Archive for the ‘Religion’ Category

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.”

Huh?

“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.

Right?

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:

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

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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Keep Your Proboscis Out Of My Prostate; Amish Gangs Terrorize Ohio

Friday, October 7th, 2011

 

So. On Wednesday I printed a story about PTSD and how many of our current returning vets are suffering from it. PTSD is at times an insidious disorder as it hides from it’s victims, waiting to strike. Please go read that post if you haven’t already, and then PLEASE READ BJ’s comment on it.

Please.

OK, first, in local news, it rained enough to wet the concrete at the ranch. Nothing measurable—not even a trace of a trace—but at least enough to connect the dots of splattered raindrops. This is the first time since the middle of May, and we hope to get a little actual rain over the next few days.

Next, I was reading the newspaper this morning, and three articles stood out as important in the stew pot that is my fevered brain. The first told of the excessive murder rates in El Salvador and the Honduras—something like 82.2 per 100,000 population. The article’s author blamed “the rise of gangs” as the reason behind the murders.

Bullshit. Poverty is the reason behind the gangs, and the fucking Catholic Church is the reason behind the poverty. The invading Christians created entire populations of serf-class workers as their invasions of Mexico spread South. Centuries of subjugation were especially harsh on the jungle-rural peoples of El Salvador, Honduras and Guatemala. Without large cities and the social structures of higher society, those countries lag far behind the social progress made by other in the region.

Look. Things are so bad at home that Guatemalans immigrate illegally to fucking Mexico to improve their lot in life. Can you even imagine how bad things are that you will go do below minimum wage work for the same people who flee to America to work for below minimum wages here?

The dishwasher in my taco joint sends money home to his family in Mexico, who spends it on groceries picked by some schlub from El Salvador who sends his checks to his Momma back in Santa Ana.

In Santa-fucking-Ana. Saint Ann, as named by the fucking Catholics, and the site of much slaughtering of the Pipil tribesmen as Cortez’s army punched through the jungles. The Pipil are related to the Aztec, and just as capable of fending off the attacks of the Spanish.

It’s the poverty causing the strife, and the inability of central government to provide basic human services. When we were all living in loose tribes, humans were able to care for themselves and provide social services for the weak locally. But there are too fucking many of us and we’re all bunched-up together and we are not agrarians any more. The village is too big, and in the absence of strong infrastructure, gangs give a social structure and structured benefits to their members.

Gangs are filling the void. Oh, and by the way—gangs are violent.

Next was the piece about the Amish bunch up there to Stubenville, Ohio. Seems that those silly shitballs are cutting each other’s beards off to demonstrate differences in religious philosophies. Give me a fucking break. Here, again, is the gang mentality and once again, gang mentality whose causal base is religion. Can’t blame the Catholics here, but it is still another Christian-based bunch of shitheads.

Am I the only one sick of this shit? Somebody shoot somebody up there, for shitsakes. Represent your hairy asses. Burn a buggy or something. Let the air out of a horse.

The third article that pissed me off was the one that said doctors should stop giving healthy men PSA tests. That’s the blood test that supposedly demonstrated early detection of prostate cancers. It is now thought that the tests only have served to cause invasive additional procedures and cause significant wasted money and efforts.

Why this one pisses me off is that I am one of the men who suffered from having a PSA test. My doc had me take PSA as routine to my annual physical. It was high, so he sent me to a specialist who then prescribed a prostate biopsy. The modern prostate biopsy is a medical marvel. In my case, an instrument containing twelve biopsy needles—count them folks I said twelve needles—was jammed up my ass where the twelve needles were then rammed into my prostate to take tissue samples.

This procedure hurt like a motherfucker. Then I spent the better part of four weeks with blood in my stools, blood in my pee, and blood in my semen. That’s right, pissed, shit and fucked blood for a month. I was a sexy sonofabitch for certain.

And then, after a couple months time, I developed a peritoneal infection, the one I spent so much time writing about last summer and fall. Caused, I think, by the twelve-needled dealie. I think one of the needles strayed from my prostate and made a tiny puncture in my colon, and that leaked to cause the infection.

I’m going to stop reading the paper.

What I am going to do is load up all my pets into the flatbed truck, load our anti-anti-abortion posters as well, and head over to the Planned Parenthood place off of US 183. That’s where Catholic anti-abortion lady hangs out. I need to teach Honor the cat and Yoda how to protest, and my gay pig and ostrich need a road trip.

If you’re driving over there later this morning, I’m the guy with the giant head wearing a sandwich board that says, “I’m an abortion and I’m OK!” Rick Perry will be the ostrich, Rush Limbaugh the giant pig laying in the shade of the truck, and the other three you can determine for yourself.

Manana, y’all.

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Rick Perry Screws Pooch; Southern Baptists Too

Wednesday, September 21st, 2011

 

So. I hadn’t planned anything else for today but that changed when I read this morning’s paper. The first thing that hit me was the prick Rick Perry’s blasting our President as being, “Naive, arrogant misguided and dangerous,” with our nation’s policies towards Israel.

Really? Attempting to mediate peace in the Middle East is naive, arrogant and dangerous? I’ll agree that it might be misguided because those silly shitballs in the Middle East have resisted peace with each other since before they started recording their semi-histories in the New Testament and the Koran.

But for the Prickster to say that Obama is naive, arrogant and dangerous is—in this case—naive, arrogant and dangerous. That silly shitball thinks international foreign policy can be manhandled with the same posturing, praying and and PAC money laundrying as he uses here to his home state. I know laundrying isn’t a word, but I simply don’t give a shit.

Hello, America. Rick Perry is knocking on the door at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Please don’t answer the doooorrr.

The second thing that rankled my shackles was the story out of Nashville that the Southern Baptist Convention wants to change their name. That’s right, the Southern Baptists feel that their reach now extends far above the Mason-Dixon Line. I have always believed that Dixie is a name/term derived from that famous line of demarcation, but right or wrong, it was the issue of slavery that followed the Mason-Dixon line that segregated the Southern Baptists from their brethren.

You see, the only reason there is a Southern Baptist Convention is because those Southern Baptists wanted slavery and the rest of the Baptists did not. That’s right, the Southern Baptist Convention has it’s roots firmly planted in the same rich, red dirt as the KKK. And don’t even try to tell me I’m overstating the status of their bigotry. I attended Southern Baptist churches that did not accept blacks.

In my fucking lifetime, blacks and Hispanics—hell, people of any skin color not Lilly-fucking white—were turned away at the doors of our Baptist churches. Hell, look at all of the major Southern Baptist churches and check the skin color of their preachers.

Rotten motherfucking Baptist Republican asswipes.

I’ve got a couple suggestions for your new name. How about “First Assholes in Christ”[,] or maybe “Church of God’s Fuckwads”[.]

I wish I was a black man right now. If I was, I’d say to the Southern Baptist Convention, I’d say, “Why don’t you suck my big black dick, you punk-ass honky mother fuckers.”

Holy shit that felt good. Why don’t you click to Thundercat’s place over on the Bloggie Roller and grab a quick change of pace.

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Pious Pompadored Prick Rick Perry; The Idiocy Of Faith

Monday, September 12th, 2011

 

So. The pious pompadoured prick we Texans call our governor has made another numskull move. Little Ricky Perry announced Saturday that he was going to cancel a visit to the fire-ravaged areas of Central Texas that have been scorched by wildfires over the last ten days.

These fires have left thousands homeless and have destroyed tens-of-thousands of acres in the process. Much of the habitat for several endangered species of quite unique creatures has been desiccated. Decimated, maybe. Whateverthefuck, these poor creatures’ habitats have been laid to waste by fires.

When I tell you why little Pricky canceled his appearances, you won’t believe me. Some of you will insist on checking the stories to obtain an independent observation. That’s OK by me, you silly shitballs. Go ahead and check if you find me lacking voracity. I don’t give a shit.

The reason Rick Perry canceled his tour to meet with the thousands of people who have been displaced by the wildfires is because he couldn’t get adequate press coverage. That’s right folks, look it up. Our governor decided to stay at home rather than waste his precious time visiting displaced citizens because it was not convenient for the press to cover his little trip.

I guess that since he’s a presidential candidate, his presence requires more media on site than when he was simply our governor. Before he tossed his name into that ring, the Prickster was happy to make an appearance as long as somebody showed up with at least a camera phone. It seems he now requires representation from the entirety of the world’s press corps to warrant his pretty face.

Which reminds me of something. I might have invented a catch phrase or whateveverthe fuck you call those dealies. We were sitting at breakfast this morning as usual on a Monday during football season. Mother is a Dallas Cowboys devotee, bless her martyred little heart, and the rest of us are University of Texas fans. Except for Mother’s, “Oh dear, what’s wrong with my Cowboys?” Monday morning conversation centers on the Longhorns team and the former Texas players in the NFL.

We were discussing the Cincinnati and Cleveland game from yesterday as both teams feature high-profile former Longhorns. Our favorites performed well both in victory and defeat. I was trying to explain to Squirt and Honor the cat what it means to be a fan and how that word—fan—comes from the larger word fanatic. “But isn’t that the same as terroristic?” the miniature dog asked me.

“I guess that would be true in extreme cases,” I told Squirt.

Gram was chewing a mouth full of homemade granola, her cheeks puffing like a chipmonk’s. “Ith layth thim futhin light phwin thisthan futhwaths,” were the words that managed to escape Gram’s lips around the dry cereal.

“You’re right, Gram. It’s just like the right-wing Christians who accuse Islamics of terrorism for the same ideologies as they themselves practice,” I replied. “It’s like an idiocy of faith.”

My mother gave me a stern look before saying, “Mooner Einstein Johnson! You take that back and right… now! How DARE you compare a Christian’s devotion to Christ to those evil heathens devil worship.”

Gram had managed to swallow her granola and cleared her throat loudly. “You lissen here, Mother. Mooner’s right. It don’t matter the juxtaposition, it’s the same melody.”

Huh?

Oh, I got it. “That’s what I was trying to say Gram. It doesn’t matter what your justification might be. If the net result is that you act like your belief system is the only acceptable one—and if you force it on others—you are a terrorist. You exhibit the idiocy of faith.”

Faith is a wonderful and scary emotion. The same faith that drove Mother Theresa to devote her life to the underprivileged fueled the Inquisition. One definition of the word faith is, “The strong belief in a God or a doctrine of a religion based upon spiritual apprehension rather than fact.”

Since apprehension is, “A fearful anticipation of the future,” then faith is, effectively, a fear-based emotion. What that means is that faith is a two-edged sword. When a person becomes consumed with the ideologies of their faith, fear of non-believers can become hatred. And hatred breeds violence and threatening behavior.

Threats and violence? That is what defines terror. My point with all of this is that faith, just like love, can make you an idiot. Right now I think the world is suffering from the idiocy of faith.

Ugh. I need a Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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I Hate To Hate And Other Illnesses

Monday, August 8th, 2011

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ugh.

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

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Rick Perry Doomed; Pompous Ass Can’t Give Tickets Away

Sunday, August 7th, 2011

 

So. The pompous fuckball known as Texas governor Rick Perry had his big come-to-Jesus meeting yesterday down to Houston. The logic(?) behind this gathering was to get a critical mass of Jesusites—mostly Texas-bred Baptists, whose combined Christianess would get God’s attention and fix what’s wrong with America.

This critical mass of dumbass was to do the infamous Christian “group prayers” and bowl-over the big guy—oops, Big Guy with the power of their combined voices. The pomp and circumstance of today’s Christian right reminds me of the old Catholic church, except with more radical ideals and less-well thought-out mantras. Modern Christians are just plain fucking stupid.

I was raised and raped Baptist so I think I have both authorizations to be critical and to cast a most jaundiced eye into their behaviors. Mother and Gram still populate their Baptist church weekly and they dragged my ass with them every Sunday and Wednesday until I drew a line in the sand when I was fourteen.

I was a true believer for all of those church years until the last, my fourteenth. After my Baptist Boy Scout leader raped me as I lay comatose in my sleeping blanket on a camping trip when I was thirteen, my final year of church attendance was part of a year of turmoil in my life. I was too afraid to tell anyone about the rape, so I went through all of the guilt and anger and recriminations rape victims endure.

I couldn’t look anyone in the eyes. I started fights for no reason beyond my unreasoned shame. My grades in school went downhill as I talked back to teachers and made brash pronouncements. My best friend, Streaker Jones, stood by me even though I didn’t tell him what was wrong with me. When, at age thirty-five, I told him what happened that made me as I was, he said to me, he said, “I always figgered it was sumthin’ like that.”

I stopped attending church the day I found myself sitting on the aisle in the very back pew, my hand gripping my daddy’s serrated fish boning knife in the pocket of my corduroy jacket. I had spent every Sunday since getting molested sitting in my pew in stunned silence as my rapist, a church deacon, would perform his deacon’s duties. He was in charge of the offerings, so he would supervise the other deacons’ passing of the collection plates. He stood in front as the other deacons passed the plates across the aisles from back-to-front.

When all the plates had made it to the first pew, that bastard would stack them up and haul them to the back, and out of the chapel to the counting room. I had hatched my plan over several months as I endured church services. This haughty asshole would actually smile at me—sometimes demurely, as he performed his duties. He smiled at me and two other boys from the Scout troop who attended the church.

One of those boys committed suicide after he left home for college. The other ended up in jail before graduating. I ended up with ten ex-wives.

I had a plan on the final Sunday in May of my fourteenth year. My plan was to stab the serrated blade of Daddy’s knife in that fucker’s belly and sink it to the hilt. This was the third Sunday that I had secreted the knife from my father’s tackle box and hidden it in my favorite jacket. The jacket was a present for my receiving the rank of Life Scout with seventeen merit badges before reaching age twelve.

My family was so proud that I had accomplished such a rare feat. Little did they know that my honors were purchased with my innocence.

On this Sunday I was certain that I would do it—slice the rotten fucker’s liver to shreds as he exited by way of the church’s center isle, carrying the stack of collection plates in both hands. The two weeks before I had practiced my actions and imagined the actions I would take as I took from him what I felt he had taken from me.

My hand gripped that knife so hard that my entire arm was cramped. I was jittery and shaking as I sat through the first thirty minutes of the service. The prayer of tithing was silly, as always, as poor people were asked to give ever more of their money to the church. As the deacon made his way up the aisle towards me I was ready to kill him. I had done the deed a hundred times in my mind.

But I didn’t. I simply didn’t. I wish I could tell you some incredible story of how I managed to reason and logic a happy ending to this sordid story, but I can’t. I didn’t chicken out, I didn’t have an epiphany. I simply didn’t stick the knife in his rotten ass.

That was the last time I was in a church for any reason not a wedding or funeral.

I have felt both good and bad about myself in the years that have passed since that day. I have often wondered if I would have saved other boys from his evil had I slay him. I often revel in my freedom as well. I feel I am both lesser and greater for not acting.

Rick Perry didn’t rape me, but Rick Fucking Perry is an asshole, and the Christian right are evil. They are worse than Muslim terrorists in my eyes because they claim moral superiority. Same claims of god-granted righteousness. Same insistences of divinity.

Rick Perry isn’t the Baptist deacon who raped me. Rick Perry is, however, the Baptist fuckball who has led the ruination of my great state, and he wants to ruin my country.

Fuck Rick Perry before he fucks America.

Manana, y’all.

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Limburger Limbo; Cut The Cheese And Save The Matches

Thursday, August 4th, 2011

 

So. I’m all bollixed-up this morning. My ADHD is in full lock-down and has my mind so fritzed I’ve got brainwaves shooting out my ears. Until an hour ago I had been constipated for almost a week from eating too much Limburger—that’s the very ripe and stinky German cheese that makes blue cheese hold its nose. Constipation makes me fart, and I farted Limburger gas in Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s office yesterday during my therapy session, an event that resulted in more than $20,000 in damages.

As well, I’m going especially nuts with Texas governor Rick (middle name “Devious”) Perry. I keep asking myself how in the world can an ignorant liar go so far in politics. The answer, so cogent and pure in it’s simplicity, is that conservative Christians are really stupid.

There, I said it. I have tried to not say it, but it is now fully said. And I meant what I said. Rick Perry’s voter base is stupid, and getting stupider (stupid-more?) by every day. Little Ricky has this plan to dumb-down public education systems which will further dumb-down the populace. See, it is only with a dumber population that he can attract all of those companies and their minimum-wage jobs.

Wake up America. Wake the fuck up.

I was taking a shower last night before bedtime and since it was Tuesday, I had Honor the cat and Squirt with me in the big tile shower in my bathroom. Tuesday is pet bath day at my house and my little cat and dog like to bathe with me. I had already hosed-down my gay pig and ostrich before dinner. The dog and cat helped wash Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry the ostrich out on the small patch of grass lawn I grow.

It’s so fucking hot that we have started taking our showers before bedtime, so as I was saying, my little dog and cat were in the big shower stall with me…

OK, wait. Truth and full disclosure require me to say, “My almost-my dog and soon-to-not-be my cat and I were in the shower.” The Squirt is technically Dr. Sam’s puppy and the cat is the trade bait for the dog. I’m required to fully train the cat before the trade can be completed. Like one of those “and a player to be named later” deals that are dependent upon a medical examination.

Anyway, the three of us are in the shower with my “Best of The Doors” album blasting on the Bose outdoor speakers in the bathroom. I love to play music and sing when I shower, and it turns out that Honor is a Doors fan. I was lathering the girls with a new bar of Ivory soap I had just unwrapped from its tight, waxy packaging. I love Ivory soap.

Fuck and wait, again—background alert! I had accidentally farted at the dinner table last night—a little thing but deadly just the same. Gram said to me, she said, “Iffn you fart at tha table agin, Mooner, I’mma blast yer ass.”

I explained my constipation dealie with the Limburger cheese farts, and wrecking Dr. Sam’s office, and how I evacuated the produce department in the Whole Foods store over to the Arboretum. She gave me a little tincture bottle of hallucinogenic potion whose label read “Moo Goo, Shoo Yer Poo- a laxative.”

“Huh?” I must have said aloud.

“That one’s got ginger an five spice in it,” Gram offered as an explanation. “It’ll clean ya out by mornin’.”

Meanwhile in the shower last night, I was lathering the girls with Ivory soap because, quite simply, their lack of opposing thumbs makes self-lathering a difficult task. I like doing it anyway and we make it a game. I make Ivory soap lather beards and dresses and big pointy ears on them and we role play stupid shit while we wash. Last night the Doors were singing, “LA Woman,” so the two of them were doing the “Ho strut” as they rinsed themselves under the shower spray.

They were an absolute hoot and I was laughing my ass off. I started soaping my butt to finish my shower and I farted on the Ivory soap. The brand new and nearly-pure bar almost melted in my hand. It looked like one of Salvador Dali’s melting clocks. The cat gagged and puked-up a hair ball and the Squirt was rolling on the shower floor like a dog, trying to get the stink off.

As soon as Squirt could catch her breath she said, “Santa puta mierda, Mooner. Was kroch in den Arsch und died?” The diminutive dog shook her head to clear ir and squeeked, “Holy fucking shit!”

“Yea,” I answered, “Holy fucking shit is right, and it’s Limburger cheese that crawled up my ass and died. That’s what the potion Gram gave me is going to cure.”

We all started laughing again and got out of the shower to towel dry. It’s fun for me to dry the little guys as it reminds me of when I used to shower with my two human boy children, a memory that’s bitter-sweet. And then the Doors started singing “Riders In The Storm” and I lost it—I began boo-hooing like a baby.

I’m finding myself tearing and snot-snuffling with the strangest stimuli lately. My psycho therapist says I’m under a lot of pressure these days. She suggests that I’m way much too much invested in my attempt to FUCK RICK PERRY!

Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson tells me that I’m just one man, and a totally inappropriate crazy redneck fuckball man at that. “It’s not about you, Mooner,” she likes to say, “Texas governor Rick Perry isn’t going to be influenced by your lunatic rantings.”

“I’m not trying to change that little Nazi fuck’s behaviors, Sammy. I’m trying to expose him for what he is.”

“America, Mooner, is messed up these days,” she told me. “Our moral compass is broken and people have confused religious ideology for morality.”

“That might be the smartest thing I’ve heard you say in thirty years of therapy, Sammie.”

She thanked me for the praise and told me my time was up.

Anyway, I get weepy because I’m stressed over politics and I shit my brains out awhile ago. I’m hoping they’ll let me back in over to Whole foods so I can buy some of the organic grapefruit they have on sale.

Ugh. Now I’m getting weepy over organic grapefruit and thinking that I need a Carta Blanca beer. I am a seriously disturbed man. So FUCK RICK PERRY anyway, and I’ll see you manana, y’all.

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Rick Perry Almost Spoils Breakfast; Aggies Have Differing Opinions

Sunday, July 31st, 2011

 

So. When we last spoke yesterday, I was headed to the lake to take the clutch of animals I claim as pets to go fishing. As we prepared to leave, Gram stopped me in the big kitchen to ask a favor.

“Mooner, honey, I need ta ask a favor,” Gram said. She had this conspiratorial look on her face, the look that tells me I might not like what the old airbag is planning. “Me an tha P-cubed er takin’ the Fer Rarie down ta College Station, so they’ll be two extra fer dinner.”

My randy old grandmother and her best buddy P-cubed are two of the horniest women in the state. P-cubed, whose driver’s license reads “Penelope Paxon-Parades,” is Mutt to Gram’s Jeff. Or maybe P-cubed is Jeff, but who gives a shit? The two of them are Mutt and Jeff, Frick and Frack, Martin and Lewis and Abbott and Costello, with a heavy dose of Penn and Teller.

P-cubed is the quiet straight man and Gram is everything else. Gram is like the long rubber band on a wind-up balsa wood glider that has been wound too tight. She’s all lumpy knots of gristle and bad intentions, always on the edge of snapping. Gram is quick to mouth off at anything she questions and has an itchy trigger finger holding her shotgun temper.

Her running mate is nothing alike. P-cubed is this cherub-faced over-stuffed cushion with a likable laugh, attentive green eyes and a thousand Bible verses and preachy platitudes perched on the tip of her tongue. Where Gram will rip your lungs out and pour salt on them if you barely step out of line, Penelope recently told a convicted killer that she forgives him for his sins. She then told him, “Blessed are the young.”

What the two of them share are a full life as best friends, the Baptist church, a rich sense of humor, and a voracious appetite for young men. These two old birds of prey are the most dangerous thing on four legs to unsuspecting college-age men. Boys, if you will. The girls bait their man trap with the most seductive bait there is to a late-teenage American male—a bright-red 550-horsepower Ferrari.

Show me a heterosexual teenage boy who is unimpressed with my Gram’s car, and I’ll show you a eunuch. If you’ve got balls you’ve got the testosterone that fuels the love of fast cars. And testosterone-fueled teenagers light Gram’s and P-cubed ‘s fires.

Well, Gram and P-cubed didn’t get home in time for dinner last night, but I wasn’t surprised when the two of them showed up to breakfast with three young men in tow. Of course Mother couldn’t help but to say something, she said, “Three young boy’s? You picked up three poor children and brought them home?”

“Oh quit yer bitchin’. We filled our stringer and couldn’t figger which un ta throw back,” Gram replied. “So we shared little Oscar over there.”

P-cubed giggled, and said, “Fishes and loaves,” Mother, “Jesus will provide.”

Oscar blushed and Mother started fanning herself with her Baptist Daily Prayer flier. The prayer pamphlet has become my mother’s constant companion lately. Seems my grandmother and I have been bringing on Mother’s vapors with regularity.

Gram made introductions all around and we sat to breakfast. The young man who sat at P-cubed’s side was a mechanical engineering student at A&M named Paul. Paul was a cherub-faced kid and had a scary resemblance to his geriatric date. He kept staring at me as we ate.

“Hey girls,” I said. “How did you manage to get three men home with you in your little car?”

Gram chewed and swallowed a bite of pancake and said to me, she said, “Weren’t no trouble, Mooner honey, we jist tied Oscar to tha trunk.”

I had to fucking ask.

“Oh mercy, sweet Jesus,” from Mother as she fanned with gusto. “Have you lost your mind?”

Gram’s ass lifted from her stool and the evil eye was working its way to her face, so I intervened. “OK, everybody, what’s on today’s agenda, huh?” I said. I wanted to cut this one off at the pass. “Who wants to go fishing with the guys and me?”

“Hey,” Paul exclaimed with a finger pointed in my direction. “You’re that asshole that writes the stupid blog. You’re the one that started all of that Fuck-Rick-Perry bullshit.”

“That would be me, little man. And I’m mighty proud you noticed.”

Paul’s cherubic face turned scarlet. “You are a godless heretic, Mr. Johnson, and Governor Perry has saved Texas from financial ruin. I’ll add you to my prayer list, I’ll ask God to show you the way of your sins.”

Since I somehow manage to start each day with a full measure of patience and tolerance, I didn’t jerk the little dweeb off his stool and kick him to the curb. What I did was say, “Let me get this right, Paulie. You just got drunk, stoned on magic mushroom juice and spent the night rutting with a woman old enough to be your great-grandmother, and I’m a heretic?”

“Yes, you are, and you are a shitty writer too.”

I thumped him on his nose. I reached out lightening fast and thumped his nose. Hard. I heard the “pop” of cartilage more than I felt it, same as little Paulie. He stiffened in his chair with a look of shock on his face, and then the trickle of blood showed from his nostril and gathered on his lip. He reached his right wrist to swipe at his nose and held it out to examine.

“You broke my nose, you bastard,” he whispered. Then louder, after a bewildered look around the table, “He broke my fucking nose!”

“Forgive and forget, Paul. You started it.” P-cubed meted the verdict with a pat to Paulie’s cheek. “Come with mommy and let me clean you up. I’m such a softie for a man with values.”

I didn’t see the two of them the rest of the day, but Oscar went fishing with the Squirt, the cat and me. As we were digging our fishing worms, Oscar asked me, he said, “Mr. Johnson, could you teach me how to do that thing with your finger where you thumped Paul’s nose?”

“Call me Mooner, young man, and I’ll teach you how to reject the charms of a snake lady with a Ferrari as well,” I told him. “Look here. The first thing you need to understand about finger flicking is choosing the right finger to pair with your thumb. Any of your three longest fingers will work and you need to determine which of yours is strongest. Practice with a piece of paper and learn to shred the paper with a single flick.”

We finished the flicking lesson while we drank Carta Blanca beer and filled our stringer with fish from the lake. The lake levels are so low that the deep channel of my creek is over-filled with fish. So much of the lake is either dry dirt or so shallow that the fishes are populating whatever deep water they can find. Then they have to compete for food and get into fistfights over our worms. Very sad. We need an end to our drought.

Oscar asked how to repay me for all the fun and I told him to go to my store and by a “Fuck Rick Perry” bumper sticker and then proudly display it down to Texas A&M, Prick Perry’s alma mater.

“No problemo, Mooner,” was Oscar’s promise. “I’ll do it manana.”

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