Archive for the ‘Rick Perry’ Category

Holy Mole’; Mooner Mucks-Up Whole Enchilada

Saturday, February 9th, 2013


So. I find myself in an interesting quandary this beautiful winter morning in the Land of Enchantment. After an absence from these pages for +/- two weeks with no outlet for my ADHD-swirling thoughts, I’ve much to say and little motivation for saying it. And having said that (“it”), why is it that I was required to use the word “it” when describing what it is about which I lack motivations?

What makes the word “it” so fucking wonderful that it can encompass any quantity from negative infinity to positive infinity? How can it be possible for me to use that simple two-letter word to be so precise as to describe a single sub-atomic particle, such as a quirk, and, yet, likewise say “it” when speaking of the entire fucking universe?

It, as a word, has always had me flummoxed. Who gave it so much power and scope? Where did its notions spring from?

OK, from where did its magnitudes spring?

Me, I was one of the very few who felt that Wild Bill Clinton spoke his answer with great precision when he said, “It depends upon what your definition of the word ‘is’ is.” I understood precisely what the President meant when he said it. It was clear to me that he might have done it, but its limits and scopes were what made it one thing under one definition, yet—upon application of one of the many different definitions of is—might mean something completely disconnected and discomforting when it (“is”) is viewed from divergent perspectives.

It and is. Words of power and confusion. Powerfully confusing words that seem to be inexplicably joined at the hip.

Ugh. Do this as an exercise to better understand what it is I’m attempting to say. Write a 200-word third party essay describing any complete event as it happens in real time. Take a few minutes to attempt to do so without using the words “it” or “is” in said 200 words without committing any grammatical fouls as you go.

Write a 200-word third party descriptive something that lacks it or is—the reading of which doesn’t make me want to slit my own throat—and I’ll send you an autographed copy of my fucking book.

Which reminds me. I was at the bookstore when I was back to Austin just to pop in and see if my book was selling there. I went to the Local Authors section where it was located, and found instead a Mexican food cookbook by the chef at one of my least favorite Austin eateries. When I managed to get the manager’s attention, I asked her, I said, “What the fuck is this? You gave my shelf space to this hack? Have you ever tried to eat this asshole’s enchiladas without getting a case of the fire squirts?”

“Lower your voice, Mr. Johnson. This is a bookstore, for Pete’s sake.” The nice lady was looking at me with a Second Grade teacher’s expression.

I grabbed the cookbook and fanned through the pages to find a recipe for guacamole and cabrito enchiladas with mole’ sauce. “Look here at this,” I demanded of the nice lady manager—Mary, I think was her name. “Even the kids at Taco Bell’s drive-in windows are smart enough to tell you that you never fucking pair avocado with mole’ sauce. It tastes like shit and it’ll give you the burny-ass fire squirts!”

“I said settle down, Mooner. I moved you to the Humorous Political Fiction section when you vacated Austin for Santa Fe. Coincidentally, you’re on the shelf right next to Governor Perry’s latest.”

I was too busy ripping the guacamole and goat enchiladas with mole’ sauce pages from the shelved cookbooks for my brain to register Mary’s words. I picked up the paper sheets I’d removed and placed them in the recycling bin and marched to my car with the firm knowledge that I, Butcher Einstein “Mooner” Johnson, had struck a blow for Mexican food lovers worldwide.

“Chicken shit asshole fancy-pants right-wing Mexican food subversive fuckballs!” I announced to the crowd that gathered at the door as I left. “Mexican food is traditional!” I said. “Tra-fucking-di-tion-al!”

It was in the GTO leaving the bookstore when I decided to cook a goat and serve it with guacamole. It was from there whence I decided to head over to the Sprouts to take advantage of their special on avocados.

Anyway, I really don’t feel like writing, I feel like walking the dogs. Maybe Allie McGraw is out this morning.

So, write me your essays and I’ll see y’all manana.


PS-  For those of you expecting mention of a camel toe…  Stay tuned!

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Governor Perry Still An Asshole; A Physics Lesson

Wednesday, July 11th, 2012


So. We’ve been back to Austin for a full day and it’s as though we never left. My mother came back to the ranch from her forced stay over to the hotel and has already set my teeth on edge; it’s been raining since Monday night—a good thing so long as you like your watery precipitation in the form of steam; and Texas Governor Rick “Can Somebody Pass Me Another Helping of Stupid?” Perry has pulled another bone-headed publicity stunt.

Ahhhh, home, sweet aggravating and gut-wrenching home.

Mother was sent packing to temporary quarters when we celebrated the gay marriage of my pet pig and his ostrich lover. Being a right-wing Christian religious asshole, Mother refused to attend the holy wedding ceremony of Rush and Rick. As a free-thinking somewhat liberal accountability freak, I kicked her ass out of my house for the wedding and it’s attendant festivities.

Then, as a hard hearted and slightly gloating Lord of the Manor, I invented attendant wedding activities to prolong Mother’s banishment until I could get car and animals packed and off to Santa Fe for our escape. Among those frivolous nuptial activities you could count a fishing trip, washer and horseshoe tournaments, and the first annual “Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry Calf Cutting Ceremony and Mountain Oyster Dinner”.

For those of you new to the musings on these pages, Rush Limbaugh is my pet domesticated hog named after the piggish, priggish and bigoted asshole radio host of same name. Aptly monikered, my giant pig mimics the worst of his namesake’s attributes and—if he weren’t so handsome—would make a suitable stunt double for the right-wing yakker.

Said another way, if I hadn’t paid an exorbitant price for Rushie at the Travis County Livestock Show and Rodeo, he’d have been assorted cuts of prime pork years ago. And Gram would have gladly wielded the butcher knife.

Actually, her exact words have been, “If’fn ya don’t git that fat fuckin’ pig outta my earshot I’mma shove my 12-gager up his ass an give it tha twitchy eye. Now pass me tha fuckin’ butter.”

I love my grandmother and her fractured prose, and I never need wonder where to find the potty mouth genes in my own DNA. If memory serves me, one of the first dozen words I heard when exiting Mother’s womb was, in fact, fuck.

As for the ostrich, I named him after our governor because… Well, to put it as simply as I can, my 350-pound bird is dumb as a rock. He’s just plain dumb. But unlike the Governor, my Rick Perry has a heart of gold and a giving soul and to be brutally honest, it breaks my heart that he fell for Rush Limbaugh the pig. But love is blind and so are many of the followers of religious institutions. Like my very own mother, Mother.

OK, my ADHD and its little brother, the ADD, have derailed this train. While my derailments lack the fire and possibly toxic chemical fumes of today’s train wreck up to Columbus, Ohio, they are no less dangerous to your health. As my ADHD is of the contagious variety, it might be a good idea to inoculate yourself against my infections prior to each reading.

Vaccinate yourself daily with heavy doses of Carta Blanca beer, Cannabis or any other naturally occurring hallucinogenic agent. To be safe, mix-and-match for maximum protection.

In Austin’s weather news, my beloved home city was 91 degrees for the duration of a two-hour storm yesterday evening. The poor raindrops were so afraid to hit hot pavement that they converted themselves into steam and hung in thick clouds at ground level. They hung (hanged?) there in a smoldering mass of steam until midnight. When Cinderella’s hour struck, the moisture reconverted into raindrops and affixed themselves to everything exposed.

They clung separately in fat drops, struggling to avoid Nature’s water controlling physics force—surface tension. But gravity being what it is, by this morning most of the individual drops had been glued together to reach the critical mass required to fall to the ground.

Mother, at breakfast this am, had arisen before me to grab the newspaper before I could. She was sitting at the table when the dogs, the fucking cat and I came into the big kitchen. I deeply sighed my surrender of the paper to Mother, fixed a cup of strong coffee and took my seat at the table next to Mr. Dave. He leaned to me and whispered in my ear. His hushed breath was full of Kahlua’s rich aroma and his words were slightly slurred when he said to me, he said, “I did all I could, Mooner. I tried to love some of the hate from her heart, but she spent two weeks with Mrs. Browningwell, and she’s been saving up. Will you make an appointment for me with Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson? I might have a drinking problem.”

Mrs. Browningwell is wife to Baptist Preacher Browningwell, and Mr. Dave is the giant-peckered old geezer I hired to service Mother and the rest of the women at Johnson Manor. Sounds like Mr. Dave is suffering from a Mother overload.

Which reminds me. Our governor has announced that Texas will not participate in the bounty of health care options offered to our state’s citizens by The Affordable Health Care Act. That’s right, Texas will not be accepting and participating in the programs. What that shithead has said, effectively, is that we will not accept heath care programs that were paid for by we Texans in Federal taxes.

That dumbass bitches about paying taxes and then refuses the public services already funded by those already paid taxes.

“Oh, Reeeeckyyyyy! Reekyy Peeerrryyy! Remove your head from your ass for a minute and listen. It’s already funded programs, son, you and I and our brethren have already paid for most of this. Instead of rejecting it to salve the hurt feelings of your Tea Party buddies, take the money, dude.”

How about you say, “While I adamantly disagree with the SCOTUS decision and feel that Obamacare is unconstitutional, I will allow our state’s citizens to enjoy the benefits of these illegal programs we already begrudgingly funded, and I will do all I can to help remove Obamacare from our future lives.”

But Governor Rick Perry is an asshole. Fuck Rick Perry!

Oh, and I just saw a sound bite of Herr Schmidt Rommel at the NAACP. Hilarious, and sad. How can a candidate for President of the United States not understand what bigotry is? The Mittster really is big money’s Manchurian candidate sent to destroy America’s middle class.

Ugh, need beer. Manana, y’all.

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Texan Terrifies Tennessee Mosqueteers; A Little Info On The Wedding

Saturday, June 23rd, 2012


So. By now I guess you guys know that Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh finally tied the knot. We had a very small group of mostly family in attendance and only had those folks at the reception. As the pig Rush Limbaugh had not had sex with his ostrich gay lover for more than a month, keeping him off the bride’s back until after the “I dos” was a difficult chore.

I printed the press release about the wedding yesterday so go there for that info. What I’ll add here is that because of the enforced abstinence above mentioned, it was an untraditional shotgun wedding. “Shotgun” in that Gram’s 12-gage double barrel was aimed at Rush Limbaugh, and “untraditional” because the buckshot was pointed his way not to keep his feet planted but, rather, to prevent spontaneous sexing on the alter.

When he wants to do something, Rush Limbaugh just does it and he doesn’t care the effects on the rest of us. Rush Limbaugh is, after all, a fucking pig.

Which reminds me. As if Tennessee doesn’t have enough right-wing Christian assholes living up to Murphreesboro, Tn. to fill Neiland Stadium to standing room only, one of our local assholes made his way up to the Boro to screw with their new Mosque and the Mosqueteers who worship there. I want to first apologize on behalf of the state of Texas for letting one of our own escape our borders to be a stupid bigot up to Ugly Orangeville, and second, I want to thank the Volunteer State for providing that ignorant fuckball a nice, cozy place to stay. Not that having one fewer ignorant bigoted shitwads in Texas makes a dent in that particular population.

But a trip of a thousand miles begins with a first baby step.

And that reminds me to tell you that I’ve been really busy planning and hiding the details of the big wedding from the world. I’m sorry that I didn’t invite my friends, but Rick Perry was already so nervous he had the squirts, and he told me he wouldn’t be able to hold his nervous bowels if there was a crowd.

Have you ever smelled a loose ostrich shit? Have you ever tried to get that smell out of your hair?

It wasn’t a large wedding as weddings go, but anytime you have Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry involved common sense and reason fly out the window. Take the wedding cake as just one example. How do you find a bakery willing to make an alternating chocolate-and-vanilla six-tiered cake with an ostrich bride and hog groom, slathered with duck liver pate’ icing and coated with sunflowers? Once you do, how do you get them to keep quiet about it?

Mother was the only family member who didn’t attend the touching ceremony. Her refusal went something like, “If I cursed I would say to you, ‘No fucking way will I ever attend a homo-sex-u-al wedding.’”

While that wasn’t the first time in my life I heard Mother cuss, it was the first time since I decided to allow brutal honesty to be a two-way street in our relationship.

“Well said, Mother,” I told her. “If you’re too fucking bigoted to attend the festivities then I expect you to vacate the premises until we’ve finished all our reveries. I’ll have Gnat find you a room over to town for a few weeks. I expect the party to last a while.”

For new readers, Gnat is my personal assistant, and if you go to the Bloggie Roller over there ====}}}}} and buy Full Rising Mooner, my stupid fucking book, you will learn all about the little Russian wonder.

Mr. Dave helped Mother pack her bags and I’m guessing he packed the old bag as well. I used to think that what made my mother such a bitch since Daddy died was that she just needed a little sexing. While Mr. Dave’s giant penis has improved Mother’s moods in some ways, I have finally had to accept the simple fact that Mother is an asshole.

When Mr. Dave rolled two big suitcases into the kitchen to be loaded on the truck to go to town with Mother, I said to him, I said, “There’s two more cases out to the barn that match what you have there, Mr. Dave. I’ll go get them while you tell Mother she’ll need more things. We’re gonna do us some partying here to the ranch and you know Mother likes a broad selection when dressing.”

And that reminds me to say this. I just bought a case of Ivory soap and shipped it up to that asshole Jerry Sandusky. Big tough football guy my rosy red ass. I wrote him a card that said, “Here’s a little something to make things go a little smoother for you, shithead. Don’t wait until you hit the showers with those men, Jer’, lather up before you go. You’ll likely be a hot little thing up there and they might skip the foreplay. Oh yea, I’m not certain they’ll call raping you in the shower “horseplay” but I’m absolutely certain you’ll know how to play.”

Rotten child raping motherfucker. Now it appears that he adopted a boy to help fill his dance card when kiddie camp was out of season.

And now I need to remember to tell you that I’m taking the dogs and the fucking cat on a road trip over to New Mexico a week from today. We’ll be looking for a little place over to Santa Fe where we can go when we need to escape the heat and conservative Christian assholes here to home. I ordered a 14-foot truckload of Carta Blanca beer for the wedding and I hope to have a few cases left by the time we leave. We’re taking the route that goes through Lubbock but won’t have time to visit my buddy Pat Metze. But I’ll catch him next trip.

One of our side trips is to head west to hunt Peyote buttons. For some reason, the fucking cat can’t catch a buzz off mushrooms. Streaker Jones suggested that we try Peyote and I firmly believe that anyone’s first Peyote needs to be hunted down in person.

Anyway, I need to take Mother to her Hotel and then drop the bride and groom off to Emory Express for their trip to Costa Rica. Gram and Aunt Hilda went down with the P-cubed yesterday to set up the honeymoon suite and to un-crate the lovers upon their arrival.

Manana, y’all.



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Mooner’s Tincture Of Armor Distinguishing Trait; Take IQ Test Here

Monday, May 21st, 2012


So. It’s a glorious Monday morning and I’m harvesting tomatoes at a nice clip. We’re not at the many bushel-fulls-per-day rate of a typical June, but I was required to use the big wagon to collect my luscious orbs at this mornings collections. The Cherokee heritage and Merced are strong producers this year and are blushing out early. The Cherokee are the deep purple and red babies that look almost black when ripe.

Usually the early harvest are not the best flavored. Their skins are thinner and not as tough as a later production model, but the flesh is typically not as firm or sweet. But this not a typical year in any way and these first tomatoes are great!

I’ve been keeping in almost constant contact with Rick Perry ever since we found Rush Limbaugh engaged in sweaty pig sex with the neighbor’s hogs. I harness the ostrich to the above mentioned wagon as its motor and then put the dogs and the fucking cat inside the wagon for navigation and comment. Ricky is getting better but he still says the wedding is off. Squirt told me that last night Rick said to her, he said that, “Rush Limbaugh is a P.I.G. hog.” That’s one of Gram’s favorite things to say.

Squirt directs everyone around acting like a mother hen, and might just be the most adorable little puppy ever. She’s barking orders at everyone and is quite the taskmaster. Yoda acts dumb, because he is dumb, and reminds me of the Disney character, Goofy. He looks like his Star Wars namesake but lacks the wisdom and self restraint of the dwarf Jedi knight.

Honor is a fucking cat.

To start the day, I walked up to the Ranch Road and grabbed the newspaper before corralling the kids for the morning’s gardening. Since taking the paper away from Mother I have become emboldened with its handling. Today I read the paper while enjoying the sites and sounds of the four miscreants picking tomatoes, and then I interpreted selected stories at the breakfast table. We dragged the cat in late for the meal and were admonished by the crew already seated.

“If’n yer dominatin’ tha fuckin’ paper, Mooner, ya git yer ass here on time.” This first salvo was from Gram, and made with a mouthful of Irish oats with brown sugar and half-and-half, and what the uninitiated ear would have heard is, “Pfhn yeh thumnahinh pthuthnh pothr, Moonth, yahth thun thooth thaphpholp (Hocker noise) thphm.”

Interpreting a clean mouth full of my grandmother’s fractured English can be difficult. The same words spoken through her mush-filled maw can be an adventure. She’s lucky I love her and enjoy serving as her translator. OK, I’m the lucky one. I find the old goat’s bladder totally fucking hilarious.

“Keep your panties on, Gram, I’ll sit and get to today’s news as soon as I get a cuppa Joe.” I grabbed my coffee and sat down to a table full of snickers. Everyone knows Gram doesn’t wear panties.

“Today’s first newsworthy item is that since the year 1990, more than 2,000 convicted prisoners have been released from prison. These are only the ones convicted of serious crimes and of these, half were serving murder terms and 15% were on death row. That, folks, was 300 people who would have been wrongly killed because of a botched legal system.”

My words rung to silence at the Johnson family breakfast table. I think everyone was waiting for Mother to chime in. All she did was snort, a “Harrumph,” a noise she makes when hearing something she doesn’t like.

Those of us not named Mother debated the issue for awhile and I went to the next item. “Well, it looks like Herr Mitt Rommel is having a touch of trouble getting endorsements. Seems his former opposition all want him to let them run as President on this ticket before they’ll give him their support.”

I thought my little joke to be funny, but not my mother. “You’re an asshole, Mooner. Mr. Romney has the full support and backing of all smart minded Republicans and you made that up.”

The entire room “Oohed and Ah’d” at Mother calling me an asshole. My mother doesn’t curse. “Says so right there on the second page of the front section, my darling maternal unit.” Here I opened the paper to the page and noisily shook the wrinkles out. The thin newspaper snapped with a “pop” when I flicked my wrists. The paper just isn’t what it used to be. Then again, neither am I.

I started reading the article verbatim and in my best Walter Cronkite voice. After reading the entire thing I finished with a hearty, “And that’s the way it is!”

“Never in my life would I think my own children would hate me so much.” Mother had worked-up a good martyr while I read about the Mittster’s problems. “What did I ever do to deserve such a fate?”

That last line was delivered with her bead bowed, eyes on her lap and right hand draped pathetically on her bosom over her heart. I heard Gram’s cereal spoon clink off the side of her bowl and then rattle on the hard oak tabletop. Uh-oh.

“Dammit, Mother Johnson, but yer a whiny little snot. That boy’s a asshole ’cause yer a asshole—tha little shitbird didn’t git it from me. Least tha boy’s got him a tincture a armor an a funny hole. Now shut yer yapper an pass me tha bacon.”

I love that old woman. I guess my sense of humor and funny bone set me apart from the lower of the Johnson species in my Gram’s mind.

Anyway, before my ADHD takes control of the world, I wanted to make some observations about the falsely convicted info up there. The study I referenced is a joint effort between U. of Michigan and Northwestern U. Law Schools and an organization called the Center for Wrongful Convictions. If you know nothing about innocent persons going to prison and many being exterminated like rabid dogs, you should be appalled about this information—you should want an end to the death penalty because we civilized Americans were planning the killing injections of 300 more innocents.

As a falsely accused but not convicted murder charge defendant, I can tell you first hand what sorts of terror, strife and devastation the wrongly accused and their families endure. But I’m going to boil all of the bullshit down for you, I’ll make this an easy choice for supporters and detractors alike.

Close your eyes and pretend that you are standing in line with the other recently dead of your ilk at the gates of whatever heaven you plan to enter upon your death. Your god is there and this is what you hear him say, “Hi, everyone, I’m God. We’ll wait for your introductions because I don’t like to get too close to Hell’s inhabitants. I have attachment and abandonment issues like you won’t believe. You each will be given a one question test to determine if I invite you to reside here in heaven with me for all eternity, or if I’ll drop the elevator on you and send you to roast on the hot seat. The question is: Is it acceptable for even one innocent man to die from a wrongful death penalty conviction? The answer choices are “yes” and “no” and please take your time to answer. You have a lot riding on this little test.”

Had enough time to consider your answers?

Manana, y’all.

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Rush Limbaugh Porks Neighbor’s Pig; Nuptials Negated?

Friday, May 18th, 2012


So. I’ve fathered three human kids and raised a dozen animals as if they were my own, but I’ve never had to deal with anything like this. As you all know, we have a big wedding scheduled and the planning activities have been a crazed string of events. Right away I had to get Rick Perry’s wedding dress ordered—a not unremarkable get. Before this month’s wedding date, I had to locate, alter and obtain timely delivery on a dress appropriate for a 350-pound ostrich in dress size eighteen but with its bodice a size 56-FFFFF.

As a large man who has gained a few pounds with middle age, I’m used to shopping for oversize garments and the slim pickings offered to those of us who don’t fit Life’s standard deviations. My big bird would have been difficult enough to fit before the installation of his giant rubber titties. Post breast augmentation surgery his fitting was a bitch.

Speaking of bitch, did any of you visit the Saucy babe ex patriot linkster I postered yesterday? If you check out the string of comments involving me, you can get a microcosmic view of just how deep the divide is between those of us left of center types, and those to the right. The rigid right are acting like medium-sized rattlesnakes, who having been driven from beneath their rocks have slithered frantically for cover in the corner to the barn. Rather than chance that a person who approaches with a snake noose and a gunny sack might seek to return them to their homestead habitat, they lash out with venomous strikes.

I tried to engage Lisa in a dialect but she only wanted to spit the poisoned words of the right-wing talking heads she follows. Too bad for all of us. The little drama between she and I (her and me?) is much akin to the chasm of divide in our US Congress. Failure to compromise leads to change by only two choices. Abandonment or force. Either one side gives up or one side attacks with superior strength. Like 1930’s Europe. and no way to run a railroad.

Ricky’s bridal dress is a combination of compromise and brute force. He agreed to do without extra rhinestone adornments and I agreed to buy two separate dresses and alter them into one that fits. Even still, the bodice seams had to be reinforced with heavy nylon fishing line to keep my son’s huge bosom harnessed. And it is that bosom that has brought the joy and pain of a Russian novel to the Johnson family ranch.

The rubber titties are my wedding gift to Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh—something they both wanted in the worst way. The big hog was so enthralled at first viewing of the surgery’s results that he dry sexed Ricky at the breakfast table in front of the entire family. He was so engaged with his lover’s new breasts that he wouldn’t leave him alone. So I banished him over to the neighbor’s place where he could stay in Smitty’s pig pens with a gaggle of other hogs. His absence has allowed me to get things done with minimal interruptions.

Have you ever wondered why we say of people who are gluttonous that they are piggish? Have you ever wondered why we call a person who takes too much of something a hog? Or why a slob is called a pig? The answers lie (lay?) in the natural habits of the porcine. Pigs are hogs, and hogs are piggish. Spend a few hours at a pig pen and you will see every possible pig/hog cliché played out in real life.

And therein lies today’s rub.

I took Rick Perry over to Smitty’s place to visit his future groom. The bride-to-be was lonesome and whiny in his lover’s absence and I relented to the visit. Ricky got all duded up with bright painted talons, a sharp trimmed beak and one of his Madonna bullet bra dealies. He’d sat at my vanity and preened and picked at his feathers for hours, and he wouldn’t let me have the rear-view mirror on the drive over as he checked hims look the whole way. He was like a soldier’s wife headed to the airport to see her returning hero come home from far away Afghanistan. Full of hope and excitement and anticipation.

I pulled down the gravel drive at Smitty’s and parked my farm truck by the barn and maybe twenty yards from the hog-wire-and-metal-stake pen where Rush Limbaugh has been temporarily housed. Rick didn’t wait for me to come around to open his door. He somehow squeezed his fat bosom through the open passenger window and bolted to Rush’s pen. I followed and met the ostrich as he stood on his tippy-toes to find his lover.

There was roiling action inside the pen and I thought it must be feeding time. I pay Smitty a pretty penny to room and board Rush Limbaugh and it looked as if my money was at work when we arrived. As I looked closer I realized that the pigs weren’t eating, they were embroiled in a cluster fuck. Half of the hogs were mounted on the the backs of the other half of the hogs.

“Your goddamn pig has turned all my boars gay, Mooner. I’m having trouble getting them to mate with my sows.”

It was Smitty and he was pissed.

“Aw, Smitty,” I told him, “you know pigs are born swinging from both sides of the plate, and old Rushie there is a manly sort of man. You can’t turn what’s already gone to seed.” Why is this whole sexual orientation dealie such a difficult concept? Even a man like Smitty—a pig farmer who knows better—chooses the position that you can’t simply be gay. They think it takes either choice or coercion to be homosexual.

“I know you’re right in concept, Mooner. I’ve been around pigs my entire life and they’ll mount anything that’ll stand still for. But shit, Mooner…” Here Smitty removed his straw cowboy hat and mopped his head with faded red hankie. It’s been hot and humid this week and hog farming is hard work.

Which reminds me. Why isn’t it hog ranching?

Smitty added, “Ever since you dropped him off your pig has been terrorizing the place.”

And then the wailing started. Rick Perry isn’t very smart and he’s slow on the uptake so it took him some time to assimilate, then react. Have you ever heard a mature adult ostrich cry? It’s one of the most unsettling things I’ve ever heard. It conjures thoughts of what the Greek mythological Sirens must have sounded like. Rush Limbaugh caught ear of Rick’s crying jag and stopped humping the spotted hog he was attached to long enough to look over his shoulder at the big bird.

He got a surprised look on his face that said, “Uh-oh!” but he didn’t dismount.

That was early this morning. When I got Rick Perry back home he raced to hide in his bed in the closet of the master bedroom. He hasn’t come out or stopped sniveling since. I brought him some hot tea and a bucket of locusts and mealy worms but he won’t eat or drink. The Squirt sat and talked with him for several hours and she told me all the big bird will say is, “I’ll kill the bastard,” and “The wedding’s off.”

I wonder if that woman Morganna—you know, the kissing bandit of baseball—will be getting married any time soon. I need to see if I can recoup some of my investment in the wedding dress.

Manana, y’all.


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A Letter From A Fan; Not A Prick Perry Story

Monday, May 7th, 2012


So. I wish I was gay. Wait, I wish I were gay. Crap, but that “was/were/is/are” dealie always messes me up. Let me try again.

I want to be gay, but I’m not. Maybe if I didn’t like women so much I could be gay.

“Why,” you might ask, “do you want to be gay, Mr. Johnson?”

“Because, silly, I’d be a better man,” my frank and well though-out answer.

I know that many of you think I want to be gay because I’m not a good christian man and the only christian men who are not good christian men are either gay, or near-gay. At least that’s what pastor Browningwell told Mother in her most recent religious counseling session. “Any christian man who supports hom-sex-u-als is a homo-sex-u-al, or very near one,” was the god pastor’s words.

And that reminds me to remind you of something. Unless and until the modern American christians pull their heads out of their asses and start treating all people as equal humans, I will refuse to capitalize their associate names. Until they can embrace all people with fully open arms, they will be the baptists, catholics and mormons, it will be christians, and pastor and the pope and such.

I was over to Brandini’s place at Lost in Idaho and he posted this dealie about Klouchbag, this rating site for a blog’s douchbagginess. I scored a 53 to Brandini’s 50 and it was remarked that I don’t capitalize enough.

Too fucking bad.

As long as those christian assholes keep marginalizing humans for their ideas and personal preferences, I’ll marginalize them. Small hearts and minds—small letters.

I don’t usually print Emails from readers because I assume you would write a comment if you wanted me to share your thoughts, but use Email to make expressions between the two of us. I’m violating that trust here because the writer of the following Email said that they assumed I would publish it, and I accept that as tacit approval of my publishing it hereinafter.

Don’t you love the word “hereinafter”[?] What an expressive gem. It’s much akin to the word “fuck” and another of my favies. The following has not been altered in any way except that I reformatted and italicized the original layout to fit my bloggie site. I left the capital letters where they stood. Anyway, before my ADHD takes control of the bus, I give you one reason to be gay:


Dear Mr. Johnson,


You are a creep and a very sick man. The things you say are dead to God. Gay people are the pawns of the DEVIL they will burn in Hell at your side. READ THE BIBLE. It tells you to scorn homosexuals and stone them from your Temples. Any man who promotes evil is EVIL. You are EVIL. I will pray for God to strike you down and make your flesh burn while your still alive. I hope God burns all of your kind in Jesus name. Jesus hates fags and died on the cross so we can go to HEAVEN and never have to see any fags. You like anis sex Mr Johnson? I hope HELL is the DEVIL ramming his pitchfork in your nasty anis. People like you need to be in HELL. Your sister too and you need to bow down at your mothers feet and kiss them. A good Christian woman doesnt deserve a son like YOU. Change your ways before its too late. I hope you print this so more good people will come and shame you.



A child of JESUS


Uh, what do I say to that? Thanks for your prayers?

While A child of JESUS seems to lack good prose, he/she has no problem communicating that they do not approve of me. I do like the creativity in both the death and afterlife scenarios. Burning alive would be awful and perpetual ass rape with a pitchfork would be one definition of hell. Maybe more of that type will speak out. I find it comforting to know where they reside, as in this case, Houston, Texas.

I was going to tell you about a chance encounter I had Friday night with the one, the only, Governor of Texas and namesake of my gay ostrich—Little Ricky Perry. You likely won’t believe me when I tell the story but there are photographs. But not photos in my possession. I’m working on the pics and thinking of how to approach the discussion of Friday’s events. Either way, you are in for a treat.

Just think the lyrics to Babs Streisand’s song He Touched Me. Seriously.

Manana, y’all.


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How Many Servings Of Shit Today, Sir? A Fish Story

Monday, April 30th, 2012


So. Every time I think I have my life together to the point where I can relax with said life, somebody shits in my mess kit. It seems this has been a staple of my existence since that moment in time between my exit from my mother’s womb, and my first breath. If you’ll click over there ====}}}} to the Bloggie Roller and check out the many options for my book, Full Rising Mooner, you can see how to buy the silly fucking book wherein you’ll find the story as to what happened in those first few seconds of life that set the stage.

Buy the book and flip to Chapter Five for the story. From there you can see how life manages to stay interesting here to Loony Land. There are many other chapters and each is full of interesting things. In fact, when asked what they think after reading my book, most readers report, “Hmmm. Interesting.”

By way of background, many pestering things have been resolved over the last few years, things that put considerable tension into my life. The major issues were: I had the lower-peritoneal ass infection that turned into a systemic malady that nearly put me down, resolved with three ass operations; Dixie asked for early retirement as my translator and we found the Squirt to replace her; I was required to find a cat who would adopt me and Honor the fucking cat filled that bill; and I had a little legal issue not related to jail that is complete, no facts of which shall appear herein.

Oh yea, then there was that entire thingie where I was arrested for murder and jailed in the Loony Bin over to Shoal Creek Mental. That story is the backbone of Full Rising Mooner and I’ll say nothing more except to say that since I’m talking to you now, I obviously wasn’t fried in the electric chair.

Current problems on my plate include: The pending nuptials of Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh; the lack of sexing caused by the continued absence of SAC Ellen; and the simple fact that my mother is a right-wing christian religious republican shitball living under my roof and spouting her bullshit with regularity.

I’m dealing with these current items with integrity, pure thought and aplomb. The wedding is scheduled and on schedule thanks to Dixie—our newly-hired wedding planner—and in no large part because I’ve banished Rush Limbaugh to the neighbor’s pig farm. Ever since I brought Rick Perry home with his new titties, the giant hog won’t stay off him long enough to size the ostrich’s wedding dress. So I sent him next door for most of a month until the rehearsal dinner. The neighbor owes me a huge favor, an almost even trade.

Dixie is a pissy old bitch, but her organizational skills are a marvel, and she loves my lame brained ostrich. “Stay out of this, Mooner, and let me do my job,” my adorable Golden Retriever told me. “If you start fucking with it I’ll leave you at the alter.” Then she laughed, a sound not a distant cousin to a whinny.

As for my sexual needs, please allow me to say two words: Ivory Soap.

My Mother being an asshole is a thorny issue, but thorny issues are my middle name. I’ve been getting extra therapy to learn better ways to deal with my maternal unit and it seems to be helping. Instead of the usual thirty times per day, I only want to choke the life from her maybe twenty-two or three times. That’s real progress by any measure.

However, it was in a psycho therapy session that the most recent serving of shit hit my plate. I was laying on the leather couch in Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson’s office spilling my guts about how much pleasure I think would be derived with the actual choking of Mother with my bare hands. The couch is a big grape-colored jobbie with that soft tanning that isn’t suede but is just as soft. I think they call it “butter” tanning. I’ll check the receipt from when I bought it and let you know exactly what it’s called. I like to get comfy on my back with one foot hanging on the floor and the other draped over the back cushion. The leather makes a different sound than regular, stiff leather when you fidget around. Instead of “creaking” like typical stiff leather does, this couch almost moans.

This couch has induced numerous boners during therapeutic sessions.

“I don’t even know a way to tell you how good it is in my imagination to be squeezing Mother’s neck and watching her beady eyes start to pop out,” I was saying in that last session. “I was envisioning a giant zit that needed to be popped. It’s like I can feel her neck bones and tendons and shit oozing between my fingers as I apply more pressure.”

“Uh, Mooner, I’ve got something to tell you,” was the good doctor’s response to my confession. “Sit up and look at me because you won’t like this.”

I scrambled to my feet and jumped across the room to loom over her at her desk. I have never liked anything said to me that starts with, “Uh, Mooner, I’ve got something to tell you.” Never, no way has anything resembling good news followed those words.

I pointed my finger her direction and said to her, I said, “I will not go back to that fucking Loony Bin. I’m not planning Mother’s murder, just thinking how I’d do it. Planning would require me to write a date on the calendar, not just decide on a season. ‘Sometime this winter’ is not a plan.”

“Oh, sit down, dumbass, this is something different.” When I didn’t sit on command, she said, “If you don’t sit I will send you to Shoal Creek. Now sit!

I sat, thinking again what a comfortable piece of furniture it was. “I remember when I had to buy this couch for you,” I told her. “It was that time when I left the cooler of fish for you in your office and didn’t know you’d left town for a week.”

“No, Mooner, it was the time you brought Rush Limbaugh in for a session and he freaked out when I asked about his childhood. Your pig destroyed the furniture you bought after the fish incident and you bought the leather after that. Now shut up and listen to me.”

Here Dr. Sam fussed with her hair and adjusted the bracelet our children gave her. Anytime I see her mess with the thick gold rope she wears on her left wrist I know it’s something about her and not about me.

“Are you OK? Oh, god, you have cancer.” I try to not jump my conclusions but sometimes…

“Oh, I’m fine. It’s just that… I ah, well… Unh… Oh for shitsakes, Mooner, I’ve started dating a man and I wanted you to hear it from me and not on the street.”

“Huh?” my best response.

“Yes, and I need you to stay totally and completely out of it.”

I picked my chin off the floor and said, “Who is he? I’ll get Streaker Jones and Dixie to vet him. Is he a local boy or imported? You know Dixie has friends at INTERPOL.”

“Dammit, Mooner, listen!” Sammie almost yelled. “I want you to leave this alone. It’s been ten years since I even wanted to date a man and you remember what happened the last time, don’t you?”

When I didn’t answer, she asked again, “Well, don’t you?”

“Yea,” from me like I was a kid made by his mother to tell his father how he broke the house while daddy was at work. “I did some digging around and thought I found out that he was a serial killer and then you had me locked up over to the Loony Bin.”

“Yes, I locked you up at Shoal Creek to prevent him from pressing charges. And I can’t have you kidnapping any more men I might date. I need you to let this alone, Mooner. Com-pletely.”

That was this morning, that therapy session. I’ve already got my private investigator following her so I’ll have a name soon. Once I know who he is I can get to work.

I really don’t have time for this now but it’s my job to keep Sammie safe, and my first ex-wife needs my assistance. I just wish she’d wait until after the wedding to do this to me. My responsibility plate is already got shit falling off the sides.

Which reminds me. I’ve heard much of the stuff from the Presidential Roast, and I’m proud of my President. No corncob up his ass.

Manana, y’all.

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Big Boobie Bonanza; Rick Perry Gets His Rack

Sunday, April 22nd, 2012


So. TGIF and all that shit. I took Rick Perry to the cosmetic surgeon to get his new rubber titties this morning and I just delivered him back to his bed in the master closet out here to the ranch. Moving a fully-stoned and groggy 350-pound ostrich when you can’t touch his chest is, if you will allow me just a touch of exaggeration, a gigantic pain in the ass.

Rick Perry shares said closeted bed with his gay lover and fiancée, Rush Limbaugh, and we had to rent a major appliance dolly to move Ricky from the surgery ward back here to the ranch. I gathered all our down comforters and pillows for padding, and loaded them, Rick Perry, the dogs and the fucking cat, and a cooler of Carta Blanca into the farm truck for the ride into town. Streaker Jones and Dixie met us at the doctor’s office to assist me. Streaker Jones to help me manhandle the big bird, and Dixie to play cowboy on the rest of the herd.

Those of you new to these parts need to know that Dixie is my now-retired Golden Retriever and original translator. Dixie chose the Squirt for adoption and tutored her to communicate with me and speak many other languages as well. I love Dixie—enough to set her free when she asked. She found a late-life interest in spores and all things fungi, so my former best dog and translator is now head assistant over to the lab at Streaker Jones Spores And More.

Now that I think on it, if you’d go buy my silly fucking book you could read all about my beloved Dixie. So click over there ====}}}} to the Bloggie Roller and check out all the Full Mooner Rising listings. There’s a book trailer, a third party review, and ways to buy it in paper and on Kindle.

Anyway, I locked Rush Limbaugh up in a hog pen over to the neighbor’s place to keep him off of the bird until his new breasts are healed. The way he acted the other day when we were trying out new boob sizes for Ricky, I decided the big pig needed to be kept at bay. And why don’t we say, “Kept away from bay?” Is “keep at bay” a nautical term or does it have to do with fox hunting?

I also think that some separation before the wedding will act as a pre-marital aid for my pet hog and ostrich. Then again, the way Rush attacked Rick in the kitchen the other morning left no room for extra ardor. I was getting the family’s thoughts on size for the new titties, and when we held a halved watermelon up to Rick’s chest, Rush Limbaugh lost it—threw Ricky to the floor and dry screwed him without any preamble.

We had a little party this morning while we waited for Ricky to be ready, and one of the Doctor’s receptionists fell in love with Streaker Jones. She’s one of the doctor’s “living show-and-tell mannequins” that he uses to demonstrate both before-and-after comparisons and also “see, these new titties feel just like original equipment breasts”[.] I had met her on Rick Perry’s first consultation visit with the doctor and I must say that the 36 Double-D’s are a remarkable difference from the little half-apples she had originally.

But I had to tell him, I told the doc, “Well, doc, I think these are some mighty fine titties—they have a firm but giving feel, a great shape, and I really like how you got the nipples pointing just a few degrees up to the North. However, since I’ve never felt a bosom this large that wasn’t artificial, I can’t give you a good result on that part of this comparison.”

I did like the way Melissa cooed at me and how her breath fluttered when I examined her breasts. This morning, and it had to be before seven am because we got checked in before six, I notice Melissa sitting over to her desk and giving Streaker Jones the moon-eyed look of a doe in heat—big brown eyes with a lustful look. Next thing I know, she’s sitting in Streaker Jones’ lap with him holding one big bazooma in each hand, and she’s saying, “… and I love it when you pinch this nipple and suck on that one at the same time.”

I wonder why I have to work so hard for love and my best buddy has it fall into his lap?

Anyway, my ostrich is goofy as all hell to start with, and redefines the word with a bill full of knockout meds. All my life we’ve had birds on the ranch—chickens and ducks and Guinea hens and doves and quail. Until now, I’ve never seen the first bird do anything I would call a smile. But Rick Perry has this giant, goofy shit-eating grin plastered to his mush, and his big bugged eyes are spinning around under half-mast eyelids the size of tea saucers. Reminds me of the old joke that goes, “Do you think Minnie Mouse is crazy?” two, three four, “I’m not certain of that, but she’s fucking Goofy for sure.”

We’ve got him on his side in the water bed and he’s so stoned that he can’t control his head. It’s difficult to control the thirty-pound bowling ball at the end of his long neck without drugs, but when he’s stoned it’s an impossible task. He keeps trying to lift it and you can see the muscles in his thick neck quiver with the effort and only get it a few inches off the pillow before it plops back down with a “plufft”[.]

The Squirt and Honor the fucking cat are in there now playing nurse and keeping him in bed. As big an ass pain as Squirt can be, she can always be counted on to do the right thing. When I left them a few minutes ago, the adorable puppy was singing to him in Swahili while the cat purred and rubbed against Rick Perry’s beak.

Have you ever heard “Stairway To Heaven” in Swahili?

Me, I’m roasting a goat for dinner with a big pot of ranchero-style pinto beans. I did a mole rub on the goat and the beans are in an open pot in the smoker with onions, jalapeño peppers and some pork belly. Mr. Dave wanted to try his hand at making some corn tortillas, so all the women are in the kitchen with him giving direction and support.

Maybe I have to work so hard for my loving because I don’t have a twelve-inch pecker in my pants like Mr. Dave. Then again, maybe it’s because I’m an ADHD-addled fuckbrain.

But who really gives a shit, right? I’ve got family and good friends for dinner, and a cooler full of icy-cold Carta Blanca. Manana, y’all.

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How Much Bosom Is Enough?; Breakfast With The Johnsons

Monday, April 16th, 2012


So. We are all way excited here to Austin, Texas. Wedding bells will soon be ringing for Rick Perry and Rush Limbaugh, and we didn’t get the predicted nasty-assed weather I was worried would wreck my garden. Last year’s garden burned all the way out in early June because of the drought and very hot Winter and Spring seasons. Last year, it was so hot and dry that you could hear the plants crack and split.

Literally. I would be walking through my veggie plants and there would be “pops” and “snaps” all up and down the rows. It sounded like a tragic Rice Crispies commercial. It was a terrible sound that I never want to experience again. Last year’s crop was pounds as compared to our usual tons of harvested tomatoes, corn, peppers, egg plant, cukers and squash and beans and such. We usually have so much that we give basketfuls away to needy folks every week. But a year ago we were buying fresh produce at the store and what was available at farmer’s markets, and we didn’t put anything back, either canned or frozen.

This year I got a jump on things. I started seeds in the greenhouse in November and began planting the garden the first week in February. Normally that early plant date would mean everything would freeze a half-dozen times by mid-March, but times are no longer normal. The sad effects of global warming are everywhere and saddest to me are with food production.

Which reminds me. Click on the following linkster and go over to watch this short video at Squattie’s place. It is totally hilarious. The linkster is:

I wish they had included an anal probe reference in that vid for more complete accuracies, but it is a real gem as-is.

I have a guest bloggie running over to wherein I’m seeking advice about Rick Perry’s request for fake boobies. I’m not smart enough to link you directly to my guest post so you might as well read Lady Estrogen’s guest post while you’re there. Unlike me, Lady E can say things simply and directly so it’s a quick read compared to my trash.

Anyway, early results over to Q’s place indicate that I should buy fake titties as a wedding present for the boys, and that creates an entirely new problem. The wedding dress Ricky chose is form-fitting and has to be ordered a month in advance. That means I need to get him measured this week or no dress in time for the nuptials.

I am taking him to the tittie doctor in the morning to pick the size for his new melons but I’m not taking Rush. That pig is totally disgusting. We decided to get an idea of what size would look best on the big bird’s chest, so at breakfast we tried things out to get the family’s opinions. I had a cantaloupe halved, grapefruit, one of those small water melons and some large balloons.

As soon as I told the table of Johnsons and attending friends of my need, Mother pipes up with, “I will not participate in this heretical display of  heathenism. It’s bad enough that you allow those two pagans to live as homo-sex-u-als under our roof. But I will…NOT… be a part of this fiasco.”

Gram, who had a mouthful of Irish oatmeal sweetened with maple brown sugar, snapped her spoon on the table and caught Mother’s eyes. “Whuf hu footh uh dho tathi bafoufh?”

“Indeed, Mommy Dearest, please tell us what in the fuck you are talking about.” Translating for my wiry old grandmother is one of my favorite jobs.

Gram managed to swallow her oats to continue, “Jesus shit onna shingle, Mother Johnson, you ain’t never happy with not a goddamn thing in life. Book yersef tha afternoon with Mr. Dave an git a clock winding. Have him do that dealie he does with the vibrator in yer ass. Ya kin have my time slit.”

“Oh my,” Mother blushed, but said not another word.

Me, I wanted to tell Gram it’s a time slot and also to ask the giant-peckered Mr. Dave what his vibrator-in-the-ass trick is, but we were, after all, eating breakfast.

Anyway, Squirt was telling me what Rick told her were his opinions as I held the fruit to his chest. I started with the grapefruit and worked my way from smallest to larger. Ricky was standing next to me as I was seated at the big kitchen table with the fruit on the table to my right. Rush Limbaugh was standing to the side, on my right, eyeballing every move. I placed the grapefruit on Rick’s chest—adjusted them high-to-low, and with different spacings—while the pig stared and grunted at every move.

When I got the grapefruit into the most favorable position, Rick turned to face his lover for approval. “Snoink, snoogle.” The domesticated porcine language is unnerving to most people when they first encounter it. I’m used to it and usually unfazed.

“OK, Rush, I think you’re right, “ I said, “the grapefruit are just too small on this big boy’s chest.”

The pig smiled at me and gave his lover boy a soulful look. Love comes in all shapes and sizes in this life, folks, and a male 350-pound African ostrich in love with 550 pounds of domesticated hog fits them all.

Next we did the same with the cantaloupe. When Ricky turned to Rush, the big hog’s eyes sparkled, but again he said to us, he said, “Snoink, snoogle.”

“All right, Rushie, but we’re starting to get out of hand. More than a bucketful is wasted. Let’s try the watermelon.” I try to be a good father and provide solid advice for all my charges.

I worked with the big melon, a difficult job as each half weighed seven pounds. By the time I had them situated in just the right spot, my hands were slippery with the juice that was now running all down the front of the ostrich. I didn’t get Rick Perry turned even half way to face Rush Limbaugh when the pig made his alpha male sex announcement and mounted Rick Perry. He had Rick on the floor and was attacking the watermelons like a madman.

“Why that is terribly disgusting, Mr. Johnson. Doesn’t your hog know about foreplay?” Mr. Dave is a true gentleman, and this randy display unsettled him.

“Rush Limbaugh isn’t one to let anything stand in the way of his piggish appetites, Mr. Dave,” I told him. Then I added, “And it looks like the watermelon wins the prize.”

I may never eat watermelon again.

Manana, y’all.

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Good Parenting Skills Are Hard To Find; Telling Rick Perry “No”

Friday, March 23rd, 2012


So. It’s a beautiful day here, one of those gorgeous May days our Austin Chamber of Commerce loves to brag about. Only thing is that it’s still March and we had our March weather in January. At this rate we can expect July to hit mid-April and destroy my beautiful tomato plants. My tomatoes are already knee-to-waist high and have flower buds all over the place. It’ll be a bumper crop with decent weather until June.

I was listening to the news this morning and it seems like the Republican Presidential hopefuls have taken a new tactic to win the hearts of their voters. These silly shitballs have decided to support President Obama in order to gather votes. Tactic change one is from the great tactic changer his own self, Etchin’ Sketchin’ Schmidt Rommel. The Mittster’s lead political tactician has said that come general election time, they’ll just shake the red-and-graphite-colored-Chinese-made-plastic box, and wipe out all of his primary positions so that they can write an entirely new slate of positions.

In order to reverse all his extremist right-wing positions, the former Massachusetts Governor will be forced to more closely align himself with the President. Former Senator and all-around funny guy, Little Pricky Santoria, has taken the tack that Obama is a better President than Mitt-A-Sketch could ever be. Basically, the two front runners have decided to imitate and support the President.

That, dear friends, is fucking brilliant. It seems that the American voting public really is stupid enough to fall for anything, as long as you make it clear that you are a christian and a conservative christian at that. Mark my words here when I say that the next step is for them to steal President Obama’s successes as their own. They’ll say that the economy is getting better and take credit for it. They’ll be bragging about saving General Motors and how it was their plan that got Bin Laden.

And please note that I am still holding the high ground in my plan for marginalization of all things right-wing and christian fuckwad. I will continue to lower-case them and theirs with impunity until I feel I’ve made my points.

Have you ever wondered who in the fuck named Boston’s home state “Massachusetts” and decided to spell it like that? According to Wiki, it’s named after a Native American tribe’s words meaning “on a large hill” or something close to that.

Bullshit. Some silly-assed Pilgrim school marm who hadn’t been layed in thirty years named and spelled it to torture school kids. Maybe I should have said “…silly-assed school marm whom hadn’t been lain in thirty years…”[.] Who’s and whose and whom’s and layeds and lains have always been problematical for me.

Speaking of tomato plants, why don’t we say “tomatoe plants”[?] One tomato is a tomato and two are tomatoes right? Well, my garden is filled with not only many different individual tomato plants, but also plants of many different varieties of tomato. So why don’t I have tomatoe plants? Come on you prissy Grammar Police, conjugate your silly butts out of that one.

While back on my tomatoes, I had all of my charges out to the garden early this am to look things over and to provide some life lessons. As a newly-dedicated father… OK, stop again. As a father with newly-dedicated desires to be a better parent, I had the two dogs, the fucking cat, Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry out to the garden to tend the crops.

I wanted to teach them that you need to love and nurture Life’s creatures if you expect the best from them in return. Since the recent rains have caused the weeds to almost jump out the ground, I wanted to use weeding as the metaphorical hammer to drive my points home.

We were weeding and talking about life when Rick Perry squawked about something. It was obviously important to him because the big ostrich was running in circles and lashing his head up and down. I couldn’t understand a word of it, so I asked the Squirt to translate for all of us.

“Well,” the brown-furred and adorable little interpretor answered, “his feelings are hurt because he thinks you aren’t taking him seriously. He feels disrespected.”

Huh? How do you not seriously take a bird that shits a ten-pound bucket every movement and can break your leg with one swing of his bowling ball head. “The fuck is he talking about? I take all you guys seriously.”

I try to not have hurt feelings with my kids but it can be difficult. “I allow him and his gay lover—a 550-pound domesticated hog—to live in my bedroom closet, for shitsakes. How much more respect does he think I should give him?”

Squirt squawked at the ostrich, who then squawked at Rush Limbaugh, who oinked and squealed at Squirt, who then turned to me and said, “You are such an asshole. Why can’t Rick Perry have a boob job?”

“Oh, for the love of god, is that what this is all about? Is this because I think he needs to think things a little deeper before getting giant rubber titties?”

This subject came up at dinner the other night and I basically ignored it the same way I did when Rush Limbaugh asked me for a sex change operation a while back. I always feel that the “First Ignore” sales approach is the best tactic to use when your kids have hair-brained ideas. Make them bring it up more than a few times before you take them seriously. Give them time for deeper thinking before attempting serious discussions.

Then again, Rick Perry lacks the actual brain cells required to have deep thoughts. Which brings a question to mind. I never really paid any attention to this until I was adopted by my ostrich, but have you ever noticed that an ostrich egg is the same approximate size as a mature adult ostrich’s head? Have you ever noticed it’s the same with chickens and ducks and robins and all other birds?

Wait, I don’t mean that all birds lay ostrich eggs, but rather I mean that birds lay eggs the size of their own heads. Except for a Duck-billed Platypus. I’ve never seen their eggs but I bet they’re either smaller or larger than their heads. Would need to be.

Anyway, we all discussed the concept of a gay ostrich getting breast implants to please his boy friend. Seems Rush Limbaugh is a breast man. I always figured him for an ass man as he has his head up his own, and those of others, so much. But go figure.  My five kids voted four-to-zero in favor of me letting Rick get his titties.  The fucking cat abstained from voting.  Cats, I’m learning, are trouble makers. 

Anyway, we’re going fishing down to the dock, and Gram and the P-cubed are heading the Ferrari down to College Station to fish for a couple young Aggie Cadets. Here’s hoping we all bag our limits. Me and my bunch are cracking the icy-cold Carta Blanca beers and baiting some hooks.

Manana, y’all.


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Rush Limbaugh And Rick Perry Attack Mooner; Gay Lovers Create Havoc

Thursday, March 22nd, 2012


So. I don’t have anything to say today. My ADHD has been turned to the 100% setting and my thoughts are more scattered and smothered than over-well hash browns up to the Waffle House. I haven’t been able to focus on any task for more than a few seconds’ time and I have already hurt myself twice because of it.

I was shaving my beautiful skull and sliced this big wart or cancerous growth off the top of my head. I had all the animals in the bathroom with me so that they could watch me shave. After tripping Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson the other day because Yoda and Squirt have poor leash training, I decided to be a better father and exhibit higher levels of parenting skills with my kids. I’ve decided to spend extra time parenting the menagerie of semi-domesticated animals I’ve chosen to husband.

Why is the act of caring for domesticated animals called “animal husbandry”[?] Except for maybe sheep herders and some of the cowboys I met up to Amarillo this one time, I don’t see a husband-wife relationship in raising dogs and cats and pigs and giant fucking birds. Should be called animal parentry.

Anyway, both dogs and the fucking cat were on the vanity top, Rush Limbaugh was lying on the floor like the pig he is, and Rick Perry was standing behind me—the actual cause for this first razor accident.

Which reminds me that I hurt myself three times during this current brain fritz. For new readers, a brain fritz is when my ADHD and/or ADD become so active that they cause my brain to go on the fritz. The first injury was suffered before the two shaving cuts as I was trying to teach my ostrich how to pee in the sink. I had him backed-up to the sink and was attempting to assist him with pointing his big bird pecker over the sink bowl to urinate. Rush Limbaugh lumbered into the bathroom and gave a loud snort when he saw me messing with Rick Perry’s genitalia. Ricky jumped and peed on my hands, and I jumped and knocked my funny bone on the towel rack. I guess Rush thought I was making a move on his lover boy.

When it came shaving lesson time, I had the big ostrich behind me at the mirror in the same pose a father makes with his son as he teaches him to tie a necktie. Except, of course, the ostrich has no actual arms and this was a shaving lesson. Rick Perry’s fat breast—a fat breast he told me last night at dinner that he wants to enhance with a surgical augmentation—is pushed flat against my back, and his big head is roaming all over the place. Owning an ostrich is often akin to having a two-year old child operate a twenty-pound bowling ball attached to the end of a six-foot rubber stick.

He’s poking his head in my face and circling around to see things from every angle, and he approaches from around my shoulders, and under my arms, and once from under and between my legs. When he came at me from between my legs, it looked as though I had a four-foot pecker with bald head, a beak and big bug eyes. I made mention of how it looked like I had a giant pecker with a brain of it’s own and everybody laughed.

“You wish,” the Squirt told me. Me, I was thinking that half that wish has been granted, and not, necessarily, to my benefit. I think Dr. Sam I. Am says it best on that issue. “Thinking men, Mooner, don’t think with their penis.”

I’ve always thought that two brains are better than one. I mean think about it. A hook and ladder firetruck has two drivers, right?

I’m there at the sink with most of my entire head slathered with shave gel. OK, wait, my head was slathered with gel, but the results were that I was lathered with the resulting foam from the gel application. I was shaving around, skipping from spot-to-spot in the typical fashion of an ADHD-addled fuck brain.

“You missed a spot, dumass,” Squirt informed me. “It’s no wonder you look like hell most of the time.”

This got more chuckles from my Peanut Gallery and caused me to try to focus better on my shaving. “How about I try to be systematic about this, guys? Everybody be still and quiet while I focus.”

Now they’re all rolling on the floor and vanity top, laughing at my dumb remark. I had to chuckle a bit myself. “OK, how about you all be still so I can imitate a man trying to focus?”

They did, and I started systematically dragging the razor over the left-center, upper-rear quadrant of my skull. On the third swipe, Rick Perry moved his head from under my elbow to get a better view, and I slashed the wart, or whatever, down to the scalp line.

Have you guys ever seen a scalp bleed from a dime-sized hole? The only thing that bleeds-out faster than a scalp is a pecker. If you want the details on pecker bleed-outs you need to go over there ===}}} to my Bloggie Roller and buy my fucking book. Full Rising Mooner has an entire chapter devoted to that story and subject. That Chapter alone is worth the price of admission.

So now I’ve got blood coursing through the suds on my cabeza, of course, and I’ve but half shaved. I told the guys that I needed to stop the bleeding, so the shaving lesson was over.

“Suck it up, sissy boy,” Squirt told me. “The pig will give you mouth-to-mouth if you faint from blood loss.”

My adorable little brown-furred puppy is for sure a Johnson, and mine without question. Everybody laughed, again, and I figured, I thought to myself, I thought, “Who gives a shit if I’ve got blood in my eyes. This is some funny shit.”

Remember that old Saturday Night Live skit with Dan Akroyd playing my beloved Julia Child cutting her hand artery when de-boning a chicken? I started my best Julia Child imitation as I instructed the animals on the proper shaving techniques employed by a prim and proper British gentleman. It was funny as all get out until I nicked the razor edge at the spot where my left nostril anchors itself to my upper lip.

“Sonofabitch!” I threw the razor at the wall. “Fucking cheap-ass razor!”

I left the vanity and went to stand in the shower to clean the mess off my head. I stood under the shower head, still in my shorts and white cotton socks, as the jets of water stung the gashes on my scalp and nose. “Fuck-ing cheap-ass made-in-fuck-ing Bangla-fucking-desh or whereeverthefuck fucking razors!”

Do women blame inanimate objects for their errors a much as we men do? Why is it that whenever I fuck shit up I always first try to blame the blameless? I pride myself for always taking the blame for my blunders, but I always first attempt to shame the razor.

And did you guys notice that I let a comment through the other day from God’s Child? She is one of my far-right wing catholic followers from back to when they infected my website and computer with virusi. Virusissi? She’d been away for awhile but has popped back into our lives. If you ever want to take a peek into one of “those” minds, read her comments. I’ll allow her to post the semi-civil stuff she writes but not the threats she tends to make. Threats are directed to a certain Special Agent in Charge, US Department of Homeland Security.

Me, I’m going shopping for some razors that are actually made in America. I’m shaving way too much of my skin now to trust an imported razor.

I guess not having anything to say can’t stop me from saying a whole lotta nothing. Manana, y’all.


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Fresh Scraped Skull Entertains Pets; Photos To Follow

Sunday, March 11th, 2012


So. I’m up early Sunday morning and even having lost an hour to DST, I’m a full five hours ahead of schedule. The reason I’m ahead of schedule is because I no longer possess a full head of hair. I had my head sheared for charity yesterday at the Saint Baldricks Foundation event, an action that left me looking like Rob Reiner.

I’ve always liked Rob starting when he was “Meathead” on All In The Family. He’s made some great movies and written great things too. And he’s a fine human being, so I’m OK that I look like him. I wish that I could say “People Magazine’s Best Looking Man of 1975, Rob Reiner”[.] We’re handsome SOB’s but not that handsome.

I grew a week’s beard in advance so that I could fart around with my looks after the shearing. The after-shearing results were not quite what I had in mind. But as soon as I got home I grabbed a sixer of Carta Blanca and headed to the bathroom to experiment.

OK, stop. I’m getting way fucking ahead of schedule on this train trip. Let me back up and first tell you why I was up five hours ahead of my planned wake-up call. I was asleep last night and dreaming about sex. This sex dream was one where I was on display at some sort of sex club. I was in a line-up of men and we were all standing in nothing but thongs and sneakers with, or without, white cotton socks.

I always wear nothing but white cotton socks due to a foot fungus problem that can only be controlled by wearing white cotton socks and then smearing mentholated petrol jelly on your toes. I tried all the expensive medications and treatments for twenty years and nothing helped heal my smoking hot, nasty and smelly feet.

The menthol grease trick was told to me by a Viet Nam vet I met at a taco truck a few years back. I was standing in line, wearing sandals to air out my blistered feet, and a man was standing at the counter at the end of the trailer eating fish tacos. At least I think I remember they were fish tacos. That particular taco trailer has great fish and smoked pork tacos both.

“Dude,” the man said, with that sound in his voice you hear in emergency rooms, “that’s some ugly fucking feet.”

“No doubt,” I answered, “and burn like a constant hot oil treatment.”

“Vicks Vapo Rub is the answer, dude.” He then went on to tell me about catching the Jungle Rot on his feet from slogging the muddy Terra Firma of Viet Nam when it was the rainy season. “And, Dude, it’s always the fucking rainy season in Nam.”

Anyway, I’m standing in this lineup of thonged and sneakered men at this sex club and the lady choosers are eyeballing us up and down. The men were arranged in order of descending heights except that Dr. Marcus Bachmann was out of order. One of the women remarked that Marcus was out of order and I said, “No shit?”

I was surprised at how tall and also overweight he was. I was second in line between Liam Neeson, the actor, and Milton Berle. Then was James Woods, Ron Jeremy and then Mr. Dave. I realized that except for Marcus and me, all the men on stage either had confirmed, or were reported to have, giant peckers. Me, I’ve seen Ronnie’s on screen a time or two and as for Mr. Dave, I’ve seen that thing in the flesh. For the rest, I’ll take rumor’s word for it.

I was proud to be standing in this line even if I didn’t measure up to their standards. The ladies were standing at the foot of the stage ogling us when the announcer says, “OK, ladies, lets start the bidding.”

Men were auctioned off starting with the short end of the sticks. I didn’t pay much attention to things until it got to be my turn on the block, but I did hear the word “thousand” quite often. “And what do we have to open bids on Mr. Mooner Johnson, ladies? Do I hear five dollars… Five smackeroos, anyone?”

I won’t bore you with the rest of the bidding part of this dream as it is unimportant. What I will tell you is this. The winning bidder was Mrs. Leticia Browningwell, my former school teacher and wife of The Right Reverend Dr. Browningwell who pastors Mother and Gram’s Baptist church. What the fuck she was doing in my dream is unsettling. I’ve had many nightmares wherein that old bag played a key role, but as I said, this was unsettling.

So, in the dream, Leticia says to me, she says, “Mooner, honey, do you know why I bought you?”

“No, Mrs. Browningwell,” I answered. I always call her Mrs. Browningwell to her face.

“Well, son, I want you to get down there and rub your head beard on my stuff.”

When I didn’t move fast enough, she said, “Do it right now, buster, or you’re off to Principle Gibson’s office.”

So, I jumped to the task and I was rubbing my newly-bald head over her thighs and pubic mound and Leticia was starting to lather up. If I had ever thought about it before this dream, I would have thought her to have a dry well, if you know what I mean, and if I had ever thought on the subject.

My head was starting to go from damp to slathered when I was awakened by giggling in my ears. Squirt, Yoda and Honor the fucking cat were licking my head and laughing their furry little asses off as they did.

“Honor says your head feels just like her own tongue, Bwana Mooner, ha- ha- ha.” The Squirt had tears in her eyes from the humor in my thick skull. “And Yoda thinks licking you head is like when he tried to eat sandpaper that one time the other week,” and she “ha-ha-ha’d” some more.

That was at three am and why I’m awake.

I took before, during and after pictures of my scalping and will get them posted here as soon as I can figure how to get them out of the fucking camera and off to Squatlo for processing. It’s been a few weeks and I can’t remember how to do it. Trying to do it is what I did for the first four hours I’ve been awake this morning.

But I’m in a good mood. It appears the rain is lifting for today and I’m ready to party! The pets are all stir crazy and want to go fishing and SAC Ellen will be in town for one full day. Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are in a new lovers’ spat over their sex toys and the fucking cat keeps shredding my dirty underwear out of boredom. I figure a few hours tormenting the fish will brighten all our moods.

After I shave my skull again, we’re going to the dock for some fun and games and then the SACster arrives for lunch to brighten my mood. I didn’t tell her I was shaving my head. She’s gonna be so surprised. Manana, y’all.


PS- please buy my fucking book, Full Rising Mooner, available by clicking over there ===}}}

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Bulls’ Balls And Bald Pates; Busy Week Ahead

Friday, March 9th, 2012


So. TFIF. What a week it’s been. I’ve had a very busy few days and next week will be busier still. I have to go to Dallas next week for a few days and this is advance warning that I’ll be absent from postings most of the week. However, this coming week of crazinesses will be crowned with the big dinner party for Lloyd and Mike and that will make all the hustle and bustle worth it.

Examine, if you will, my next eight days and we might as well start with today. OK, first of all it’s raining and will most days until next Friday. This is good from a global Central Texas weather perspective but not so from the Johnson family views. This is nut-cutting time for Gram and her crew, the season to snip the goodies from any boy cattle populating the herd in the west pasture. The rain turns these castrations into an indoor sport and likewise adds to the bitch factor in the house.

“I don’t see why you can’t just wait until after the rain stops to neuter your cows, Gram,” Mother started at our early Friday morning breakfast. Mother had to fucking start.

Gram fixed her daughter-in-law and my maternal parent with the beginnings of an Evil Eye. “Tha fuck you talkin’ about? Tha Farmers’ Almanac says it’s today, it’s to-fuckin-day. Now shut yer yapper and pass me tha butter.”

Gram’s fiery eyes remained fixed on Mother’s profile and I could see the flesh on that side of her face quiver with heat. The follow up remarks about nut cutting that might have come next were swallowed by my mother with a gulp of her coffee. Instead, she chose to level a blast at me.

“I was with Mildred Ross and Leticia Browningwell at the church after-school daycare yesterday afternoon, and I have been asked to speak with you, Mooner.”

“Here it comes,” I thought to myself. “Here it fucking comes.”

Mother, and daintily so, lifted a dram of fig preserves with her knife and touched it to a thumbnail-sized sliver of fresh biscuit top. I grow the figs on two old trees out back and Aunt Hilda makes the wonderful jam. Mother raised the tiny bite towards her mouth and paused at chin level. Her eyes went out of focus as she gazed into space somewhere. She sniffled—the early warning system and precursor that I think of as the “Martyr Alert!”–then carefully placed the biscuit bite back on her plate.

“Why, in god’s name, do you insist upon talking so much about homo-sex-ual-ity? Mildred says that almost every day you write something in that terrible Internet newspaper of yours about it. Or them.”

Here, she picks the bite back up and lays it into her mouth, where she will chew it with the same slow and deliberate motions a masticating cow uses to munch hay. When I see this behavior I know I’m within seconds of getting batshit angry. It happens every time.

“Isn’t it enough that I have to live with your sister and you with that pig and ostrich on my conscience? Do you have to turn our ranch into a den of sin and broadcast it to the world? I’m so embarrassed I could die.” This last line had enough dramatical delivery to earn an Oscar nod.

“What are you belly aching about?” I asked her.

“Don’t you play dumb with me, Mooner Einstein Johnson, you know perfectly well what I mean. You allow Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry to live in sin in your closet, your sister is married to your third ex-wife—your third ex-wife—and now you’re going to fill my house with homo-sex-uals next week and broadcast that fact all over town.”

OK, stop the fucking presses. I’m digressing my points something terrible. Today will be extra busy for me because I’ll now need to help Gram with cutting the cows since the operations will move inside the barn. That means that my schedule of previous plans will lose a good six hours. Wait, only lose four hours. Two hours were already on my schedule to clean and ready the bull balls for tonight’s dinner.

If you’ve never had mountain oysters you’ve missed a real treat. I cook them all the same ways as I cook chicken gizzards and tonight it’s with a light white flour fried jacket and cream gravy—like chicken fried steak. Yummy!

Saturday is a big day too. I’m going to get my hair shaved off for the Children’s Cancer Charity over to the Saint Baldricks head shaving dealie. They’ll be a hundred of us getting our manes whacked off for the kids. We’ll be at Fados Irish Pub down to West 4th Street. My time is 2:00 pm, but maybe I’ll go early and eat some Irish grub. I bet a lamb pie will be good for a rain-chilled lunch.

I’ll try to take some pictures and post them. I can’t wait to have an all skin head. I’m thinking I’ll look way cool.

SAC Ellen sees things somewhat differently. “You have a giant head, Mooner. You’ll look like a disco ball with a face on one side.”

Then she added, “If you want any sex with me after Saturday, you’d better get some grocery bags.”

SAC Ellen didn’t laugh when she delivered that line about the bags. I found myself wishing she’d laughed. At least she didn’t call me a two-bagger.

Sunday I’ll spend prepping for my Business trip and then off to Dallas for that business and then home late Thursday night. Friday night is the big Lloyd and Mike Party. That party, and my yakking about it to you guys, is what set Mother off at breakfast. Lloyd is my longtime buddy and number one good guy who happens to be gay. Some of the invited guests might also be gay. I don’t know and I don’t give a shit. They are Lloyd’s friends and that makes them my friends.

But Mother’s shitty attitude brings up a point. She did make me ask myself why I feel it necessary to tell you that Lloyd is gay? Why does it matter that Sister is gay and married to my third wife who, at least for now, is also gay? Why does it matter that Rush Limbaugh and Rick Perry are homosexuals living in my closet? Why does it matter that my pig and ostrich are gay lovers?

It’s the year 2012 for shitsakes, and it shouldn’t matter. Thirty years ago, whenever I spoke of a friend who was African American, I would say, “My black buddy Everett,” or, “My ex-wife Roshandra, the ebony-skinned beauty.” When I speak of the sinfully beautiful Roshandra now, I only mention her race if race is a subject line of the conversation.

It shouldn’t matter today that Sister is gay, but it does. It matters because my sister is still treated as a second class citizen and sexual orientation seems to be a major storyline of and to itself. It matters because the current crop of right-wing conservative Christian politicians are using the killing of gay rights as their battle flag. Since the economy—the same economy that the Republicans ruined—has been set onto the road to recovery by our Democratic President, and that same President has done so much to bring closure to the wars started by Bushkin and The Dickster, the Repubs have been forced to use different issues to attack.

Like a sleight-of-hand magician, these silly assholes have chosen to place gay rights and womens’ bodies on the ballot. And me, I won’t take that shit quietly. The same way I vocally protest against the anti-abortion protesters, I will vocally speak out against any anti-gay sentiment.

Until gays are afforded the equal rights they were granted under the Constitution, their gayness is an important fact.

So, in your face, motherfuckers!

And that includes you, Mother. Which reminds me. I think I’ll shave my balls to match my soon-to-be bald pate. You know, make sure the rug matches the drapes. And I’ll need some assistance to shave my big-assed head to keep it clean and shiny. How does a person see the top of their head to shave? That sounds like a new invention.

Mooner Johnson’s Bald Head Shaving Super Mirror Set. We could package it with a special shaved head after shave lotion. Hey, what if we made the lotion scent smell like sweaty balls. How fucking funny would that be?

Manana, y’all.

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

Thursday, February 2nd, 2012


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s no wonder that need so much money.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

“From Wikipedia:

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


(Author’s note: Holy fucking shit!)


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

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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?”


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.”


“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.”


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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