the case. What I should have said is this, “Since I awaken each day already nutty as a fruitcake, the loads of errands and chores heaped upon my strong shoulders by others has made me extra- nutty as a giant fruitcake.”

Christmas is a tough time for me, and most especially this year. Christmas in and of its very self holds the cruxes of my consternations this time of year. I have deep-rooted difficulties with Christmas and all things Christmassy. It’s a love/hate dealie and you know how I hate those fucking dealies, which thought gives me a perfect analogy that will fully-explain my senses on Christmas. Ready?

Here goes. I have the same love/hate relationship with Christmas as I do with Gram. Same as the leathered old gasbag warms my heart while simultaneously chilling my sensibilities, Christmas can heat my heart cockles and chill me to the bone with dread.

On the positive side, I was raised Christian and the Baptist variety at that. For Baptists, the entire fucking year’s church activities are focused on the rousing, thunderous conclusions presented on the day we celebrate the virginal birthing of the one, the only… Jesus Christ.

Wait. I might should have said, “The One, The Only,” you know all caps.

All year long, Baptists tout the future glad tidings about Jesus’ birthday as if His second coming with be coordinated to the same date as his first coming. Even though the December 25th date is arbitrary and totally made-up. That date was selected by big business-directed political fuckballs to boost end-of-year sales.

Which reminds me of a thought I have had ever since the days I reached puberty. As I said, I was raised Baptist and was fully under the iron fist of Baptist dogma until I was quite unceremoniously raped by my Baptist Deacon Boy Scout Leader. Mother dragged my ass, and Sister’s too, to the church every fucking time they opened the doors. Sunday morning, Sunday night, Wednesday evenings and summers for Vacation Bible School.

In Sunday School class—that’s what Baptists call the weekly brain-washing they do to their children every Sunday before morning service—I enjoyed all of the fantastic stories about giant’s slayings and lions’ dens and shit. But I hated all of the preaching that went with it. I especially didn’t cotton to the teachers telling me to “don’t do this” and “don’t do that”[.]

When I was maybe ten, and it might have been eleven, I had a lady Sunday School teacher. Can’t remember her name, but I do remember her as scary looking. I was already growing faster than everybody else so I was a big kid. But this woman was huge. Wait, her name was Mrs. Frieze. Wow. Wow, wow, and wow again! How the fuck did I remember that, and wait until you connect the appropriateness of her name.

Mrs. Frieze had an only son who was, if memory further serves me, in his late twenties. Her son had left the Baptist church to join the Catholics as a priest. Since all Baptists believe that the Catholics are heathens and not real Christians, everybody in the whole church knew why that “young Frieze boy” had become a priest.

“Frieze boy’s a homosexual. Poor Mrs. Frieze, only son done turned queer,” was the mantra on the issue.

Mrs. Frieze was treated with the same care and feeding as all the other unfortunate women at our church. Widows and in particular war widows, women who lost a child and divorced women who were divorced because their husbands were scum, and then women with family in jail were all afforded special treatment by the members of a Baptist church.

Mrs. Frieze had a Mr. Frieze, a smallish man to his wife’s bigness, and no deaths of jailings of close relatives. But Mrs. Frieze had suffered a fate far worse than those. Her son had turned into a homosexual AND he’s become heathen-more and joined the Catholics, and become a priest at that! What worse fate could God enforce a woman to endure?

Anyway, Mrs. Frieze was my Sunday School teacher and I now think she was placed with the ten-to-thirteen year old boys because her son had become a queer. That’s what most Baptists of my church called him, “Queer.” Said with a sneer and as if there was a taste of shit in the mouth. I have always been unsettled by the word queer. I’ll need to talk to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson about that.

As our teacher, Mrs. Frieze was determined to be one, a dutiful teacher and therefore she would brow beat the lessons into us. She would rise to her full height and get into our faces as we sat in our uncomfortable metal chairs when she drove home her points about the various things we could do that would send us, and I’ll quote Mrs. Frieze here when she often said, “You’ll go to hell, straight to hell and do not collect $200.”

The “$200” part was funny for maybe the first hundred times I heard it.

This one Sunday she decided to lecture us boys on which sins would cause us to become a queer. What I remember her telling us as reasons were if we didn’t get active in sports, if we played with dolls, if we spoke like a girl and, of course, if we masturbated. Having had a wet dream but not yet connected the dots, I asked what masturbating was. I remember a quite disjointed description and one that would likely be pretty fucking hilarious if I could replace it to words at this time. All I do remember is that I got the gist, so immediately after church was over and I was returned by Mother to the house, I attempted to use the lesson learned.

I rubbed and rubbed my pecker with my dry and chafed hands and ended with a glorious yet somewhat scary conclusion, and squirted onto the rug in front of the bathroom sink. As a young boy, I made but a perfunctory attempt to clean my residues, a mistake I later regretted.

Then all that week I had wet dreams. I connected my sin of beating-off with the wet dreams and I went to the library and read up on wet dreams and masturbation. What I discovered is that both are normal, and the wet dreams impossible for a boy to avoid UNLESS he eases the pressure of his ejaculate-filled system by masturbating. I practiced masturbating for several months using socks and vibrators and finally my beloved Ivory soap.

And then I got to thinking about Jesus.

Me thinking about Jesus and all things Jesus has caused many of life’s most difficult times on me. Wondering about if Jesus masturbated with a dry hand, a soft woolen sock or with spit was likely the pivotal time of my Christianity.

This subject was a tough one for me, a burden that was heavy on my heart. In Sunday School this one morning, and I think it was Easter morning, Mrs. Frieze was talking all about redemption and Jesus coming back from the dead and rolling the heavy stone from in front of His grave all by Himself—a job requiring at least fifteen men not Son’s of God. She was telling us about how our souls would be saved and we could avoid burning in hell if we would just, blah, blah and blah.

But me, I had a one-tracked mind and having a one-tracked mind is highly unusual for me. So when Mrs. Frieze took a breath in the middle of her lecture, I blurted out, “Mrs. Frieze, do you think Jesus masturbated or do you think he just evacuated his ejaculates with wet dreams? I mean, his family was poor and they likely didn’t have a washing machine and I just know he only had one set of sheets for his bed. I know I don’t like sleeping on crusty sheets, so I’m thinking Jesus masturbated.”

I got a stunned look I took for approval, so I went on. “Do you think He used Ivory soap?”

OK, I’m way distracted from my point. I like Christmas because of the actual idea of Peace on Earth, Goodwill Towards All Men. What I really do not like is what Christians have allowed to happen to it. To sum up my thoughts let me point to the American Family Association who is boycotting any business that doesn’t specifically use Christmas as the slogan for sales.

Are you fucking kidding me? These “Christians” don’t like it when a company DOESN’T employ crass commercialism of Christ’s birth to make profits? They only want you to buy from companies that do?

I’m not pissed enough to say fuck Christmas, but I have decided to only shop where I don’t feel the merchant over commercializes the holiday. Limiting options, but options.

Which reminds me. The Squirt’s oral extractions went well and she feels much better. I’ll post some happy pics of her whenever I can figure out how to take good pictures. So far each one I take makes her look like a ball of brown fur in a film noir. She won’t let me post anything without her approval, and chastised much as Reckmonster did for the pic of her I put up.

Oh well, ces’t la vie and fuck it. I’ve got work to do and Carta Blanca beers to drink. Manana, y’all.

PS- Please consider the purchase of my book, Full Rising Mooner. It got a real live actual four-of-five stars review by Clarion. You can get it in paper form or for your Kindle. Kindle’s a better deal. Just click over there +++}}}} to the linksters I have provided for your convenience.

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Watch For Lightening- Stand Away From Mooner, A Public Service Announcement

Friday, December 9th, 2011


So. I’m thinking a little straighter and feeling better for it. Don’t get all concerned that my ADHD has suffered a miraculous cure and my brain ways are cleared of confusing thoughts, I’m talking about my posture. I discovered that I was slouching a lot recently and it has made my back and major joints ache. By joints, I mean hips, shoulders and elbows rather than my “joint”[.] My joint could care less if I slouch or stand in full military Parade Rest, he can stand at attention either way.

And while I’m at it, why, oh why, won’t the grammar police tell me the method—and a reasonable explanation thereto—for how to punctuate after a set of quotation marks when the substance placed between them isn’t an actual quote? Like I did back in that last paragraph with the [.].

By sitting up straight-backed, I have brought some relief to the many aches and pains caused by my slouching. But I can’t pay attention to remember to not slouch, so I sit properly for a few seconds then slouch, remember to not slouch (or feel an achy twinge in my shoulder), and think to sit up straight once more.

OK, actually not just once more, since I do that straight/slouch/straight business a dozen times per minute. A video of me at this silly fucking keyboard, run in fast motion, would show me as a puppet whose strings were pulled by a jerky drunk.

Which reminds me. First, please allow me to say that I do not like Tim Tebow, Sam I. Am. I like nothing about him. I do not like him in a truck, for a buck or worth a fuck. I’m sure he’s a fine young man and all of that, but I simply don’t care shit or Shinola about him. But there is this thing that Christians do that at least to me, speaks of all that is wrong with modern American Christianity. The thing is the act of only thanking God when something the Christian thinks is good happens in their life.

Like, “I want to thank God for giving us this win,” a string of words uttered by the Tims’ter after every football victory. Innocuous words at first look, but sinister in actualities. Here’s why.

Evangelical Christian pastors, leaders and “Prophets”[.] (there’s another of those dealies I need the grammar police to help with) use “The power of God to make your life better” as the central thematic device in their sales pitches. They likewise attempt to get their followers to believe that “all good things come from God”[.] (another grammar dealio)

To garner a full understanding of what I’m speaking to, think back on every public prayer you have ever heard, or made. In each, God is thanked for all the blessings He has bestowed recently, and then He is asked to provide future blessings for a wish list of the prayer’s wants.


This “God gives all good” theology permeates church sales pitches and is used as the basis for the brain washing of their flocks. But I have an intrinsic problem with this modern American Christian dogma. I think it is impossible for God to only be responsible for good things. I know I’m not the first to say this, I’ve heard it before. I just haven’t bitched about it here and I’m pissed that Tim fucking Tebow has become the model of Christian masculinity for taking on this mantle.

Let me stop the presses for a minute. My ADHD has been super-charged with this issue. I have a thousand thoughts about this and I can’t make heads or tail of them.

Squirt and I settled a debate this am as to whether she should go to the vet to remove the two broken teeth she has. The same two broken teeth that caused the infection in her mouth that is a third of her three-way infections. That’s the infections of anal gland and tooter we’ve been talking about.

The nasty teeth give her the worst bad-teeth breath you can imagine, and I’ve been trying to get her to have them pulled for months. The teeth broke off because I’m a bad father. See, Squirt loves beef bones and I gave her little chunks of cow arm bones that I would personally saw into Squirt-sized rings. I herein freely admit that I gave her these bones not only for her delight, but also to help cement her devotions to me. My heart wasn’t pure. I’m the parent, she my child, and it’s my fault and not hers that she broke two teeth from chomping those bones, and developed trench mouth.

She’s had a little pain with the teeth but not enough to face extraction. As she puts it when I suggest a trip to the vet for dentistry, “Fuck you, Mooner.”

But, if you read yesterday’s posting, you know that in cold weather we sleep with the dogs cocooned inside a thick goose down comforter. It was extra cold last night, so Squirt asked me to get her her extra snuggly. When I finished tucking her in, she was only somewhat more loosely rolled into the blanket than the filler of a fine Cuban cigar.

I love good Cuban cigars. Why in the ever-fucking shit do we still have a hard-on for Fidel Castro? American politicians have managed to forgive and forget every… fucking… asshole in the world over the last fifty years, yet we still put Fidel’s balls in the blender. Cuba is a beautiful country filled with incredible people, and America has been punishing those people for decades because Fidel Castro is an asshole.

Jesus Christ people, the Shaw of Iran was an asshole. The list of assholes that we have actually kept propped-up would fill these pages, yet we still torture Cuba because Fidel is an asshole. End the fucking Cuban embargo, for shitsakes.

Early this morning, 4:41 am to be precise, I was startled awake.

“Holy Jésus ce n’est que l’odeur? Hat jemand Scheiße im Bett?“ It was the Squirt as she fought to get herself unwrapped from the covers.

“Nobody shit in bed, little lady, you just got trapped under the comforter with your own bad breath,” I told her. “Now you understand why I turn my head away from your formerly-sweet kisses.”

“Call the vet, Mooner, and right fucking now!”

I must admit it’s unsettling sometimes to hear the potty mouth on my sweet puppy. It’s also deliciously funny at others.

“I’ll call first thing and see if we can get you in,” my answer. I did, we could, and she’s at the vet right now getting extractions. She’ll need to be on a soft food diet for a week after I get her back home, and I can already hear the seven days worth of bitching coming my way over that.

When I dropped her off, I reminded Dr. May that he promised to think about Rick Perry’s request for a sex change operation. After he stopped laughing he said, “You mean you were serious about making your ostrich into a girl?”

“Oh, for shitsakes, doc. This isn’t my idea, it’s his.”

Again, I think Dr. May might still be laughing.

OK, so let me tie this together for you. If the modern American Evangelical Christian theology was one of honesty and integrity, here would be my official prayer for today:

“Dear God, Maker of all good and bringer of all evil, I want to thank you for showing to Squirt the light and getting her to agree to the teeth extractions. She will be far better off and the rest of us won’t be subjected to her foul breath. I also want to thank You for teaching me to sit up straight and for the incredible sausage that Mr. Jones makes. Nothing goes better with runny eggs at breakfast than Mr. Jones’ sausage and a slice of great toast for sopping. Thanks as well for Gram’s health, undeserved as it might be, and thanks, I guess, for my mother as well. I’m very grateful that you let me finish my silly fucking book, and since You seem to be so accommodating, why not make it a best seller? Please make millions of people look over there ===}}}} to the Full Rising Mooner linkster buttons, and make click to buy my book. Thanks for my pets and family and friends, and thanks for letting me have so many fabulous Internet buddies. Thank You for these and all the many blessings You have bestowed upon me.

“And while I’m here, could you please explain why You decided to give me the worst case of diagnosed ADHD in history? What the fuck did I ever do to You to deserve that shit? You know, sometimes You can be a real asshole. And this dealie with the Squirt’s teeth. It isn’t enough that You make me a bad parent. You then feel compelled to make the poor innocent dog suffer not only through my bad parenting, but You also seem it fit to give her a three-way infection? What’s up with that shit? And this entire thingie with Cuba. WTF? Why do You punish the the entire Cuban population just because Fidel Castro is an asshole? Would Jesus approve of that? Does Your Son condone those actions? I think not.

“I mean really, what goes in in that all-encompassing mind of yours sometimes? Famine? Wars? The Kardashians? Really, the fucking Kardashians? I’m starting to think You need some psycho therapy. I’m beginning to think you’ve got issues. How about I get You an appointment with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson. Hell, I’ll pay. Which brings up another set of complications. In therapy, a person learns that his problems are either/or self inflicted, or they are caused by an outside influence. Since you decide all things good and evil both, and You make every fucking thing that happens happen, who are You going to blame for the mess You’ve made of things? Your Mother? How in Your name are you going to get any better?

“Get Your shit together Big Guy, You’ve made a real mess of things. Amen”

I hope Mother doesn’t read this. She really will have trouble explaining that prayer to the church ladies. But like Gram always says, when she’ll say, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Ya said what cha think, and that’s that.”

Manana, y’all.

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Fertilized Eggs Spook Pranksters; Rick Perry Has Lost It

Tuesday, November 1st, 2011


So. Halloween was a mixed bag of tricks. When we got over to Planned Parenthood, there were no protesters in sight. It seems that they were all at their churches celebrating the holiday. Catholic anti-abortion protest lady was dressed as a witch (appropriately, I must say) and handing out candy to the tricked-out treaters at her church. Everyone in the Johnson family party was rewarded with a cellophane bag of candy corn except for me. I got the same treat as always from the sawed-off little fuckbag—bug-eyes popping out of her skull and spittle flying from her lips as she tells me to, and I’ll quote her here, “Go to hell and rot with my husband.”

I wonder if her husband dressed as an anti-anti-abortion protester for Halloween? I’ll bet his costumes weren’t as clever as mine. I was wearing my new sandwich board that says “I’m An Abortion And I’m OK” on one side and “A Woman’s Right To Choose Is Sacred” on the other. I decided to carry a basket of fertilized eggs that I had soft-soft boiled, and I had a box of straws and an icepick.

I was chanting my two slogans as I made my way through the church. Whenever I managed to draw a large crowd, I’d icepick a hole in one of the eggs, salt and pepper it, and then suck the tasty innards through a fresh straw. One lady actually puked on the carpet there in front of the picture of Jesus cooking his famous fish sandwich dinner. At least I’m guessing he, oopsie He, cooked the fish.

Since the Japanese hadn’t been invented in Jesus’ time, they didn’t have sushi back then. Which has always confused me about the entirety of conservative Christian dogma. If you believe that the only truths and realities are the ones contained in your Bible, then how do you explain today? Today isn’t in the Bible, in fact the last 2,000 years are not covered. If your Bible is a “Living book” as so many preachers say, maybe it’s time to lube the paddles and crank up the defibrillator.

I wonder what the latest books of the Living Bible would be called. Maybe after Revelations would come “Dark Ages and The Crusades—Spreading the Word”[.] Then we could have “The Inquisition—A Millennium of Christian Enlightenment”[.] OK, wait, maybe The Inquisition would come first.

But where would we house all of the new Bible books? They would be New nor Old Testaments neither. We’d need another Testament. I vote for the “After Peter Testament” in honor of the founder of the Holy Roman Catholic Fucking Church. Which reminds me. Have you ever Googled “who founded the Holy Roman Catholic fucking church”[?] With all of the record keeping the Catholics have performed since their inception, those silly shitballs cannot agree on who was their founder.

Anyway, I was seasoning my embryos with a pinch of fresh-ground French sea salt and pink peppercorns. I wish I still had fresh tomatoes. A big slab of purple Indian would be quite tasty with my par-boiled eggs. OK, a big slab of Purple Indian tomato would be great with a blow job.

Which brings up another point. Why would Christians celebrate a holiday based upon Paganism? And why do the celebrating inside the actual Christian church? Heresy, I say. Her-e-fucking-cy!

OK, I need to plug my book, so here is the linkster:

Buy the book. When it arrives you should roll a fat one, stock a small cooler with icy-cold Carta Blanca beers, and begin. I put a lot of effort into that silly book and I would appreciate your feedback. Good or bad, I’d like your comments.

So buy the fucking book and come back manana, y’all.

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Not All Change Is For The Good; A Semi-Baseball Story

Monday, October 24th, 2011


So. I was sitting at the big table in the kitchen reading the newspaper, and I started thinking about change. What sparked this line of thought was the thinness of today’s paper. It wasn’t ten years ago that even a Monday newspaper was a couple-pound bundle of newsprint paper and ink. Today’s paper hit the scales at less than a half-pound, and that was with the fat, tan rubber band that bound it into a loose log.

Which reminds me of when I was a kid and got a paper route, responsible for delivering newspapers for both morning and evening additions. I loved that job for the first three months I had it, which were June, July and August. After that, I know I felt like one of those eleven-year-old sweat shop slaves making sneakers fourteen hours a day over to Bimbolu Land, or whereverthefuck all of those sweat factories are.

I’d get up at 4:30 am so Granddad and Daddy could take me to town. They’d drop me and my bicycle at the corner in the neighborhood of my route where the bundles of papers were dropped. We lived in the country so I had to get a paper route in town. My paternal family men would drive over to Cisco’s for a huevos rancheros breakfast, and then pick me up for the trip back to the ranch. After school restarted, I went straight from pitching papers to the school house.

Then after school, Mother would drop me and the bike back to my corner where the evening addition awaited. I’d finish about 6:30 pm, when Gram would be waiting in her spiffy Hudson Hornet hot rod. My grandmother has always liked fast cars, a trait I managed to contract. She’d race me home to supper, then homework and then bed. The only time I had to myself was after throwing the morning-only editions on Saturday and Sunday. And even then I had chores on Saturdays and Baptist church on Sundays.

Newspaper rubber bands used to be red, and thin. Newspaper boys had to buy them from the newspaper publisher, and that was the subject of the first labor dispute with a non-family member I ever had. In fact, it’s how I managed to get fired so that I wouldn’t have to quit, because, as my Gram drilled into my head, “Johnson’s never quit shit.”

I remember how hard I worked to get the fat papers rolled tight enough to get the red rubber band double-looped on each day but Sunday. I’d get my papers tight as a baseball bat so I could first get them stuffed into the double handle bar bags, and second so that I could throw them effectively. And Sunday’s papers were sometimes so full of ads that it was tough getting the the entire paper inside the rubber fastener at all. And that ink. I think that I ingested and wore so much of that ink on my skin that when I do die, it will be from cancer caused by that fucking ink. It was nasty shit.

Having said that, I have been catching tremendous heat lately for my language. This morning, as I was bitching about the Republican fuckball who wrote the right-wing editorial in today’s paper was the latest. “Mooner, honey, you really do need to clean your potty mouth,” Mother said to me. “Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is for me when people ask if it really is you writing that Internet thing?”

Even after ten years of retirement, my mother still has that “school teacher” voice that makes me want to stuff a box of chalk up my ass one stick at a time. I spent a full dozen years of my life listening to teachers attempt to correct my behaviors with that fucking condescending voice. I blame all of that on the Baptist church.

I was in college at UT before I had the first fucking teacher, OK he was a professor, who wasn’t a church-trained Baptist evangelical shitball. Every time I did something not fully-approved under the tenants of the Baptist church, I’d get that fucking voice. Many times the chastisements had nothing to do with school policies. Like the time in Seventh Grade when Gloria Muckleroy’s bosom blossomed.

“Mister Johnson,” started Mrs. Leticia Browningwell, my Spanish teacher and wife to Pastor Browningwell. “What are you finding so very interesting that you are distracted from our conjugation of the Spanish verb aprendar?”

“Well, Mrs. Browningwell, Gloria has got some interesting lumps in her dress and I’m trying to aprendamos what they are,” my clever response.

“What are you speaking of, Mooner?” She had to ask. Mrs. Browningwell had to fucking ask.

I poked my pointy finger at Gloria’s right breast and said, “This right here, Teacher.” And with that poke, I ended up further exploring Gloria’s lush new bosom with both hands.

“That feels nice, Mrs. Browningwell, I like when Mooner does that,” Gloria said. “They just showed up all of a sudden. You want to see them?”

First time I ever got to second base. Found out later that Gloria’s daddy beat me there. Beat us all to home plate as well. Just like the asshole that raped me as a kid, Gloria’s daddy was a Deacon at our Baptist church. The same Baptist church attended by my family and as where Mrs. Browningwell’s hubby was the pastor. Still is the pastor.

It’s a wonder I don’t hate the fucking Baptists.

Anyway, it was re-brought to my attention that more people would read my shit if I cussed less. This was re-brought by Mother and also at breakfast this morning. I had my mouth full of food when Mother admonished me, so I couldn’t immediately respond. The pause allowed my grandmother to speak for me, and I think quite eloquently at that.

“Oh who gives a shit, Mother. If’in cuss words hurts yer delicate fuckin’ feelings, then go fuck yerself, and the shithead what brung ya too. Now pass me them biscuits an summa that blackberry jelly. That jelly tastes better an a college freshman’s honey-dipped pecker.”

Mother got this disgusted look—her disgusted martyr look—and opened her mouth but couldn’t get any words to come out. Gram winked at me and broke her biscuit in half to butter it.

I love my grandmother and in spite of myself. One minute I want to stick her with a butcher knife and the next I want to hug her to death. “I love you, Gram,” I told her, and I moved her way to give her a hug.

She shrugged away from me and said, “Don’t you touch me with them dirty fuckin’ hands, Mooner. Don’t ya know that newsie ink will give ya tha cancer?”

I think I had a point about change and how quickly the world is changing, but my brain has gone into full ADHD fritz mode. It was a smart observation about how maybe things are changing too fast for us to assimilate the realities of modern life. Now. All I can think about is how wonderful Gloria’s new titties felt all those years ago. OK, and the other fifteen lines of thought swirling around inside my skull.

It’s got to be Five O’clock some fucking where. I’m cracking a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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Teach Your Kids To Protest; Not A Camel Toe Story

Tuesday, October 11th, 2011


So. It’s been an interesting week and it’s only Tuesday. The commenter not named Theo has been commenting like crazy on my and several of my buddies’ blogs, and he has actually started making some points. Stan-Ann says he’s going to fire-up his own site and post some of his sentiments and let us take shots at him.

Doing that is the only way to convince me he/she isn’t Theo.

Then there’s my buddy BJ from over to the Dumb Perignon. BJ might be one of the smartest guys I know. And just like almost every other friend I put on my Bloggie Roller, he’s already changing his shit around. He’s talking cryptic language about changing formats and shit, but then he says he’ll give us a link. I have no fucking idea what he’s saying and I’m glad I’m visiting up to Tennessee next month so I can get him to explain this stuff to me.

And yesterday I got to feeling frisky, so I loaded up the Squirt, Yoda and Honor the cat and we headed over to the Planned Parenthood place on Anderson Mill. It’s just off US 183, which is called Research Blvd. through there. It was named Research Blvd. because IBM and 3M had big research facilities there. But those facilities are gone—moved out years ago—so I’m calling it US 183.

Like I said, I was feeling frisky and felt like fucking with Catholic anti-abortion lady. I’ve had anti-anti-abortion sandwich boards for several years and I like to wear them as I mingle among the single anti’s in attendance at Planned Parenthood. My current favorite says”I’m an abortion and I’m OK” on the front, and on the back it says “FUCK RICK PERRY!”[.]

I had little halters made for the dogs that advertise Carta Blanca beer in four languages—English, Spanish, French and Chinese. The fucking cat won’t wear one. And answer me this. Why does advertise not have a z in it, like this “advertize”[?] That, dear friends, is a z-word if ever there was one.

When we got to our destination, Catholic anti-abortion lady wasn’t there, but there was a blond lady with her two kids, an older guy who I think might have escaped from the Alzheimer’s Home a couple miles away, and this solitary woman who simply stood there. This lady stood, facing the road, and stared.

She was maybe 5′ 7” tall, she was quite thin and had long, stringy black hair and an ashen skin tone. She didn’t hold a sign or say anything, she just stood there and stared blankly at traffic. When we first walked up to the protesters, I thought somebody had propped-up a cadaver or a wax figure. But when I got close I could see that she was breathing and twitching. Tiny muscle spasms that raked her body in little waves.

Twitches moved across her face—up and down and sideways and in circles. I wish I could do that. There was a man I met over to the loony bin during one of my incarcerations there who could do the same thing. Semi-comatose Carl was his name, and Thorazine was his game. Old SCC, we called him SCC, was a hoot. He liked us to dress him up like a manikin for holidays and sporting events and shit.

At least I think he liked it. He never complained.

Anyway, so without Catholic anti-abortion lady there, I had nobody to engage in angry banter. CAB lady hates my guts and gets angry at the thought of me. This I know as she has told me so, and often. Our encounters always draw crowds and often attract officers of the law. But yesterday, I couldn’t get any of the others to engage me. The mother would turn her back each time I approached, huddling her children close at her feet. The old geezer kept asking if I was Bob.

And the cadaver lady just stared.

“I’m an abortion and I’m OK!” I shouted as I passed the animals.

“Questa mucca morde merda, Senor Mooner,” Squirt remarked to me as we passed each other on the next circular pass. I like to have the animals walk in clockwise circles and I walk counter-wise and we like to chant each time we meet. “Ou’ diable est Catholique dame anti-avortement?” Squirt added.

“I don’t know where the Catholic lady is, kiddo, and you’re right. This does suck cow patties.”

I loaded us up after less than an hour’s protesting and headed to the house. Everybody was grumbling about the wasted protesting efforts. “Look, guys, protesting is all about the effort,” I told them. “If your heart is in the right place, any effort goes un-wasted. Maybe we’ll go down to march with the Take Back folks later this week.”

I think one of the important things I can do as a parent is teach responsible protesting. Which reminds me. My very first protest was when Mother tried to get me to wear white buck leather shoes to school in third grade. She found a pair of those ugly marching band shoes on sale at the Payless or some fucking place, and tried to get me to wear them.

“I’d rather go to school dressed as a girl,” I instructed Mother and Gram as the former tried to put those ugly-ass shoes on my feet while the latter tried to hold me down.

I liked the way the wind blew up and under my dress, and dressing like a girl made it really easy to shoot a moon. Right thumb in the waistband of my frilly lace panties, back hem of my size ten, A-line halter dress quickly hoisted with the left hand. No buttons or belts to screw with, and no jeans slipping to your ankles and tripping you.

I wonder what my dress size is now?

Like I say, it’s already been an interesting week. Manana, y’all.

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