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

Thursday, February 2nd, 2012

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s no wonder that need so much money.

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

“From Wikipedia:

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

 

(Author’s note: Holy fucking shit!)

 

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

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

 

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Heart And Soul; Rick Perry Still A Prick

Monday, January 23rd, 2012

 

So. We were all sitting at the big table for breakfast yesterday morning and I was attempting to express my feelings about Rick Perry’s having quit presidential politics. As I have several times here, I mentioned that I was happy that Governor Dumbass wasn’t going to be elected to screw up the entire country, yet I lamented that he’s now got all of his waking hours to finish the job he started to totally fuck up my state.

My mother is a Baptist right-wing conservative Christian from waaaay back, and her Christian lobotomy hasn’t grown back. Since she routinely stops at the church to listen to the swill that spills from the mouth of The Right Reverend Pastor Browningwell, Mother’s lobotomy is cultivated quite nicely, thank you just the same. The dead space in her brain that stimulates free thought lays disconnected from the rest of her brain.

I was talking about the absolute insanity of Pick “The Prick”Perry’s endorsement of Newbt Gangrenich as he quit, and when Mother had gotten her fill of my rant, she said, “You shut your foul mouth and right now, Butcher Einstein Johnson. I’ll not have you saying such terrible, filthy things about MY Governor. Rick Perry is a fine, fine Christian man and you should be ashamed of yourself for speaking evil about him. You’ll rot in hell if you don’t stop.”

OK, wait. First of all, have I ever told you that is my given name? And for seconds, it wasn’t right then that my mother launched her standard “Mooner will rot in hell for (fill in the blanks)” speech. It was when I started asking if anybody could rectify (justify) the fact that if God told Ricky to run for President—and since the pompous prick does everything God tells him to do—he ran for President, and has now summarily ignored God’s demands and aborted his campaign.

I love it when Rick Perry performs abortions against God’s will. In fact, I now remember that is what I said when Mother went off on me. I mumbled something in replay like, “My ticket to hell has already been punched,” a comment that always brings out the mother in my martyred parent.

“You would see the rightness of Mr. Perry’s actions if you were a good Christian man, Mooner. But you have the Devil in your soul and evil in your heart.”

Now me, I think I’d rather evil was in my soul and that the Devil resided in my heart. I’m unsure why, precisely, but that is how I have felt ever since my mother first laid this trip on my head. We were back to second grade—Streaker Jones and I—and he dared me to moon Mrs. Leticia Browningwell during Sunday School. This was before my little incident with my Boy Scout Leader, so I was still allowing Mother to drag my ass to the Baptist church every time the unlocked the fucking doors. Streaker Jones went wherever I went most times and he was there.

If I remember correctly, we were studying the story about the father who gave his sons talents. Streaker Jones raised his hand and said to Mrs. Browningwell, he said, “Mooner’s got a talent,” at which time I showed her.

I think that was the first day that I sensed that Gloria Muckleroy liked me better than Walley Smalley.

Anyway, I got my ear tugged—first from my seat in Sunday School all the way to the car—and then from the car all the way around the house and out to the tool shed that used to be attached to the side of the barn. The tool shed was remodeled when I dug the deep basement under the barn for Gram’s mushroom growing operations, and what was the tool shed is now her potion storage facilities.

And they say that an ADHD-addled fuckbrain can’t follow the plot line.

After Mother ear-dragged me to the shed and then whipped my ass with one of the switches I had previously harvested for just such a moment, I got the “Mooner, you are going to rot in hell for being irreverent” speech. That was the first time I was told that the Devil would be dwelling in my soul and evil inside my ventricles.

I’ve also wondered if the evil courses through me with every contraction of my rotten heart. Maybe that’s how the Devil keeps oxygenated and fed as he hides in my soul. I must have a huge soul to house the entire Devil. As much as I like pig meat and Carta Blanca beer, I guess I can explain the intensities of those likes by saying, “The Devil made me do it. He likes pork and Carta Blanca beer.”

Maybe this line of reasoning should go unused when I make my pitch to Carta Blanca for sponsorship.

I love my mother, I truly do. She’s honest and hard working, she gives freely to others in need, and she wishes the best she knows for everyone, including me. It’s just that the best she knows is tainted and tinted with the caustic dye splashed around in the Baptist church. Not the Baptist church with the loving, inclusive God, the other church with the mean God, the God that hates gays and Muslims.

Every time Mother gives me this speech, I cook her favorite meal as my reply of unlike kind. She still, to this day, hasn’t connected all the dots. She thinks that I do it to make her feel better for my being an asshole, but untruer words were never spoken.

I do it to show her that the Devil might live in my soul and that evil might hide out in my heart, but I forgive her of thinking so badly of me.

The results of modern psycho therapy at work. 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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Coffee Shop Giveaways; Bye-Bye Ricky, You GFA

Thursday, January 19th, 2012

 

So. I have just a few minutes to devote to writing today because I have a luncheon to attend. The US Compost Council is honoring one of the finest women on the face of the planet here in Austin. Barrie Cogburn, head landscape architect and high muck-a-much at the Texas Department of Transportation (TxDOT), is the honoree, and I wouldn’t miss this dealie for anything.

Barrie, along with Scott McCoy of the Texas Commission on Environmental Quality (TCEQ), fostered the use of compost to solve erosion and re-vegetation problems here in our state. Those solutions resulted in creating a new industry, providing safe and recycled options for longterm problems worldwide, and an Environmental Excellence Award for yours truly.

Barrie is a Texas Aggie, but her star shines so brightly in my eyes that her Aggieness causes no fading whatsoever. I’ll stop now before my effusiveness overcomes your abilities to stand it. Let me just say, “Cheers to you, Barrie Cogburn, well deserved.”

Which reminds me. Is today the day little Ricky Perry has the plug pulled on his ass by his big money backers?

The lunch dealie alone is not enough to overwhelm my day, it’s my book giveaway dealie—the coffee shop thingie. Yesterday I managed to give three books away to unsuspecting suckers—one at The Coffee Bean and the Tea Leaf (TCBTL) and then two at Pasha. The Coffee Bean was there to US 183 not far from the Planned Parenthood offices, and Pasha is on Burnett Road just north of 45th Street. As is usual with me, nothing is ever easy.

I started at TCBTL and I entered, ordered and asked the nice man who helped me if I could do the book give-away dealie. He was quite enthusiastically positive in his response, and he agreed. I looked around the shop, which was full of customers. I evaluated the tables to determine just who might be best approached. My first choice, two men reading computer manuals, waved me away as I approached them.

My second choice was a table of seven people, each of whom had a laptop computer and a thick book open in front of them. Now me, I see seven people with two instruments designed to read in front of them, and I see readers. I approached the table.

“Hi,” I said, giant shit-eating grin plastered to my face. “I’m a local writer, I have a new book just out, and I’d like to give one away.”

“Oh, how thoughtful,” the lone woman at the table said. “And may God bless you with a bounteous life.”

“RED ALERT!!! RED ALERT!!! RED ALERT!!!” went my internal danger alarm.

“Why thank you, little Missy,” I answered, “but before I fully accept your sweet countenance, might I ask what you’re reading?”

“Oh, that’s just the Bible and our Church study lesson plan is on the computer.” Little Missy pointed at each in turn. “Would you care to join us?”

“Well,” I didn’t quite stammer, “what might be the subject of today’s insights?”

Now please allow me to take a moment here. I was raised in the Baptist church and spent many hundreds of hours with someone six feet up my ass with a Bible, hammering the words and interpretations of the words at my brain. Quite a bit of it stuck in my head, like so much dog shit on the crenelated imitation rubber sole of a waffle-sole tennis shoe, and my ass still hurts with the memories of those childhood lessons. Much of it did not stick. If I was to agree to join these folks, I wanted to be certain I could contribute.

“Well, we’re looking into Paul, one of the first Disciples and the one most devoted to Jesus,” little Missy informed me. “Paul knew the most about Jesus so we revere his words most.”

Two, three and four… “Oh, you mean Saul of Tarsus—the guy who made his living persecuting Christians until he met the already dead Jesus, was struck blind and then converted to Christianity? You mean that guy?”

“Uh, well, er, I don’t know who you are talking about. I mean the Apostle Paul, one of the twelve Disciples.” This last part was spoken with a re-found conviction and faith—the words of a woman who knew what she was talking about.

“That’s who I thought you meant. Maybe I would like to join you because there are a few things about old Paulie that confuse the ever-loving shit out of me. Take, for instance, how, precisely, could he be one of the twelve originals and possess all of that first-hand knowledge about the Christ when he didn’t even believe in the man until after the crucifixion? Can you help me with that one?”

All I got was a blank, yet terrified stare. “And did you know that the methods used to persecute early Christians included stoning to death, taking of all possessions including wives and children, boiling in hot oil, and oh yes, don’t let me forget crucifixion. Those Roman cats were really big into crucifixions.” I might have made up the boiling oil part, but it rolled off my tongue like the truth.

I guessed she couldn’t because she turned, red-faced, to the young guy to her left. “Bobby, can you help me here?”

The young man looked up from his computer for the first time, and his entire face went sour. “Jennifer, might I introduce you to Mr. Mooner Johnson, one of the most hedonistic men in Austin, Texas?” Bobby crossed himself in classic Catholic style.

I looked closer at Bobby and it hit me. “Oh, you’re the guy that brings the water to the anti-abortion protesters, right?”

“Yes, Mr. Johnson, I am. And you are no more welcome here than you are at our protests. Now, please leave us in peace.”

“Glad to, Bobby. Little Missy here just wished me all of Gods bountiful blessings, so I’m good to go.”

I walked away from the table with no arrest and not pitched out the store—a major win. I looked for a third target. A woman sat alone with a small tablet computer of some type, and I approached. She tried to ignore me, but I lit my best smile with a few thousand more watts and sat down with her.

I went through my speech but she remained dubious. I don’t know if she had witnessed my dealings with little Missy or if she was simply wary of large men encroaching, uninvited, into her space.

Please allow me to stop, again. I couldn’t finish this earlier and left at the end of that last paragraph. I’m now back home to complete this writing, and Rick Perry is gone from the Presidential race. Hip-hip-hooray for America! The worst of them is gone, the most evil and vile asshole wanting to run our country into the ground is out of the race.

Good fucking riddance. I abhor the knowledge that Rick Perry is ruining my beloved Texas. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if he had a chance to ruin America.

So, I was conversing with the nice lady and she was stand-offish, and rightly so. But I kept working it and she finally relented to listen to the deal. I read “The Author’s Requests”[,] that’s the little blurb I’m taping inside each book I give away in this fashion. “OK, as long as I can be honest, I’ll do it,” she told me.

When I asked if she had a card so I could keep track of my marketing, she said, “You know, I’m a therapist and I should always have one handy.”

Guess what. She is a former master’s degree student of Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson and is now in private practice. Small world, grown smaller. I’ll not disclose her name but you will sometime soon see her review of my book, Full Rising Mooner.

Ugh, I need a beer or three. I’m all discombobulated over this Prick Perry dealio. Here’s the sheet I am putting in each book. Please look it over and let me know if you think I can improve on it. Manana, y’all.

 

“The Author’s Requests

 

I have written my first self-published book and I would like to get some third party feedback from unsuspecting readers. The book is adult humorous fiction written by an Austin author that takes place in Austin.

 

These are my requests:

 

  1. That you read, or at least attempt to read the book.

  2. That when you finish your reading, you will contact me from the business card, below, and either comment on my website or send an email message with your thoughts about the book.

  3. That you tell the truth about your thoughts about the book—good or bad. If you think it sucks donkeys, say, “Your book sucks donkeys.” If, however, you think otherwise, say it.

  4. That if you have your own website or have favorite websites, that you spread the word, again good or bad, somewhere else.

  5. That you give the read book to another reader who will agree to do the same.

 

Please note: If you are offended by adult language and adult situations, or you think Texas Governor Rick Perry would make a great President of these United States, do not agree to read my book. I already know that tight-assed, close-minded people disapprove of me. Don’t waste your time with this.

 

Thank you for your consideration.”

What do you think?

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To Freely Give; My Xmas Gifts

Friday, December 30th, 2011

 

So. Thankfully there are but two days left in 2011. I have a personal tradition that has been with me for the last fifteen years wherein (in which?) I will basically do anything I am asked that makes sense to me. If you ask me to watch your cat over the Xmas holidays, I’m cat watching. If you ask me to try the special sushi roll over to the Japanese place, I’m trying the special. Need someone to fetch giant-sized condoms by the case—I’m your man if you only make the effort to ask me.

I started this fifteen years ago as my personal response to the crass commercialization of Xmas. I decided to do favors instead of buy presents, and I limited my giving of purchased presents to a very few. I decided to do this without telling anyone—another shake of my figurative finger in the face of Xmas excessivenesses. I wanted to do nice things for people simply because they asked me to do so.

I start on December 115th each year and continue throughout the month to the 31st. As I said, I’ve done this for fifteen years and nobody caught on to what I’ve been up to. Or so I thought.

My mother stopped asking me to go to church decades ago, and no, this isn’t my ADHD slipping gears on us. Mother is a dedicated Baptist and enters her church’s doors every time they get unlocked. She dragged my ass with her the first thirteen years of my life until I put my foot down and refused to go. She spent a decade attempting to get me back inside routinely, and then a couple years asking/demanding sporadically, and then she just gave up. Mother tried and tried and finally tired of the effort.

I start my personal pilgrimage to good tidings by going to the bank on the 15th where I get a big wad of twenty-dollar bills. I put a dozen or so into my shirt pocket and stuff the rest into my jeans. Or shorts when the weather is nice. I wear shorts anytime I can. Then, whenever I see a person on a street corner with his hand out and every time I see a person collecting for a charity, I give a twenty-dollar bill.

This would include at McDonalds at the box sitting by the register for Ronald McDonald House, and it would include the tip jar at Starbucks. Eight people at the intersection—that’s $160.00. Salvation Army bell ringer—Twenty buckeroos. I’ll tip 50% if I dine out, and when I go to the grocery I’ll find a kid to carry whatever bag/bags I have and give him/her a double sawbuck.

I’m a non-denominational free-giver both of money to the needy and gifts of my efforts to the rest of the world. This hasn’t presented too many problems to me over the years, but there was this one time back in December 2000 when I pulled over for a hitch hiker who was on his way to Costa Rica.

Then the other day I was over to the Whole Foods, the one there to the Arboretum, and I was wearing my hot pink “Fuck Rick Perry” tee shirt as I stood in line at the butcher counter. When I stand in lines at Xmas time, I always let others go ahead of me. Unless, of course, they ask me to go ahead of them. Again, this giving dealie of mine is doing what is asked of me.

Sister likes Whole Foods spicy chicken Italian sausage links and like I said, I was standing in line in my hot pink “Fuck Rick Perry” tee shirt. You can buy your own hot pink “Fuck Rick Perry” tee shirt by either clicking over there ===}}} to the merchandise linkster or by clicking up there ^^^^^ to my Store Bar. Dustin the webber guru fixed my store button.

A lady walked over to stand beside me to browse the meat case. When I told her to, “Please go ahead,” she answered by saying, “Why thank you, sir. That’s a very pink shirt. Most men wouldn’t be caught dead in a hot pink shirt.”

“Well,” I answered, “I’m not most men.” That’s right, folks, Mooner Johnson is a quick wit.

She placed her order—three pounds of free range natural ground beef, twelve slices of apple smoked bacon and two ribeye steaks. The steaks were just natural beef and not free range which confused the shit out of me, so I asked her. “Why not free range and natural steaks like the ground beef?”

She turned to face me and said, “Well, sir, I have discovered that the free range steaks are a bit…” She paused as she studied the large print on the front of my shirt. “Does that say what I think it says?”

I looked down to be certain my memories of having dressed myself stood the test of time. I had debated which tee shirt to wear at what times today. “Well, darling, if you think it says “Metallica Forever” I decided to wear that one at dinner tonight. But if you think it says “Fuck Rick Perry” then we have us a winner.”

I could tell she wanted to slap me. I guess she didn’t because I let her cut in line. She did say, “You can kiss my ass, mister. Governor Rick Perry is a fine Christian man.”

Ooo, a request for personal services. “Well, Ma’am, if you’ll whistle so I know which end to kiss, I’ll be happy to fulfill your request.”

“Oh, you are disgusting. Go to hell,” and with that she huffed off without her ribeye steaks.

“Happy to oblige that request also. My own mother has already reserved my spot at the Devil’s right hand.”

Which brings me back to the original message I had to tell you. We’re sitting at lunch Wednesday and I’m giving Gram all kinds of happy grief about how she’s hogging Mr. Dave’s giant pecker and not sharing it like a good Baptist woman should, and especially at Xmas time. It was a good-hearted banter and Gram took it for about the first thirty minutes. After I gave the subject a final barb, my wonderful old grandmother turned to me with an impish smile, then turned to Mother and said, “Mother, why don’t you ask Mooner to go to church with you this evening?”

Like I said, only two more days of my freely giving what is asked of me. I just finished waxing Gram’s Ferrari so she can troll for college kids for New Years, I reorganized all the cabinets in her bathroom and I’ll be fixing her favorite dishes for dinner.

Next year, I’m limiting my free giving to acts not asked as blackmail. Manana, y’all.

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Rick Perry Requests Sex Change; This Story Is Different

Wednesday, December 7th, 2011

 

So. Here’s the dealio. When I got back I promised to catch you up on all things Johnson family—both events that occurred before I left to Floriduh, things that happened while there and, of course, those things happening now that I’m back, in real time as they actually happen, or soon thereafter happening.

OK, wait. That last sentence couldn’t have been a “both” conjunctioned constructure, as both would imply two somethings, and I listed more than two somethings. Way more than two somethings as you are soon to discover if you can force yourself to keep reading this shit and drivel.

I should have said, “…on all things Johnson family—numerous events, which included, but are not limited to…,” and then I could have blah, blah and blahed about said numerous events. But like Gram always says when she tells me, “Oh, who gives a shit, Mooner?”

Truly.

First, for all you cat lovers, the fucking cat came home, and in the middle of the night at that. That would explain why I now sit in the chilled, dark hours—steaming cup of Costa Rica’s best at my side—writing you about the fucking cat. I would be sleeping soundly and comfy-cozy under my down comforter, if not for Honor.

Honor left yesterday in the am to go “bird hunting” and didn’t return as scheduled. Scheduled meant “before anyone started worrying about her”[,] and Mother, of course, started worrying early. That meant I needed to go looking for Honor, a pursuit many people have said is a futile effort on my part, and futile the search was. We looked high and low, walking, and then driving the 3,000 total acres that comprise our modest spread.

And look, don’t be too impressed with the 3,000 acres thingie. A large Texas ranch will comprise tens-of-thousands-of acres and a big one one-hundred-thousand or more.

But searching 3,000 acres as you look to find a shoe box-sized cat—with fur the same color as the winter and drought-dried under brush—is a chore. The old flat bedded work truck we use for ranch chores has a big stereo system and bull horn intercom we use for both entertainment while we work, and communications as well. Squirt was as adorable as it gets as she called, “Here kitty, kitty, kitty,” in half a dozen languages as we drove the property. Her sweet voice booming through the big Bose speakers sometimes brought tears to my eyes.

Then, again, it might have been the chilled air tearing my eyes. But I’m finding myself more, and more, auto-tearing sentimentally with the silliest of shit. Oldies music, thoughts of good friends and good times are cranking up my tear ducts routinely. Hell, Tuesday morning I started weeping like a widow woman when I awakened to discover I could still get a nighttime woodie.

Squirt’s verbal skills will be a recurring thematic content contributor in today’s posted writings, and I want to say here and now, that the Squirt is the number one, most adorable ten-pounds of dog meat ever. In all ways, adorable, and I need to find some synchronyms for the word “adorable”[.]

We drove and drove and found signs of Honor—evidence, in abundance, that Honor had passed—but no actual Honor was discovered. It seems Honor is fleeting and hard found. Little piles of hunted birds, mice and rats lay stacked in pyramid heaps like the stacked-stone mile-markers used by the surveyors who penned the first, original surveys of central Texas. The birds were all grackles—cockroaches of the air in our country. Grackles are the only bird I let her kill without eating the resulting bird carcass. Even I don’t like smoked grackle, and I’ll eat most anything.

Anyway, we drove and looked and Kitty, kitty, kitteyed for several hours and found nothing but signs of Honor passed, which fact earned me the full-blown wrath of Mother’s martyred soul when we returned with no Honor.

“God will find a way to punish you, son,” were the first words of my mother’s lament. “I wish I knew what it is I did in my early years to deserve a child who mistreats animals the way that you do.” This said as the Johnson family shared a big pot of chicken soup and jalapeño cornbread I had made for removing a part of the chill from the cold weather that invaded Austin while I was in Floriduh.

“Oh, fer shitsakes, Mother, leave tha boy ta his bothers.” Gram to the rescue. “It ain’t but a fuckin’ cat, an Mooner loves it like it was family. Now sumbody grab me another cervezer, an Mooner, pass me tha cornbread. Ya baked it too dry, but iffn ya slobber it with butter ya can git it swallered. Soup needs salt.”

See what I mean about that whole love/hate/hate/love dealie with my grandmother?

But Mother was undeterred. “I could have been a Broadway star, and I was saddled with this.” Here my mother did that motion with both palms opened starting from her bosom, where she opened her arms in what would seem to an outsider to be a gesture of welcoming.

With the finish of the motion, both of Mother’s arms were fully outstretched, open palms shoulder height. She looked like a Baptist preacher encouraging the sinners to come to the front of the church to accept Jesus as their Saviour, the finishing punishment delivered at the end of every Baptist service.

“I could have been a star, but God placed me here instead. Forgive me, Jesus, for I have sinned. I pray that some day you will shed your glorious light in my life and release me from this burden. It isn’t enough that my other child is homosexual…”

“Aw-right, Mother,” my grandmother interrupted. “That’s enough a that shit ta last me a lifetime. Now ya put me offn my grub.” Gram had had a belly full of Mother and dinner both. “Shut yer snotty yap an be grateful yer son puts up with yer shit.”

Love.

“Now, Mooner, git out there an find the fucking cat. I’ll kick yer fat ass up ta yer ears iffn ya don’t bring Honor home.”

Hate.

Anyway, another few hours of nighttime searching revealed no new clues and we turned-in to bed at just after midnight. Then, at 3:23 am, I was awakened by sounds of furious purring as my balls were shredded by the tiny pin pricks of kneading cat paws. My kitty had returned home and appeared to be none the worse for my wear.

Sometimes you can’t find Honor, no matter how hard you try. Sometimes, Honor finds you. Now I’m crying again. I think I need help.

Shit. Shit and ugh. I didn’t mean to spend today’s twelve-hundred words on the fucking cat, I wanted to tell you that the morning I left for Floriduh, Rick Perry awakened me with his tearful proclamation that he wants a sex change operation. Squirt did the interpreting, my giant flightless bird did the sniveling and blabbering. I did the open-mouthed gawking of a stunned father when told by his son he was, “Born with a woman’s heart.”

Ugh. And shit.

Where will I find a vet who does ostrich sex-change operations? But we don’t have time for all of that now. I guess we’ll save it for manana, y’all.

PS- Please click over there ===}}} and check out my book, Full Rising Mooner. Especially you silly shitballs from middle, eastern and northern Europe, the countries formerly known as the USSR, and you other fuckers who only visit me for camel toe stories. The mother of all camel toe stories in in the fucking book. So buy it already.

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I Say Floriduh, You Say Tomahto

Tuesday, December 6th, 2011

 

So. Call me crazy, but I think the Republican Party’s slate of presidential candidates is funnier than a three-peckered cat at a rocking chair convention. Each rises to the top of the heap as if fired by a rocket ship, then soon explode in a fiery ball of tears and spilled guts—the results of self-inflicted wounding. I can hardly wait for BJ and Squatlo to post the latest videos from J. Stewart and Rachael M. and Colbert. This is seriously funny shit, guys, and we were here to watch it live, and in real time. We’ll look back on these times and say to anyone who’ll listen, “I was there.”

BJ has been posting music videos over to his place at Dumb Perignon aka Un-Original Thoughts, which is available for your viewing pleasure by clinking onto the linkster over there ====}}} to my Bloggie Roller, and at the very top. BJ has great taste in music, and pork products as well, and I find myself downright nostalgic when I visit over to his place.

Squattie, also over there ===}}}, has recently posted some of the sillinesses of Fauxed-up Newbs. The heros at F-uped Newbs have decided that the Muppets are commies and anti-capitalist instigators training our kids to be moronic liberal future voters. To hear the pompous, big-haired Fox announcers speak of this horrible Muppet affair is hilarious. Sad as well, but hilarious.

Which reminds me. I have spent numerous hours over the last week working on the thirty-second video trailer for my book, Full Rising Mooner. And having said that, I find myself reminded that when I went to the Amazon site that sells self-same book, a situation that occurred when I clicked on the linkster over there ===}}} marked “Full Rising Mooner- Amazon Sales Linkster”[,] I discovered that there are six different places to buy my silly fucking book.

At first I was impressed with myself, and quite so. “Look at me,” I said to the Squirt and Yoda, “not only am I a published author but I’m on sale in six different places.”

The two adorable puppies were each perched atop my desk—their standard position when wanting to bug me. Squirt sits and gives me the steely-eyed stare she’s perfected from watching old Oz reruns on HBO, her brown eyes burning holes through my soul. Yoda takes a more direct approach as he romps across the desk, stomping on my keyboard and stuffing his snout into whatever drink I have sitting desk side. They wanted to bug me for their “pick-snack”[,] what they call their before bedtime morsel of food.

“Holy shit,” Squirt exclaimed when I got her eyes diverted to the computer screen. “Someone is charging $47.00 for your silly fucking bibleo!”

She was right. “Anyone willing to pay forty-seven bucks for my shit needs to contact me directly.” If someone makes ridiculous profits from Full Rising Mooner, it should be me. And that reminds that I also saw where there are three books titled “Full Moon Rising” and by three differing writers, all for sale at the same time. That, dear friends, is ridiculous.

We logged off the Amazon sales site and back into the video trailer linkster so I could make final choices and click the “SUBMIT” button. I had to choose photos, short videos, music, and “style” selections from the multiples of each given me by my video team. They did a nice job of choosing choices for me, and the dogs and I did a nice job of selecting final choices.

I love the music we chose and if they will tweak the visuals as we requested, we’ll have us an award-winning thirty seconds of book trailer magic. I’ll post it here as soon as it’s ready.

The weather turned brutally cold while I was in Floriduh, and Yoda fought with Gram about taking his shits outside. Everybody peed in the sink and Gram remembered to flush with adequate frequencies, but the funky-looking bat wing-eared puppy seems to have a strong dislike for standing in icy-wet grass. He left several loads on carpets, and always Navajo carpets.

I’m either worried that Yoda has a Navajo prejudice, or proud of his good taste in woven art. Raising kids is a series of risky decisions and I try to never jump my conclusions and act foolishly. So I scolded him for shitting on his tastefully-chosen spots.

Oh, and get this. I got an email from this fuckball down to Floriduh—some shithead calls himself Gator Bill. Seems Gator Bill takes offense to my calling it like I see it by saying “Floriduh”[.]

To rest my case, please allow me to paste Gator Bill’s literal wording: “You Texas shits think your so fucking smart. If you dont stop calling us DUMB and RIGHT NOW I’m coming to Teaxs to kick You’re ASS!!!! I’ll feed you’re dogs to the gators and fuck you in the eye sockits.”

Hey Billy… Floriduh, Floriduh, Floriduh!!!

Seems Gator boy and I suffer the same needs for editing.

Anyway, I’m headed out to take my collection of animals on a walk. Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are both rather pasty-faced from spending so much time in the closet. My pet pig and ostrich need what little sun is peeking from behind the clouds. I’ll likely need to carry Yoda since it’s still cold, and I’ll have to find the fucking cat. Honor left the house early this morning to hunt birds and hasn’t shown herself since.

You should hear the Squirt calling for the cat. “Vinir aqui gato, gato, gato. Kommen hier kitty, kitty, kitty. Come the fuck ici votre asswipe chat!”

Some people say I’m a bad influence on my little dog, what with all of her cussing and rude behavior shit. But I limit her Carta Blanca beer drinking and refuse to buy her cigarettes. In my world, that’s good parenting.

Anyway, manana, y’all, we’re walking.

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Fuck Armageddon; Rick Perry Too

Tuesday, November 22nd, 2011

 

So. I feel like I’ve been whining and bitching too much, so I might stop. Nobody wants to hear any more of my silly complaints anyway. Like Gram said at breakfast this morning when she said, “Oh who gives a shit, Mooner? Yer problems ain’t mine and ya need ta redo my eggies onna count as ya cooked all tha life out the yellers.”

As do I, my prickly old grandmother likes her eggs just barely over-easy. Turn the sunny yolks pasty and they’re garbage to me. Actually they make pig fodder as Rush Limbaugh likes eggs cooked any whichaway. Which reminds me of the breakfast that BJ cooked for me the morning I left Tennessee to head back home from BlogCon2011.

Sausage, bacon and ham—all three of the porcine varieties—biscuits, and three perfectly-cooked eggies. I remember using my fork to scrape the last of the yolks that had almost dried on my plate. The leftovers were made into pork-stuffed sammies enjoyed by me all the way back to Texas. I spent but a short time with Bill but it was time enough to make a very close friend.

I gave Gram’s over-cooked eggs to my pet pig and went to the friggie to get several more. I dropped the container to the floor and broke them all. “Oh fuck a duck,” was the best I could get out, not a complaint mind you, but an simple explanation of the circumstance.

“You ain’t got no time fer romance, Mooner. Git yer ass to tha neighbor’s an fetch me some more eggies. An get tha turkey from him while yer at it.” We get our eggs from the man next door, and Gram gets a touch cranky without her daily dose. We also buy all of our cooking birds from the same family and he raised a special turkey for us. Great big fucker and mean as my Grandmother. And as stupid as Rick Perry. The Texas governor and not my pet ostrich.

Maybe I should hire a cook to take a few of the pressures off of my back. Cooking for this bunch of family Johnsons and attendant visitors can be taxing.

Maybe I should drown my grandmother and eliminate most of the pressures.

I’m having a book launch party on January the 12th and I’m looking to sponsor a charitable organization while at it. You know, charge a little extra for books sold there and give the profits to the charity. I’m having lunch with the charity of my choice today so they can determine if I’m appropriate for their mission.

Riiiiight.

Maybe I’ll meet some nice people and the lunch won’t be a total waste of efforts. Until there’s a charity based upon the need of ADHD sufferers the inappropriate actions of a their quite befuddled and crazed members, whatinthefuck organization is going to find me appropriate?

But today—I simply don’t give a rotten Republican’ rat’s smelly ass. Fuck problems and fuck all the fuckers that cause them. I’m thinking that the right-wing Christian wackos have finally managed to bring about their sacred fucking Armageddon and I simply refuse to spend the last days in a bad mood.

The fucking Christians have fucked the political scene into such a mess that I think the end of days is nigh upon us. I hope that I’m wrong and their “my way or the highway” method of government is a temporary aberration, and sanity and human kindness and sensibility will soon return to America’s governments.

But just in case, I’m enjoying what time is left. I’m smiling and drinking Carta Blanca beer, eating whateverthefuck I want, and getting myself all the sex I can stand.

So… fuck Armageddon, and the horse he rides in on. Manana, y’all. Oh, yea. And please buy my book. It will help me stay in a good mood.

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Mooner’s Last Supper; A Halloween Drama

Monday, October 31st, 2011

 

So. Today is Halloween and it’s to be a really big day here to Loonyland. I have been staying away from the Planned Parenthood for the last week, or so, because of today’s Johnson Family Playhouse performance titled, “The Last Supper Goes Anti-Anti-Abortion Re-protesting”[.]

The asshole Christians have ratcheted-up their anti-abortion protestings recently. They are doing this “bow our heads in saddened silence” thingie where the turn their backs to traffic and face the clinic.

Whoop-t-fucking-do.

I’ve got my crew dressing as Jesus and his Disciples having that last dinner. OK, not all of the D’s will be represented as Mother refuses to play, and SAC Ellen is in Costa Rica, again. Can somebody tell me what possible business a Special Agent In Charge for the US Department of Homeland Security would have in Costa Rica?

Me, I love Costa Rica and I really love Costa Rican coffee. But you’d need a long-range tactical bomber to attack America from Costa Rica, and they don’t even have an air force down there.

We had quite the skirmish when deciding roles for today’s Halloween skit. First, everyone wanted to be Jesus, and then nobody wanted that role. I have refused it from the start as it just doesn’t seem fitting. In a final compromise with Gram and the ostrich Rick Perry, I cast Dubbie-J in the Jesus, Lord and Saviour, role. Dubbie-J is Woodrow Wilson Jones, Aunt Hilda’s shrunken head-in-a-box. And don’t even ask because that story is, of course, in the fucking book. A book that you can buy, coincidentally enough, by clicking to this linkster:

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

The little presumed to be African native man has already got long hair and a beard, and he looks terrific in the made from hemp fabric robe the guys over to the factory made for him. Gram said it best when she said, “Why tha little guy is cute enough ta date.”

Then Gram and Yoda started haggling over who got to be Judas. Gram wanted to be Judas because, as she again so eloquently put it, “He’s tha one what got tha gold. There is real gold, right, Mooner?”

Yoda wanted that role because Judas and Jesus sound alike and are almost spelled alike, which is a conundrum for another dichotomy. I love dealies like that. Like how Mormon and moron are a simple “m” apart.

When all of the fighting was over, we decided to go with Matthew, Mark, Luke, John and Judas, plus Sleepy and Dopey. Rush Limbaugh is the perfect Sleepy, as hogs tend to be a tad sluggish by nature. And Rick Perry as Dopey… Enough said.

My role is head administrator, driver of the family flat bed truck, and director of the play. I’ll be wearing my new sandwich board sign that says, “I’m An Abortion And I’m OK,” on the one side, and, “A Woman’s Right Of Choice Is Sacred,” on the flipper.

Enough. I need to get things going. I was gonna say, “I need to get this show on the road,” but it seemed a tad over-the-top. Manana, y’all.

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Double Dose Of Two-Faced Rick Perry; Texas Gov Still An Asshole

Friday, October 28th, 2011

 

So. Sometimes I hate when I love that I was right. Wait. I love when I wish I was wrong and I wasn’t. How does a person properly provide elucidation to unpleasantness?

Ugh.

I made two predictions about the pompous prick Rick Perry, and my newspaper confirmed my presciences in today’s edition, and I wish I’d been wrong. I hate when people have nasty predictable tendencies. In articles almost side-by-side, the Austin American-Statesman had Pricky Perry stories that should provide coffin nails for his presidential candidacy. Yet I fear that the national right-wing Christian Republican fan base is no smarter than their brethren here to Texas.

The first story was about the new upper-level management salary structure for TxDOT. I was telling you guys about how Perry had appointed a former aide and lobbyist as the new head of TxDOT and had doubled the man’s salary from what his predecessor had earned. Out of one side of his mouth, our governor preaches financial restraint and slaughters our education, social support and environmental services budgets.

Then out of his other mouth, the two-faced former Texas Aggie yell leader showers his one-percenter buddy with a reward at taxpayer’s expenses. That was a month ago. Today’s story quotes that new head of TxDOT as saying that he wants to almost double the salaries of the next-in-line management positions at TxDOT so that he can, “Attract top private industry talent.” Read that to mean “more of the Governor’s ass lickers”[.]

In the several positions mentioned, if those salaries were kept level, and the new Texas Roadway Kingpin was paid as the last, we could hire three professional engineers and a half-dozen base-grade workers with the listed salary increases. To me, this situation says everything you need to know to have a keen understanding of who Rick Perry is, and how he runs his elected offices.

The second article was telling us that little Ricky has decided to take a pass on some/all of the remaining Republican debates. Since he is, as his staff will tell us, “Not a good debater,” he’ll just do what he did in Texas last gubernatorial race, and refuse to debate.

Like the rich kid in the neighborhood who owned the one football, Perry only plays when he feels he has the advantage or he takes his ball and goes home. Too bad the little shithead hasn’t got any balls, and too bad he’s so stupid he doesn’t realize just how dumb he is.

Rick Perry is Forrest Gump without the kind spirit. Wait, that didn’t quite get there. Rick Perry is a mean spirited man. He is one of the misguided Christians who feels that his faith and prayer should make him lord and master of the realm. He thinks that God has ordained him to be President of the United States, and he’ll do ANY-FUCKING-THING to make it be true.

Rick Perry is a two-faced weasel who panders to his financial backers. And he gets elected.

Ugh, ugh, uggga-ugh.

At least it’s Friday. SAC Ellen will be back in town and I’m having me some sex tonight! I’ve got an appointment down to Ingrid’s Hot Wax Emporium to get my ass prepped for tonight’s events. I’ve decided to go with a Halloween theme and get my ass plucked and dyed to look like a Jack-O-Lantern, and I think I’ll get my front side all done up to look like the Grim Reaper. Gram is knitting me a wool scythe blade to put on the end of my pecker.

Squirt and Yoda want to be Harold and Maude. We watched that great old movie last night and it sealed the deal. Anyone have ideas about just how this will work? I can’t think of anything but makeup and clothes to get them into character. When I expressed my concerns, Squirt said to me, she said, “Vous pouvez nous acheter un Jaguar XK twelve banger.”

I looked at her like she was crazy. “Are you crazy? That’s a $75,000 car. I’m not spending $75,000 on your Halloween costumes. You, little lady, are out of your mind.”

That was at breakfast, and at 8:30 am, a terrific breakfast time of day. A time previously negotiated by me in exchange for doing anything the dogs want to do one day a week.

After we finish at Ingrid’s, we’re going bone shopping.

It’s Friday, so drink your Carta Blanca beer cold, and responsibly. Manana, y’all.

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Waaaanita Perry Whines Again; World Still Spinning

Saturday, October 22nd, 2011

 

So. OK, first, please allow me to say that to the best of my knowledge the world did not end yesterday. I pigged-out on pork all day as my family and friends spent out last possible hours enjoying each other as if old Harold were right this time. I stopped drinking at 7 pm, right after my crispy whole piggy dinner, so that I would be fully sobered for the drive to the airport to pick up SAC Ellen.

She and I fumbled and giggled for a couple hours as we made the best sex we could in the back seat of a Sixties Pontiac GTO. I’ve got abrasions on my knees, left hip and my chin, and I think I strained a hamstring. The abrasions to knees and hip are from the GTO’s rough carpet. My chin must be rubbed raw from the regrowth of the SACster’s neder regions.

Before she left Monday morning to head out to California, we spent Sunday night doing personal grooming on each other. I shaved her clean—legs, arm pits, pubis and taint. While I like a hairy woman, there is no other feeling to match the sensation of dragging your tongue over a smooth-shaved adult female. Still fun, whisker burn results when nuzzling stubble.

SAC Ellen thought it would be funny to shave my front to look like Dumbo with Micky Mouse ears, and she shaved my ass to where the unshaved hair spelled “Ellen”[.] When she finished I told her I thought it looked like Goofy, and she poked me for saying something that dumb.

And let’s stop for one minute and cogitate on something. First, why shouldn’t I have said, “… to where the unshavened hair,”? If you are “clean-shaven” then you would have to be unshavened. Also, why not “spellt” or maybe “spellted” instead of spelled?

I know I’ve got grammar police reading my shit because you never fail to try to correct me. But never once have any of you offered me logical reasoning as to my questioned grammatical alterations.

Fuckballs.

Which reminds me. Have any of you guys noticed that Anita Perry has even started looking like her namesake, Anita Bryant? I swear to god it’s true. If I could Photoshop, or whateverthefuck it is that lets you put two pics side-by-side, I’d show you. Maybe BJ or Squattie will do it for me. Grab a stock black and white of Anita P, and an uncolored on of Mz. Bryant from when she had the same hair style. Look like twins.

Which also reminds me. Message to Rick Perry: “Ricky, do yourself a huge favor. You are plenty stupid for the entire family. Tell Anita to stay to home until she gets her medications stabilized.”

Waaaaanita was in South Carolina and started whining about her poor baby boy having to resign his job because of a federal regulation that prohibits policy advisors from participating in political campaigns. Waaaaaaaanita thinks that’s “unfair” to her little Griffin Perry, the now former employee of Deutche Bank. While Waaaanita was whining about insider influences, hubby was up the coast in DC to woo the insiders on his own behalf. The Prickster was there to raise money and influence from the lobbyists who fuel our greedy political system.

Now folks, please listen to something. Rick Perry has historically chided those politicians who are funded and influenced by the same shitheads he is there to now impress. And he has grown desperate for his sinking polls and will do anything to get back on top.

But I just remembered my point to all of this shit. What I wanted to say is that I want my First Ladies to show that they have the strength to make their husbands behave their fucking selves. Like with Mrs. Obama. Anyone doubt she’d have trouble pulling the trigger on her man? Or Eleanor Roosevelt? Or Barbara Bush?

Presidents are men, for shitsakes, and we men are total fuck-ups without the rudder of a strong woman. Strong women do not fucking whine because her kid has to follow the same rules as everyone else’s kids. Hey, Waaanita. Griffy ain’t in Texas anymore, and we don’t like whiners.

FUCK RICK PERRY and drink Carta Blanca beer as we all root for Tennessee to kick Alabalony’s ass tonight. Manana, y’all.

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Nice Rack…Slap; Mooner’s Still Nuts

Tuesday, October 18th, 2011

 

So. If I ever, and I mean EVER say that I think I’m getting better, I want someone to kick me in the balls. If I ever try to tell you that I’ve discovered that I’m not quite as crazy as I thought—I want you to ask me to, “Wait right here,” and then I want you to put on your steel-toed work boots and return to kick my balls.

Maybe then I’ll get it. Maybe then, I’ll look before I leap. Or whateverthefuck the metaphor would be. Or the analogy, or, again, whateverthefuck.

At dinner last night, I was feeling pretty good about myself. I found a possible home to play I-net poker, and as I was washing my hands—after peeing in the sink—I realized that I had made it through the first twelve hours of the day without a single fuck up. OK, except for when the young woman slapped me in the produce department over to Whole Foods, but that was a simple matter of miscommunication.

She thought I said, “Those will make a nice rack, Miss,” meaning the adorable pair of creamy-white titties that were half-hanging out of her halter top as she leaned into the refrigerated meat case. I, of course, was speaking of the lamb she was looking at in the butcher case and thinking, Frenched rack of lamb.

Either way, I got slapped and invited to the assistant manager’s office, a cozy room with which I have familiarity.

As I was saying, I was feeling pretty good about myself and thinking that my psycho therapy was working and that I was starting to mature. I bragged about my day to the table full of Johnsons and gathered boy toys, and each agreed that maybe I was improving. Even the twin Texas A&M engineering students my Gram picked up in College Station over the weekend.

“They was already all drunked-up when I caught ‘em, Mooner, so don’t start on all a that Mann Action on me.”

More than once I’ve found it necessary to explain the Mann Act to my grandmother.

Anyfuckingway, I felt good at dinner, after dinner and then again as I rose from slumber this morning. I’m not saying I felt sane mind you, but I felt that I’m getting better. So after breakfast, I sat down to write about the big story here about how the Governor’s cronies at our environmental department were acting like shitheads. Again.

I had 400 or so words out and I had a small brain fritz and decided to check on the members of my Bloggie Roller. So first I clicked on Squatlo Rant over there =} and discovered that he had already posted the story, and waaaayyyy better than I could ever do it. Asshole.

I was pissed that he beat me to the punch, but glad someone as smart as him (he?) thought it important enough to write about.

So I decided to play just one game of Spider Solitaire to relax my brain so I could think about what else I could tell you. On game 46, when I had a fifteen-percent win record for the session, I was at that place with two more stacks of cards to distribute and I knew I could win the game. I’m a clever card player and reach this point in about half of the Free Cell games I play.

I leaned back in my chair to evaluate the spread of the cards and said to myself, out loud yet I was the only one there, I said, “Fuck me running. I’ll never make spades the first suit I close out. Moth…er…fuck…er!”

So, I farted around attempting to discover a way to close a set of spades first and gave up.

“Oh, my God, Mooner. You are even more obsessive-compulsive than I thought. Other than the spade fixation, what other extra rules do you have for that game?”

That’s when I discovered that I wasn’t alone. It was evil Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my first ex-wife and still psycho therapist. “Oh hey, brain killer, what’s up?” I asked her.

“Looks like what’s up are your extra therapy sessions, big boy. You’re a mess.”

“I didn’t even tell you about how the first set, spades, has to close from the far left space and then hearts from the far right one. Or any of the other stuff. You’re jumping conclusions on me.”

“Nope,” she said. “I could tell by the look on your face that you, my dear ex-husband, are a raving lunatic.”

“Bitch,” the best I had.

“Yes, I am, and you need to call Sherry and make a couple extra appointments for the week.”

She kissed the top of my head and left. I sometimes still miss marriage to Dr. Sam, but not right then. Bitch.

I started to wonder about my obsessions and compulsions. “I don’t have that many, do I,” I thought to myself, so I listed them.

OK, I count stuff like cell phone towers on a road trip. I tap my toes in the blank spaces between the white stripes in the road. I have to clap even numbers of claps for the Longhorn football and basketball teams or I bring them bad luck. I also have to say, “Come on D,” when the defense needs a big stop. Can’t say defense, or use any other words, just, “Come on D.”

I have to get out of the bed a particular way every morning and then follow my “72-steps for starting each day” routine. I miss, or misplace, a step and my whole day is fucked up.

Oh, my god, when I cook I’m a total fucking mess. Everything has a procedure and a place and a method. And I am crazy about cleanliness.

I, dear friends, am a crazy fucking lunatic. So fuck it. I’m having a Carta Blanca beer and I’mma toast to all the crazy lunatic fuckballs in the world.

“Cheers, you crazy mothers!”

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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Republican Party Woes; Yoda Posts First Story

Tuesday, October 4th, 2011

 

So. I’m sitting here to my computer and I hear that Governor Chris “Pass Tha Taters (and the gravy and the butter, and tha puddin’ while you’re at it)” Christie has called a press conference regarding his promise to never-fucking run for President, no matter WHAT, ever and regardless of how many times he’s asked.

I was going to tell you about my trip to the emergency room to have the nose hair attachment to my man’s personal groomer machine removed from my right sinus cavity, but I’m quite distracted with what’s going on in the Republican Party and their presidential candidate musical chairs bingo.

This shit with them all started when the Tea Party started screaming for Sarah Palin to step away from her $100,000 speaking fee career and back into the national race. As the first serious mistake in this year’s presidential draft, Sarah Palin dumbed herself out of the race before it even started. One of my Tea Bagger acquaintances, a woman of normally decent intelligence, said to me about Palin, “Look, Mooner, you just have to face the fact that Sarah Palin doesn’t want to be President. She’s too smart to put herself through all of that.”

Riiiiiight. Unh huh, that’s right.

Second favored son of the Tea Bagged Right was Ron “Isolation is the Answer” Paul, sadly Texan US Senator and daddy to the shithead from Kain-tookie, who managed to piss off the brotherhood by supporting the Ground Zero Mosque. Now he can’t capture enough straw votes to snort a gram of coke.

Enter Michele Bachmann. Holy shit, dear god and Jesus, I do love me some Michele Bachmann. I am totally embarrassed to say it, but it is true. Fake humorous videos of Ms. Bachmann have replaced my entire porn collection. Anytime I’m missing my sweetie, I just hop over to Squatlo’s place and find one of the vids he has posted over there.

But alas, the smoking hot MB has a little trouble with her history. And geography… and government… and popular music legends. Really, how in the fuck do you plan to carry the South if you don’t know that Elvis is dead?

Their latest pick, my own Rick “Did someone stick an icepick in my ear” Perry, has managed to stick his pointy-little cowboy boot right up his own silly ass in near-record time. Having avoided debates in his runs as Texas governor, the Prick, Rick Perry, has shown precisely why he has avoided debate.

To once again quote Ron White, “It’s cause he’s reeeealy fucking stoooooooo-oo-ooo-pi-i-i-ii-i-d-d-d”

But fear not America, for the right-wing Christian religious shitballs of America have a new target, the aforementioned Chris Christie. I just checked-in and Christie has re-said he won’t run during his news. Not that I think that’s his final answer, but good for now.

See, I was realizing that this Republican Presidential race has been determined to be a Pony Express sort of dealie. Sarah Palin carries the mail bag for awhile then hands off to Ron Paul who hits the wall and gives the lead over to Michele Bachmann. Then, here comes Rick Perry and he grabs the bag from MB as she kicks and screams.

The big man was elected to take things from here, but he’s refusing to take the mail bag, choosing instead the feed bag. Look, I have nothing against overweight people so long as they don’t throw the extra weight around. I understand that obesity is indicative of emotional problems and inabilities to deal with shit.

And that is exactly why I don’t want Christie to be my President. I need someone with more discipline and control in charge of the White House and the Black Box. Last thing we need is a guy accidentally pushing that button as he grabs for a dropped Twinkie. “Oopsie, I pushed the button!”

That’s one of the many reasons you don’t want me to be President.

Anyway, this somehow feels like a wasted effort. My eyes are still watering from having that fucking plastic domed hair ripper jammed in my lower eye socket. Carta Blanca beer will help get me back on track. Manana, y’all.

PS- The little dog now known as Yoda has something he’d like to say:

etv29v to sow50j

n]be>, ‘QPBU90Mb [H WHJ|-06-i0451 =itm ,,cvx`~

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Mooner Matures; Not A Rick (The Prick) Perry Story

Sunday, October 2nd, 2011

 

So. I realized last night that I am becoming a much more mature man. I’m getting older as well—not a proud moment of self awareness—but my previous remark was addressing my personal growth factors as they would be evaluated by my psycho therapist.

“Wow, Mooner, you are actually showing some signs of maturity,” Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson remarked at my Friday afternoon session. “To recognize that you have no boundaries shows real growth.”

We were discussing my having been seen peeing in the sink down to Austin City Hall. I was there to discuss several issues with a Councilmember and also to say “Hello” to my fifth ex-wife and policewoman extrordinaire, Roshandra Washington-Johnson. Roshandra was the first of my two Robin Quivers look-alike wives. Robin is Howard Stern’s ebony-skinned sidekick and a beautiful woman.

Not that this hasn’t happened before, I mean I pee in the sink at City Hall and some asshole sees me and demands to have me arrested. First of all, sink pissing is not against the law—I’ve done all the research—and second of all, if you want me arrested you need to find someone other than my fifth ex-wife to do the honors. Roshandra has only arrested me once in all of the times the demand has been made, and that was in error.

So, in therapy I was telling Dr. Sam that I felt that I was not taking Roshandra’s situation into consideration when I peed in the sink down there. Since she is the main police protector of City Hall, I should know that it will be she (her?) who (whom?) is required to address my perceived indiscretions.

Therefore, I have decided to check-in with Roshandra before I pee at City Hall to be sure she’s not too busy to deal with the silly shitballs who don’t approve of my bathroom habits. And saving water with sink-peeing is my habit.

Which reminds me. If I’m ever going to set a water-saving trend with my personal habit, I decided that I needed to expand my experience and repertoire. I am learning to multi-task sink pee, ambi- and no- dexterous sink pee, and multi-user sink pee.

My furry four-legged helpers serve as both observers and participants in this endeavor. Maybe I should say these endeavors. Firstly, I have learned to pee while: pecker holding right, left and no-handed; brushing my teeth; flossing my teeth; shaving; trimming the hair in my nose ( I’m still squirting the mirror while trimming my ears); examining the adult rosacea that punishes me for having had clear skin as a teen; applying deodorant, rosacea cream, and Tuscany cologne (on those rare occasions when I have a date); and as I clean my glasses.

I always clean my glasses as an integral aspect of my preparatory compulsions to obsessively attempt to control the diversions caused by my ADHD. If I routinize my daily habits it helps keep me on tracks.

Like now.

So far, in the multi-user sink pee category, I’ve managed to get the Squirt, Honor the cat and myself all urinating simultaneously in the same sink. We’re trying to get Yoda worked into the plan, but he takes up too much sink bowl circumference because as a boy dog, he has to stand sideways to get his lifted-leg side over the sink.

Squirt and Honor back up and hang their adorable little tushies over the edge and let her rip. With the two of them I just need to pay attention. I hang my pecker over the rim and lay it on the bowl surface to prevent splashing.

But we’ll figure a way to get Yoda worked in. We’re working on a strap-on device for him.

Anyway, today is pro football day. We’re filling the cooler with Carta Blanca beer and going fishing first. Manana, y’all.

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Rick Perry Appointment Screws Texas Again; No Honor In Goat Dealie

Saturday, October 1st, 2011

 

So. America gets another chance to witness the businesslike ways of Texas Governor Rick “Let’s Create A New Agency So I can Give My College Roommate An Executive Job” Perry. A little background.

Luminant Energy (LE), a subsidiary of Energy Futures Holdings, has been center stage in what I’ll call Governor Rick Perry’s Great Anti-EPA Crusade. See, LE is an electric company that makes its living producing energy from old fashioned, dirty coal-fired plants. You know those plants—the ones with the giant smokestacks that belch continuous, ominous streams of burned-coal pollution twenty-four hours and three-sixty-five. The same kinds of coal-fired plants you see in any movie or TV show or video where the director wants you to get a sense and feel of pollution, economic decay and desperation.

Those kinds of coal-fired plants.

The US EPA has long identified those plants as major sources of pollution and targeted them to be either cleaned up, or closed. Countrywide, state environmental agencies have forced new “scrubbed discharge” emissions be added to those plants or they shut down. States everywhere have complied with the Clean Air Act in efforts to protect their citizens and their environments.

Except, of course, for Texas. Nope, folks, you see we do things our own way down here to Texas. Our governor, Caesar and Jesus-appointed leader, Rick the Prick Perry, doesn’t think there is any such a thing as pollution. To semi-quote the Prickster, “Pollution is just another one of those “lution” words, like evolution and convolution. And evolution don’t exist.”

That wasn’t an actual quote but rather my interpretation of the facts.

Because of the governor’s efforts to assist Future Energy Holdings’ LE and others like it, the EPA has seized control of our environmental controls from the air quality perspective. Because Governor Perry forced lax air quality standards onto our state environmental agency, the TCEQ, we have moved into the spot as number-one worst air quality state. An honorable position in our Governor’s eyes.

Next, the Texas Department of Transportation (TxDOT) is our state’s company-owned engineering firm. Responsible for designing, constructing and maintaining our roads and bridges since 1917, TxDOT has been an agency that is all about the engineers. Why would that be? Why would we want engineers running the government agency that performs the State’s most important engineering functions?

Maybe the most obvious reason is safety. Personally, I want a structural expert—one who understands all the dynamics of stress and flex and all of that silly physics shit—to sit in judgment when approving the plans for my roads and bridges. I really do not want some bean counter to have the final say as to whether the 200-foot tall concrete flyover I drive to get onto IH-35 will be built to either 200% safety or 65% safety engineering.

And the last person I want to run my TxDOT would be a fucking political aide and lobbyist for the energy giant Energy Future Holdings and Luminant Energy, who has similar ideologies as Perry. I cannot even imagine that a man who spent fifteen years under the coattails of Senator Phil Gramm and Governor Perry would be named to succeed an engineer with 33-years at TxDOT, a professional engineer who worked his way through the ranks to the top spot.

But guess what, folks. Perry just named Phil Wilson, his and Senator Gramm’s former aide and current LE and Future Energy lobbyist, as the head of TxDOT. Thaaaaaat’s right, we just replaced a professional engineer—Amadeo Saenz, a 33-year TxDOT veteran, with this shitball.

Huh?

Oh, and it gets better. Rick Perry has based his Presidential rhetoric on a foundation of his smart business acumen, how he saves money by cutting non-essentials (like medical services and education), and how he doesn’t waste a dime of state funds.

Guess what. Professional engineer Saenz was paid $190,000/year for his 33-years of specific, dedicated experience—a fine salary for an experienced profession. Phil Wilson, a fine Christian man with zero specific experience either as an engineer or in management nor did he even work any construction jobs as a kid, is making $292,500 per year.

Holy, fucking shit! Is he serious? Which reminds me. Why don’t we have an exclamation mark for the question mark—you know like the exclamation point is for the period?

Folks, that extra $102,500 of salary is enough wasted money to buy 205,000 meals for hungry people! You can imagine my consternation.

But I can take solace in this one dealie. Engineer Saenz made his decisions solely based upon sound scientific principles. When he approved the 200-foot flyover my car sits atop at 55-MPH, all I had was the solid confidence I would make it down as planned and continue my drive up to Dallas because it was engineered to provide that assurance.

But with Phil Wilson in charge, I don’t need no fucking science for my flyover because old Philly has something waaaay better. Yep, I know that Mr. Wilson is gonna pray to Jesus and have his Lord and Saviour protect me.

Ugga-mugga-fugga UGH!

Thankfully, it’s Saturday and college football day. Carta Blanca beer, catching up on my bloggie reading and a bar B Que’d goat are on today’s agenda. Which reminds me. Honor the cat was pretty funny last night. When we were sitting at dinner discussing tonight’s dinner, she wanted to know if she could have the honor of hunting down the goat. I told her, “Sure, little lady, we’ll go hunting in the morning.”

We’re headed to the neighbor’s place, he’s the goat farmer. Manana, y’all.

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Beach Budget Bingo; The Flim-Flam Man Rick Perry

Thursday, September 29th, 2011

 

So. Just a quick note today to provide further reasons to not trust Rick Perry. OK, also a quick note that is one of those “I told you so” dealies.

Our paper, the Austin American Statesman, printed a story explaining just some of the hocus-pocus the pompous prick Rick Perry and his right-wing Christian Texas legislator buddies used to balance the $27 billion state budget deficit earlier this year. The Prickster promised to find a balance with no new taxes, so here is some of what they did.

Here in Texas we we have a name we call budgetary-disadvantaged persons. When a guy has a hundred dollars in his pocket and thinks he’s flush with cash—even though he hasn’t paid his rent and they cut off his electricity—we call him either “Aggie rich” or “Okie rich”[.] Both names are derogatory in their intent based upon football rivalries, and each is meant to indicate stupidity.

I guess that Squatlo would call the same guy “Bama rich” or “Gator rich” as he supports that other UT, Tennessee.

Our Governor used the Aggie rich philosophy to solve massive chunks of our state’s budget shortfall. He is, after-all, an Aggie, and he is, further-all, dumb as a weathered cedar fencepost after the cows have rubbed all the bark off it.

Just like the dumbass with his hundred-dollar bill, Perry used unspent balances of money appropriated to social services to “trick” the state’s balance sheet into thinking we have enough cash to pay our bills. Our State Comptroller, Susan Combs, has, reluctantly it seems, made public some of this Aggie rich scheme.

The state budget has $851 million previously budgeted to help low income families pay their electric bills. Those funds were gathered from fees we pay as part of our electric bills, and every dollar was purposed to help the unfortunate. And this year, with record numbers of 100-degree days and rising energy costs, the money was withheld from those in need and used to demonstrate the ability to pay for other things. Another $654 million was to be spent to improve the state’s air quality, air quality that has worsened under Perry’s reign as Caesar.

Net results: our balanced budget is actually $5 billion short IF there is no further erosion of tax and fee collections. And let’s get fucking real about that. Forget the loss of property tax base suffered in the fires that have devastated our state. Sales tax revenues—the taxing bell cow for Texas taxation—are down, down and down some more. Things are far worse that they seem.

Fucking asswipe Republican shitball right-wing Christian dumbass greedy pricks.

On last night’s news, I heard that the City of Austin electric utility has something like $30 million in delinquent debt on late utility bills. The City isn’t about to cut utilities off when it’s 102-degrees outside, and that $851 million sits unspent by the State even though it should be used to pay the City.

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

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Rick Perry And Tx Aggies Taste Ass

Sunday, September 25th, 2011

 

So. I’m usually not one to gloat over another man’s losses, but in the name of truth and full-disclosure, please allow me this one moment. How’s that ass taste, Aggies?

In typical Texas A&M fashion, the Aggies are moving from the Big 12 Conference, where they are relevant in a positive way, and running away to the SEC. Regrettable for them, this is akin to Hitler saying, “I think the French are too difficult to fight. Somebody call Japanese Emperor Hirohito and ask him to get us a war with the Americans.”

Not that the Big 12 is such a pussy football league as we have the best non-conference record in college football. But really, Aggies, the fucking SEC?

I wish I could have been sitting with the pompous prick, Rick Perry, to watch his reactions to his Aggie’s second half meltdown in yesterday’s game. Just like his own presidential campaign, the Aggies started fast and built up a huge lead early. Same as Rick Perry, Aggie football broke free for a 17-point lead partway through the contest as they bullied OK State’s Cowboys around.

But after halftime, the stupid took a grip, and dumb play after dumb play ended in an Aggie loss.

Metaphors. Life’s finger pointed at dumbass.

For a special treat, go to my last post and read BJ’s comment. He is a seriously funny shitbird. And we share a love of all things Fire Sign Theater. He posted the entire I Think We’re All Bozos On This Bus album over to his place. He says it’s an MP-3 and so the audio is crystal-clear. My personal copy is vinyl and sounds like it was recorded during a sand storm. Click over there -} to Dumb Perignon and take a listen.

After that, do me a favor and check in with Squatlo over to his Rant. He’s letting his big heart take control of his big brain. Maybe it’s the brain in control of the heart, but who gives a shit. He’s feeling all dooms day’y with his knickers in a wad over the national political climate. I think his real problem is that his beloved Vols lost to fucking Florida.

Which thought returns my ADHD-addled brain back to Rick Perry and the SEC. I see the state of Texas as Rick Perry’s Big 12 Conference and the Presidential race as his SEC. The Prickster has been able to hold his own here in statewide elections. But he’s just too evil and way too fucking stupid to make it on the big stage.

My hope is that the national stage will expose him in such a way as to ruin his chances back to home. We Texans have suffered enough already. Not that I’m stopping my presses to demonstrate what a silly fuckwad Perry is.

As soon as the dust of breakfast settles, we’re headed to Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s house to mow the lawn. This will be Yoda’s first lawn mowing experience. He’s very excited. Doesn’t take much to excite the young dog.

Ah, the beauty of naïve youth. I wish I had me some. Manana, y’all.

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

Saturday, September 24th, 2011

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

See what I mean about cats? Fucking cat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Honor the cat, Reckmonster, Rick Perry, Squatlo, Squirt | 2 Comments »

F-Day Friday; Mooner All F’d Up

Friday, September 23rd, 2011

 

So. It’s F-Day, and I’m very excited to get it going. Don’t get ahead of yourself, or mine for that matter, and think I meant that today is Friday when I said, “It’s F-day.” True, it is Friday, but several additional f-words are on today’s agenda, the f-words which make it F-day. That make it F-day?

First, and see there- another f-word for the day, we’re going fishing. The whole lumpy bunch of us. I agreed to take Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry with the dogs and cat on our fishing trip. I agreed to do so because our garden lays fallow at this time, and using the literal definition for the word fallow. The garden bounty is fully harvested and the soil has been composted and very-slightly turned. Not a full plowing because that’s not a modern method. Just a light skim with a thick-tined rake.

Why the fallow garden part is needed at this time is because of Rush Limbaugh. My pig goes all wild boar on me every time I take him to dig worms for fishing. The smell of rich earth, as I turn shovel fulls to expose the fishing worms, sparks some primordial need for him to root. Silly fucker can root up a hundred-foot row of okra plants in the time it takes to corral him.

Maybe I meant “primeval”[.] Maybe.

When I said I plan to take my “lumpy” bunch on the fishing trip, I mean just that. Remember when I told you about having a wooden deer statue removed from Rick Perry’s ass and then took my gay ostrich sex toy shopping? Well, things got heated up in the closet day-before-yesterday, and Ricky got excited and was swinging his head around like a mace. He and Rush both in the heat of passion and the big bird banged giant bumps and knots on the pig’s head and back.

Silly pig looks like he’s got the body mumps.

Then, I’ve decided to have fried food today. Deep-fried food, and two more f-words to collect for the day. I have started limiting myself on fried food. But BJ over to the Dumb Perignon is taking me for a fried chicken dinner when I go up to visit Tennessee in November, and that sparked a primordial need in me for fried fowl. See how I just manipulated the English language for another f-word?

And f is also for fucking. Fucking with Rick Perry, fucking up, and just plain fucking. I’m headed down to Congress Avenue later today with a box of my “Fuck Rick Perry” bumper stickers. I’mma stand on the sidewalk in front of his national headquarters and give them away. I already made the call to my attorney, Jeff, and put him on standby. I’ll need him to get me out of jail in time to fulfill my final f-word of the day. SAC Ellen called to say she’s popping by Austin on a 10 pm flight before she heads to the west coast.

At least I hope sexing my sweetie pie is the last of my f-words of the day. Hopefully all of my fucking-up is out of my system before ten tonight.

So let’s drink a big swig from our frosty Carta Blanca beer to F-day. F it, y’all.

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Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig | 6 Comments »

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