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Nice Rack…Slap; Mooner’s Still Nuts

Tuesday, October 18th, 2011

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bitch,” the best I had.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cheers, you crazy mothers!”

Manana. Y’all.

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Posted in ADHD, Carta Blanca Beer, Environmental Issues, Rick Perry, Squatlo | 2 Comments »

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

Friday, October 7th, 2011

 

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

Please.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m going to stop reading the paper.

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

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

Manana, y’all.

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Posted in ADHD, Religion, Rick Perry, Rush Limbaugh the pig | 33 Comments »

Republican Party Woes; Yoda Posts First Story

Tuesday, October 4th, 2011

 

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

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

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

Riiiiiight. Unh huh, that’s right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

etv29v to sow50j

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

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

Sunday, October 2nd, 2011

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like now.

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday, October 1st, 2011

 

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

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

Those kinds of coal-fired plants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Huh?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ugga-mugga-fugga UGH!

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

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

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Beach Budget Bingo; The Flim-Flam Man Rick Perry

Thursday, September 29th, 2011

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Rick Perry And Tx Aggies Taste Ass

Sunday, September 25th, 2011

 

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

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

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

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

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

Metaphors. Life’s finger pointed at dumbass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday, September 24th, 2011

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

See what I mean about cats? Fucking cat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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F-Day Friday; Mooner All F’d Up

Friday, September 23rd, 2011

 

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

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

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

Maybe I meant “primeval”[.] Maybe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Rick Perry’s Job Legacy- One Of Five Texans Lives In Poverty

Thursday, September 22nd, 2011

 

So. When I got up at 5 am this morning to take Yoda out to do his business, I intended to spend today’s time with you telling you about the amazing progress he has made. Marilyn Nichols with Happy Puppy Tutoring calls taking a pee and a dump “doing business”[.] OK, maybe it wasn’t Marilyn who said that, but it is Marilyn who is responsible for this little dog’s progress.

Which brings up an important point. My entire life—until recently—I have only had Golden Retrievers as pets. Big, smart and frisky dogs like my current beauty, Dixie. I mean I might have adopted a snake or a lizard or a skunk when I was a kid, but none of those adoptions lasted long enough for the papers to clear processing before the animal ran away, died or was shot by my grandmother.

And why doesn’t the word lizard have two Z letters? I get that lazy has the single Z, but lizard really should be lizzard. Same dealie as the word really, right. Really comes from real, with the extra L and a Y. Lizard has it’s origins in Liz, so it really needs to be lizzard.

All of my best friends have been big dogs until now. As Dixie sinks deeper into her retirement and withdrawal from my presence, my life has become infested with a menagerie of pet animals that at best must be called strange. At worst—hell, what’s the worst you can say about a man whose pets include a ten-pound half Mini-Dachshund-Chihuahua, a half Chihuahua-Terrier and also ten pounds, and a now-550-pound American Domesticated Pig and his gay lover, the 350-pound African Ostrich named Rick Perry.

Oh, yea. And a fucking cat. Can’t forget the fucking cat. Many of my blogger buddies have cats, and they are constantly writing about how their cats do this or that stupid thing. Then they say stupid shit like, “What’s up with my cat,” or “Why did she do that?”

Look, guys. I’ve only been a cat holder for a few months but I can answer every one of your cat questions using the same five words. All you cat owners write this down. Ready:

“It’s a fucking cat, dumbass!”

Should I have said six words since it’s is a contraction? Maybe I’ll print little friggie magnets and bumper stickers that say, “It’s a fucking cat, dumbass!”

OK, I’m waaaay off the reservation. When I read the newspaper this morning, a front-page story pissed me off. That’s what I’m trying to tell you about that interrupted what I originally intended to tell you about when I got up with Yoda to do his business.

You have all heard the pompous prick, Rick Perry, brag about all of the wonderful jobs he has “originated” for Texas as our governor. I will tell you that the city of Austin, my personal hometown, is the star recipient of all of Mr. Perry’s job-creating largess. We lost fewer jobs and we obtained more of the jobs that our governor stole—oopsie—I mean originated for our state.

Austin has the state’s most robust economy, strongest housing markets and supposedly best business climate. We would be the shining star of Prick Perry’s bragging on his job creationism.

However, just like Rick Perry’s preaching about Biblical Creationism as compared to Evolution, the boy’s job creationism has a few holes in it. Today’s paper printed a story with a little demographic information from the latest US Census. This information centered on populations and poverty. In Texas, the income line for poverty in a family of four is about $22,000 per year.

Last week, the paper printed a blurb that the average price in Austin to rent a two bedroom apartment is $900+ per month plus utilities. For those of you who might be math-deficient, that means that a person making less than $22,000 per year can’t afford electricity if they house their family in an average two bedroom apartment. Can’t afford to eat either. How the hell they able to watch those giant screen TV they buy with food stamps if they have no electricity?

But here’s my Rick Perry point. The recent census shows that one in every five adults in Austin is living UNDER the poverty level. That’s right, twenty-percent of the people in our state’s best economically conditioned city are paupers. Now don’t get me wrong because College Station, home to Rick Perry’s beloved Texas A & M University, has the state’s worst poverty numbers. In College Station, their numbers exceed thirty-seven percent. Thirty-seven fucking percent!

So wake the up America. Rick Perry is coming to fuck your state too.

I’m cracking a Carta Blanca beer and watching the Tivo of Dancing With The Stars. Maybe I need more than one to stomach the entire thing. I had the entire family voting for Chaz Bono, but none of us has watched it. I swore I’d watch every minute that Chaz survived the stupid fucking contest and I’m a man of my word. Manana, y’all.

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Rick Perry Screws Pooch; Southern Baptists Too

Wednesday, September 21st, 2011

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rotten motherfucking Baptist Republican asswipes.

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

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

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

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Mooner’s Prayer For Reason; Rick Perry Still A Prick

Tuesday, September 20th, 2011

 

So. Here we go again. Just when I think that the national stage has drawn Texas Governor Perry like a moth to the flames, his right-wing cohorts here to home beckon him back. I keep thinking he’ll get burned in the bright lights of the national press and ride off into the sunset. Just about the time I think he won’t be fucking around with my home state—just when it seems that the memory of him slicing the heart out of Texas’ civilization was starting to fade—some shitball issue gets raised to draw him back.

The hook to drag him home this time is the issue of Safe Havens. In Texas, some cities, like my own Austin, are safe havens for immigrants. The police and other authorities agree to a live-and-let-live philosophy towards a person’s heritage and immigration status. We don’t waste our resources hunting people down for deportation just because they aren’t paper trained.

Since our resources have been ravaged and scavenged by our prick governor and his me-first cronies, not wasting resouces to arrest hard working people seems a wise move.

But little Ricky wants to send President Obama and those nasty liberals over to Washington a message. When our last legislative session began, ridding Texas of its safe havens was one of Ricky’s Emergency Bills. Like his now-proven unconstitutional pre-abortion bonding law, the one that required a woman to develop a lasting relationship with the blob of cells in her belly before she can abort it, this Safe Haven Bill was so very fucking important that it went to the head of the line.

And remember folks, this was when Texas was facing a $27 billion state deficit (still not resolved, but rather shit-smeared and covered with the dirt of partisan politics and stinking to high heaven). Rather than focus the early days of the session with solving our state debt crisis and saving real, existing state jobs, the pompous, pious and pompadoured prick we call Governor Perry instead pandered to his right-wing Christian fan base.

He got his abortion of an abortion bill passed but not the Safe Haven Bill. Now his fuckball supporters want to help him better define his stand on immigration policy, so they are “beckoning” him back to call a special legislative session to pass it. I think the entire thing is a campaign publicity stunt, but the result is the same—Pricky Perry is coming home to screw with my life once more.

I have a prayer. “Dear Jesus, supposed Lord and Saviour, what in the fuck are you up to? When I read your book, I get the impression that you are all about peace and love, understanding and grace. But living with your followers is all about their hate and exclusion, intolerance and aggression. Please tell me, dear Redeemer and granter of everlasting life, were you lying then or are your followers lying now. There is no fucking way that any of this shit jives. If your word was the truth, would you please do something to fix this shit and shut these people up? If not, and they are actually doing what you wish them to do, then FUCK YOU AND RICK PERRY TOO! I ask this as a humble servant of all that is fair and just. Amen.”

I got some surprise sexing last night. SAC Ellen was flying from the Midwest on her way to Arizona, and stopped for a booty call. Turns out she was needing her a little Mooner, which is all I’ve got to give, and she showed up, unannounced, on my doorstep at 6:30 pm. We were just sitting for dinner, so I got her a plate and silver and placed her between Gram and Mother.

She was put there as a buffer. Mother had said something tacky about Gram’s current boyfriend—a man who must go nameless (book fodder)–and Gram took offense. “Take back wacha said, Mother. Poor Henry is rearranged, he ain’t a regular loony bird.”

My mother, a retired school teacher with a master’s degree and seemingly high intellect, can often act not bright. “He’s a lunatic and a murderer too, Gram. I simply don’t know why you have to embarrass the entire family with your shenanigans. Your sexual peccadilloes are.. are… well, they’re embarrassing.”

It was as I was holding my grandmother—both hands gripped into the back of her hemp fabric men’s dress shirt to keep her from strangling Mother—that the SACster’s knock sounded from the kitchen door. Thank goodness hemp fibers are strong. Holding on to my grandmother is like hanging on to a ninety-pound greased barbell.

“Come on in, sweetie,” I answered her knock, “will you fetch me a Carta Blanca out of the fridge. I need some bait to get unhooked from Gram and keep her from killing Mother.”

“Well, well, well,” SAC Ellen said as she walked to me with the bottle of beer. “Isn’t this where I left off on my last visit?”

The last time my Special Agent in Charge, US Department of Homeland Security was here to dinner, Gram was ready to stick a carving knife into my Mother. “No, that was a dispute about Dancing With The Stars, my little cupcake. Remember, Mother said something tacky about that guy Bruno and Gram took offense,” I reminded her. “But since Bruno looks a lot like Henry, maybe this is the same fight as before.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Mooner,” my mother said. “All I said was that Bruno seems a little fatuous, and…”

Gram almost pulled herself free of my grasp. “Don’t you go a callin’ little Bruno a fatso. Imma stick my twelve-gager up yer ass and pull both triggers.”

You know, it’s a wonder I’m not a stark-raving lunatic. Anyway, SAC Ellen told us about the seminars she gave to the fine people of Nebraska, Iowa and the Dakotas as to how to identify a terrorist and thwart an attack. When I told her that she should tell those fine folks to encourage the terrorists to go ahead and blow themselves up, you know, explode shit up there with few inhabitants and save the heavily-populated areas, she said to me, she said, “Do you want sex, or not?”

I think she suffers a loss of sense of humor when she travels. So I changed the subject and got some poontang last night. Isn’t poontang a great word? Manana, y’all.

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Mooner Plans Road Trip; Rick Perry Still A Prick

Friday, September 16th, 2011

 

So. It’s Friday and I should be so fritzed with my ADHD that I can’t sit to write. I have so much shit going on—much of which is totally out of my control—that my mind should be spinning like a turbo-charged top.

For starters, in addition to my ADHD, ADD and Obsessive-Compulsive Disorders previously disclosed on these pages, after yesterday’s intense psycho therapy sessions, I am forced to further enlighten you to the fact that I have a full-blown case of Dissociative Identity Disorder. I disagree with the diagnosis and would normally feel compelled to wax poetically and lament my ass off to you in an effort to demonstrate that my psycho therapist is wrong.

Not gonna do it. I know that my mental boarder, Don Legacy, is under my controls and that I won’t let him become a problem for any of us.

It’s also been way in excess of three weeks since I had any second-party sex. My Ivory soap bar and I are ready to set a date for my eleventh marriage, but I’m finding myself struggling to remember what a woman feels like. This alone is usually enough to send me into full panic mode. I believe that the sex you don’t have is sex you have lost. You can’t make up for lost sex when you don’t have it, it is simply gone. Poof, disappeared. I hate losing stuff, but I’m not losing my mind resultantly.

Then there would be the new puppy that I was swindled into accepting as my charge. He’s a seriously cute little shitbird, but he’s also a seriously needy person. He can’t talk to me and has so far chosen to not speak to the Squirt, so we’re forced to try to read his mind. Since he was locked in a cage for the first year of his life, he has trouble expressing himself in meaningful ways. He shits every time he pees, so I can’t yet teach him to use the sink. That means that every time he gets up in the middle of the night, I have to get up and take him outside.

And don’t tell me to get a doggy door so he can let himself out. Have you ever seen a small domesticated pet that’s been eviscerated by a coyote? Anyway, I’m going sleep-disturbed with the interruptions to my slumbers, and sleep disturbations usually make me crankier than a Model-T. And don’t try to tell me that disturbations isn’t a word. Should be, therefore, is.

But the puppy-soon-to-not-be-known as Pi is adjusting in other ways, integrating himself into my little family unit of pets. Thank god he isn’t homosexual. If he was gay I don’t know what I’d do. Rush Limbaugh is a severely jealous pig, and Rick Perry is a preening cock. I don’t have the patience to referee a gay love triangle.

But none of my pet problems is bothering me either.

Then there’s the whole political thingie with the giant tear in the fabric of American government. Anger and hate seem to be the special of the day, and I feel it ripping us apart at the seams. The right-wing Christians are trying to destroy the civilized parts of our civilization, and our President is getting criticized by many of his own supporters for not destroying back. I agree that he might have taken stronger stands on some things, but the high road is always the smart road.

The pompous prick that is Texas Governor Rick Perry continues to lead his party’s prez race even though he has been shown to be a two-faced liar, a special interest pandering crook, and as dumb as he wishes to make all Texas school kids. Even that isn’t making me crazy today.

Nope, I’m feeling chipper as Nero when Mrs. O’Leary’s cow spilled the milk. Rome might be burning at my feet, but I simply do not give a shit today. Tomorrow I might be ready to slit my own throat, but today I’m happy as a lark. Today I am starting serious work planning a road trip. Just me and some luggage in the car. No animals, no other Johnsons and no sweetie. Just me.

The trip will be from Austin, Texas up through Louisiana and Mississippi and into Tennessee. Why doesn’t Louisiana have a second “n” there to its end? I’m going to visit poker rooms in a few casinos and play my way across America on my way to visit some blogger buddies. My final destination is Murfreesboro, Tn., home of Squatlo, the Reckmonster and near to The Dumb Perignon.

The three of them are three of my favorite I-net people and I want to meet them. I also hope to make connections with others. I know Thank-Q is in Mississippi somewhere and maybe other bloggers are within the scope of my wanderings. I want to meet as many of you guys as possible while I’m out rambling, so let me know if you want to meet while I’m near you.

I’m excited about this trip. For some reason it has the senses of what I imagine a mail-order bride feels when heading out to meet her groom for the first time.

Of course, it also looks like it may rain here for the first time since mid-May.

Anyway, let me know if you are in or near my path and you want to take the time to have a beer and a chat. I’m working the I-net to find drinking establishments who offer Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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Pious Pompadored Prick Rick Perry; The Idiocy Of Faith

Monday, September 12th, 2011

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Huh?

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

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

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

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

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

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The New Minority Majority Leader; Who Is John Boehner?

Thursday, September 1st, 2011

 

So. I was just watching the early morning news and they were doing a story on the silly spat over the President’s speech about jobs next week. I think both sides exhibited childish behaviors in this little dealio, but that’s not what struck me when I saw the story.

Nope, what caught my attention was, when they placed video of the Prez and House Speaker Boehner side-by-side, I did a double-take. OK, let me fully disclose the situation before I get my pecker in a crack.

We were at breakfast, the entire Johnson crew. Since it’s Thursday, everyone eats a hearty breakfast and then heads to the garden where we’ll strip our spindly veggie stalks of what little produce is left on their drought-dried stems. That meager harvest will go with the animals and me {myself?} to the Food Bank. I firmly believe that it is a crime to let a neighbor go hungry.

Maybe somebody wants to steal that for use as their motto or slogan or whateverthefuck you call your thingie. You have my permission to steal it. Hunger scares me. Having hungry Americans make me mad.

After the Food Bank drop-off, we’re headed to San Antonio to meet an ostrich rancher. My vet didn’t have much confidence in his abilities to administer proper health care for Rick Perry, and this guy is an expert with the big African birds.

Anyway, we were at the breakfast table with the TV on in the corner of the room. I was reading the newspaper—sports section—and how the Texas A&M is moving to the SEC. “It’s about fucking time,” I said to no one and everyone at the same time. “The Aggies are acting like the Governor with this SEC business, dragging the announcement out like it’s the most important decision ever.”

I grumbled something else and was startled when my Gram burst out laughing.

“Would ya lookie there, hahahahahaaa!”

She was clutching her bony ribs in her left arm and pointing to the TV with her right index finger. For some reason I’m always reminded of the witch with the bad compass headings from the Wizard of Oz when my Gram points.

We all looked at the TV, and the side-by-side vids. It took a couple seconds, but one-by-one we each caught Gram’s drift and started hooting ourselves.

When the story was over, it was Mother who best said what we all thought.

“Oh my goodness. That John Boehner is blacker than the President. I had no idea that he was an African American,” Mother said. “If he’s African American how can he be so strongly against social programs? We need to be able to count on our minority politicians to fight for social justice.”

Exactly.

I need to go join the harvest crew and make sure Gram doesn’t shoot Rush Limbaugh. The big hog has a tendency to get under her skin. So ice down the Carta Blanca beer and get ready for another scorcher. Manana, y’all.

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Haku Winners Announced; Texas Governor Rick Perry Still An Asshole

Monday, August 29th, 2011

 

So. Today is the big announcement day for the winner of the Mooner Johnson’s Fuck Rick Perry! Haiku Contest. Maybe this is the the “First Annual” installment of said contest. If the silly shitbrain we call our governor makes a deep run for President, I’ll feel compelled to do this one more once.

The entries were many and varied. For shear volume, the Reckmonster is the clear winner. My sweet baby entered early and often. Brandon from over to My Own Private Idaho had several solid entries, and the two of them are the winners. Please overlook the fact that both are also among the early entries to my Bloggie Roller.

Gram says to me, she said, “Yer playin’ favor-ites, Mooner, ya little shitbird. Ya need ta let sumbody else win.”

In a way I agree with Gram. It would be better for my circulation if I was more inclusive with my awards. But I promised you nothing but truth, justice and full disclosures on these pages and the announcement of the winners further reinforces my appointments to the Bloggie Roller. I can’t “let” anyone in particular win, I need to let everyone in particular win.

Alright, stop. That should make sense but it just doesn’t. I was required in the name truth and honesty to not have prejudice in naming winners. Now that I’ve said that, I realize I have an entirely new set of problems. Think about this:

Since I am the judge, and I will be using my brain to judge; and my brain is fulled with experiences that influence my thinking; and, I’m a crazy ADHD-addled crazy fuckbrain; then, how in the hell can this contest have unbiased judging? How can a person using his brain to judge, be an unbiased judge?

I was disappointed that neither of my other entries over to the Roller even bothered to enter. Thank-Q was busy, so I understand his absence. Squatlo is a different can of beans in the altogether. Squatlo, is seems, is embarrassed with his skills as a poet. Embarrassment is a concept I’ve never managed to grasp so I find myself feeling a touch of superiority with this insight.

As smart as he is, I’m required to dig deep and stretch the fabric of reason to find ways to look down at Bob.

Anyway, Brandon is the winner of the “Most effective basic haiku” category with the following verse:

Thumping his Bible

All the way to President?

NO! FUCK RICK PERRY!

Clear, concise and straight to my point. Congratulations, Brandini.

The Reckmonster’s win is in the “Most Creative use of thematic materials” category. Check this one out:

FUCK politics, man.

RICK wants to be President

PERRY? Maybe Steve.

I love both her linear and Reck-d’linear logic strings. Three cheers for both winners! As soon as I get my fucking book published I’ll get autographed copies in the mail. Which reminds me.

Did you guys see where the mini-brained religious shitball we call governor is asking the Feds for $349 million of new aid? That’s right, little mister “We don’t need no Federal assistance” is practically demanding the money to pay for illegal alien prisoners in our jails. Ricky’s idea on this one is to make the Feds look bad because we lack safe borders and let all the riff-raff into our state.

What he fails to mention is that his very own “Job Growth”[,] which forms the backbone of his Presidential campaign, has attracted thousands of undocumented workers to our state to snatch up all of those amazing job opportunities the Prickster is bragging about. All of those high-paying new positions with huge salaries. Ri—ght. When your population is populaced with an influx of illegals, your fucking prison populations will generally reflect said populace.

Two-faced, lying sack of shit. FUCK RICK PERRY!

Is “populaced” a word? Maybe I should have said, “…your fucking prison populace will reflect said population.” Of course, I would need to change the first part of the sentence structure as well.

But whateverthefuck, Rick Perry is an evil little shitball.

Ugh. Need Carta Blanca beer. Manana, y’all.

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Rick Perry Shops For Sex Toys; Ostrich Grateful For Mooner’s Thoughtfulness

Saturday, August 27th, 2011

 

So. It’s Friday and time to clean up my trashy website. First, I will be announcing the winner of the FUCK RICK PERRY! Haiku Contest on Monday. I’ll take entries into the contest through Sunday. The winner(s) will receive an autographed copy of my new book, Full Rising Mooner.

How many books would I need to give away to become a best-selling author? I think it would be a trip if people started introducing me as “best-selling author Mooner Johnson”[.] What a nice change of pace that would be. “The inappropriate redneck fuck brain, Mooner Johnson” is a little shop worn.

I was going to tell you the names some of the leaders of the contest, and also display their crafty three-line poems. But that would taint the jury pool and nobody likes tainted pools. I do like taints, however. That particular part of a woman’s nether-regions is, well, wonderful.

Maybe I need some sexing. SAC Ellen has been traveling the country working hard to address what Homeland Security calls “Domestic Terrorism”[.] She investigates many of the lunatic fringe who manage to catch the eyes of investigators here to the homeland. I’m trying to get her to investigate the prick Rick Perry and his band of propheteers.

That bunch are the biggest threat to our nation’s security since the Russians parked nuclear-armed ICBM missiles down there to Cuber in the sixties. Which reminds me. When will it become necessary to say “the nineteen-sixties” instead of simply the sixties? Does that time hit the clock when we pass another sixties era—like in 2060 we will be required to say 1960—or is it rather when the majority of our population is born after 1969 and lacks the perspective to grasp meaning?

Speaking of sixty-nine, I took the ostrich Rick Perry to the vet yesterday to have the wooden deer statue removed from his ass. Rush Limbaugh, Rick Perry’s piggish gay lover, had stuffed it up there during sex.

“Jesus, Mooner,” Doc Martin started when he took his first gander at the giant bird’s ass. “I don’t make enough money for this shit.”

“He’s adopted, Doc,” I answered, “and there’s no telling what sort of abuse he endured before he ran away from the ostrich ranch. Maybe they made him live with a bunch of emus. Emus are nasty creatures.”

Doc Martin looked me dead in the eye. “Don’t go blaming your bad parenting on natural selection, Mooner. Rick Perry is gay by choice, not chance, and it’s all your fault.”

I let the comment pass and held Ricky’s head to keep him from macing the vet as he plucked the wooden buck from his ass. I don’t mean the bird would spray the vet with toxic spray, but, rather, he would clock the Baptist asshole with a swing of his rock-hard head. The deer pulled free with a sucking sound—at least the boys use generous globs of lube—and the sucking sound was followed by the disturbing splats of an ostrich shit.

“Dammit, Mooner, he just shit all over my shoes.”

“That’s because you are a Baptist bigot and an ignorant fuckball,” I replied. “Now clean yourself up and take a look at my cat.”

Turns out the cat is about a year old and is healthy as a horse. The only problem with the cat’s exam was when Doc Martin again called me a bad parent. Honor hissed and spit at him and then shredded the hem of his lab coat. When we checked out I noticed a $35.00 entry on my bill to make amends.

I’m concerned about the Squirt’s tooter though. The asshole vet thinks he might need to surgically remove the flap of skin surrounding it—sort of a circumcision dealie. We discussed it on the way to the sex toy store and Squirt told me, “No fucking way,” in German, French, Swahili and what I think was Mandarin Chinese.

Shopping with my crew is always interesting. Taking Rick Perry to buy gay sex toys is a fucking trip. He was like a 350-pound kid in a China closet the way be ran from display to display, gazing at all the items with his billiard-ball eyes. He wanted to try everything in the entire store on, or out, or in. I showed him the big sign that said, “You insert it, you own it!”

“The best we can do is discuss how things work, how you use them and their pluses and minuses,” I told him when he got cranky with the rules. “I’m not buying you one of everything in the store.”

We were discussing cock rings and Honor had reached her limit. The little cat shook her head at us and went out to the truck. I don’t haul Rick Perry or Rush Limbaugh either one in my GTO. Squirt joined the cat at t the truck when the ostrich wanted to know how to use a string-of-pearls.

We finished shopping and took his choices to the checkout stand—four cock rings in various colors , Super X size; an assortment of of rabbit vibrators; a case of the new sensual men’s lube; and a thirty-six-inch two-headed black rubber pecker with studs on each end.

A very sexy younger woman was at the register. She was wearing a rubber thong bikini and had tattoos showing on all the exposed skin up to her ears. Every body part that can be pierced was pierced, she had alligator electric clamps pinched onto her nipples, and she clutched the control handle of a rabbit in her hand—the wire of which disappeared into the front of the bikini bottom.

With a dreamy smile on her face, she said to me, she said, “Please lay your purchases on the counter, sir.”

I did, and the dreamy look turned to one of shock. She looked from me to my bird, then down at our selections. “You are a dirty old man,” she sneered. “You’re dis-gusting!”

“These aren’t for me, little lady, they’re for Rick Perry here, and his gay lover Rush Limbaugh. Rushie stayed home to get ready for some sexing with these toys when they arrive.”

My farm truck is an old one-ton Ford flatbed with full wooden slatted side boards. The framework and planks are all made of thick cedar planks from trees we’ve cleared to expand the garden. It has a slide window behind the single seat cab, so the cat, dog and I sit on the seat and the ostrich sits in a harness in the back with his head inside the cabin. It took me quite a while to get comfortable having his basketball-sized head wandering around the cab of the truck.

It can be quite a shock as you’re driving down IH 35 at 65 MPH and you’re suddenly eye-to-eye with a bird head that sports a shovel-sized beak. Did you know that he can break your leg bones with that beak?

Anyway, I guess he appreciates my assistance in the deer statue removal and sex toy buying trip. His has laid his head on my shoulder and keeps sighing big sighs. Even with my 20% off coupon, I spent almost $200.00 at the toy store and every trip to the vet is expensive for a six-foot tall bird. When he nuzzled my neck and hummed a little, I said to him, “You’re welcome, Ricky.”

I can’t figure why people say I’m a bad parent.

I took the cat and dog fishing when we got back so that Rush and Ricky could have my wing of the house to themselves for a few hours. We packed our Carta Blanca beer into the wheeled cooler and took off. Life in the now high desert. It may never rain again.

Manana, y’all.

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Rush Limbaugh Stuffs Wooden Deer In Rick Perry’s Ass; Mooner Forced To Teach Gay Pig And Ostrich Sex Ed

Thursday, August 25th, 2011

 

So. I’ve only got time to dash off a quickie this morning. I’ve a full Thursday schedule and each entry is important to accomplish today. First we’ll go pick the remains of our drought-ravaged garden for whatever produce we can take down to the food bank. The already seventy days of 100-plus degrees summer temps have pretty much dry-boiled everything. Melons and cukes and a few peppers are all we have left in any quantities.

After that, it’s off to the vet with the Squirt, Honor the cat and Rick Perry. The cat needs her one-year check up, my giant ostrich needs a rectal exam, and Squirt’s adorable little tooter is infected again. As for the cat, I’m guessing that she’s a year old. Not being a cat person, a guess is the best I can do. The only cat we ever had out here to the ranch was this black monster of Gram’s named Lucifer.

Use your imagination.

The Squirt has a flap of vaginal skin that traps moisture around the cute little heart-shaped vulva that hangs from her hiney. I try to keep it treated with medicated wipes, but the summer heat seems to give her what seems to me to be a yeast infection back there.

The gay ostrich is another situation altogether. My Aunt Hilda, who lives in Gram’s wing of the ranch house with her shrunken-head-in-a-box she calls Dubbie J, collects rodent figurines. My crazy old aunt has hundreds of mice and rats and rabbits and a bunch of the hoven-foot variety of rodent—deer. I wish deer would just go the fuck away. They are almost as destructive as wild pigs and people actually feed them to help sustain untenable herds of the antlered fuckers.

Anyway, Rick Perry was up early this morning banging me on the shoulder with his shovel-sized beak in an attempt to wake me from a dream. I don’t have time to tell you about the dream save to say one thing. Think, “Three-holed condoms.”

Since it was as cool as it will be all day at 5 am, I decided to get up with my pet bird and walk outside with him. He had a pained expression on his face as he walked in circles looking for an appropriate spot for his morning constitutional. Usually this is a thirty-second dance before he plops an eight-pound load to the turf. This morning’s dance more resembled a frantic game of Musical Chairs.

He’d circle, squat and grunt, crane his long neck to look at his butt with those billiard ball eyes of his—grimace—and circle some more. After maybe fifteen minutes of this silliness, I walked into his flight path… OK, wait. He can’t actually fly, but like I said, he was flying around in frantic circles. I managed to get him stopped.

“What’s wrong, big guy?” I queried. “You look distressed.”

He looked at me, craned his neck to look at his ass and then back at me. He cocked his head from side-to-side as he stared into my eyes like he was attempting a Vulcan mind meld.

“Oh, I get it, you want me to look at your ass.”

My answer was him shuffling his ass around and jamming it in my face. I was 6’4” before I started shrinking and I’m still north of 6’3”. Rick Perry’s ass was nearly at eye level. I backed off to give myself room to focus just as the big bird made his “taking a shit” move.

Thank god nothing came out.

I spied something irregular protruding from his fuzzy anus. “Whatthefuckisthat, Ricky? It looks like you’ve got tree growing out your ass.”

I looked closer. “Oh for shitsakes, you are disgusting!”

What I mistook for a tree was actually one of Aunt Hilda’s wooden deer figurines—a buck with a huge rack of antlers. “How in the ever-loving fuck did you get that stuck up your…”

Ick. Fucking ick. ICK and YUK and UGH!

Look, I understand that ass play is an important part of homosexual sex. Hell, it’s a part of any kind of sex. But a foot-long, four-legged wooden deer statue with an eight-inch rack of pointy horns?

“OK, young man. After I take you to the vet to get this thing removed from your ass, I’m sitting you and Rush Limbaugh down for another sex education lesson. When I told you it was OK to stick stuff up your butt, I expected you to be smart about it. I know you guys don’t have fingers—but a fucking wooden deer?”

Now he started crying and put his thirty-pound head on my shoulder, his smelly yellow-staining tears soaking into my UT tee shirt. “It’s OK, buddy. My bad. I should have given you a few options for use as butt plugs.”

One of the reasons I named the giant bird who runs in circles and hides his head from ridicule “Rick Perry” is because he lacks any measurable native intelligence. “I should have known to give you more information. How about I take you over to the sex toy shop after the vet?”

I walked him into the house and called to leave a message for the vet that he’d be seeing the Johnson cat, dog and ostrich today.

The thought that somehow Rush Limbaugh the pig stuffed a foot-long deer statue up his gay lover’s ass is… well it’s unsettling.

I’d drink a Carta Blanca beer if I didn’t have to drive. Manana, y’all.

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Welly, Welly, welly Well; Rick Perry Is Bad For The Environment

Tuesday, August 23rd, 2011

 

So. I’ve got this huge fucking debate roiling around in my head. It started as I was getting ready to start the water to cook the pasta to go with the turkey meatballs we made for dinner. I drew the “protein” card for tonight’s dinner and Squirt drew a “carbohydrate” card. I figured that I can kill two birds with the single dish by teaching the Squirt how to make meatballs and pasta.

I’m a multi-tasking son of a bitch.

I got the big pasta pot out of the pantry. When I say the “big” pot I’m differentiating between the three other pasta pots we have. I’ve got the baby bear pasta pot, momma bear, daddy bear and then the great big fucking bear of pasta pots. Since we’ll number nine humans, on each dog, cat, American domesticated hog and a single African ostrich populating the dinner table—the big pasta pot is the order of the day. It’s the same pot I use to steam blue crabs and boil crawfish.

Which reminds me. Squatlo. Listen up. It’s crawfish, not crayfish. Crayfish is what sissies call mud bugs.

I got the pot out and I was telling my little dog about how you need to have a sufficient quantity of water when you cook pasta if you want to cook it correctly. Normally the cat we call Honor would be tailing me as well, but she was out hunting for some doves. Honor drew an “appetizer” card and wanted to offer some grilled birdies. Last I noticed she had collected two doves, three sparrows, half-a-dozen lizards and a rat.

I am not eating the fucking rat. I don’t care how you cook them they ALWAYS taste like rat.

Squirt and I decided to make the meatballs from ground turkey—not my choice—but not altogether bad. We made the meatballs with fresh Mexican oregano, onion and garlic in a fine dice, Parma-Reggi, bread crumbs from a left-over ciabatta loaf, and this nifty smoked paprika I got from Spain.

OK, let’s stop for one minute. Up there when I typed “ciabatta”[,] I got red squiggly lines. When I highlighted it to see what I did wrong, my Vista operating system spell checker dealie gave me the following choices: adiabatic, abattoir, battalion, and coattail. What in the fuck?

I’m starting to wonder if maybe Texas Governor Rick Perry had something to do with this. What with all the dumbing-down of our schools in Texas, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the little Prickster was involved.

Of course, it might also be that the Vista Spell Checker Programmer Team up to Microsoft are all devious assholes hellbent to ruin my life.

Anyway, I took the big pot to the sink to fill it with water. I moved the spout over the pot and turned it on. “Alto, Senor Mooner,” Squirt barked at me. “Stop, I said. Tu ne veux pas d’eau chaude?”

I looked down at the little dog and found myself somewhat perplexed at her question. She was right. Did I want hot water from the spout to the pot, wasting many gallons of precious H2O as it ran the pipes from my solar heater, or should I rather put the first gallons to spill from the spout into the pot and spend more propane gas energy to heat that?

“That’s a mighty smart question, little lady. We’ve got a solar water heating system but the only way to maker it “instant hot” is to pump it around using electricity—a total waste of energy. So, our debate here is this: are we better off to waste the water to get it hot or the propane to get the first cold water heated?”

After my ranting at the Prickster, Rick Perry, this morning, I think I need to be cautious with my own water/energy consumptions. Which reminds me. Can you believe that little fuckball is associated with those crazy modern day prophet shits? I don’t know where my head has been, but little Ricky has been sleeping with that bunch of charismatic Christians who think God comes to speak with them on a regular basis, and I was unaware.

After Jim Jones and David Koresh and the rest of those silly fuckers, you’d think those dumb asses would think twice before saying silly shit like, “God came to me early this morning to tell me that He was killing some blackbirds up to Arkansas because Billy Clinton is from Arkansas, and he put that “don’t ask, don’t tell” dealie in the Army, and that’s why Hurricane Katrina blasted New Orleans and Elvis died young.”

Then again, before I go getting all sanctimonious about that entire dealie I might need to rethink a little as well. Seems I’ve been visited by the big guy myownself a few times. Maybe I should have said “The Big Guy”[.] He seems to visit me when I’m all drugged out on pain meds. Maybe I should drown a few Vicadin with a few icy-cold Carta Blancas and plan a visit.

Having said all of that, I think I have an answer to my question. Energy is a commodity available in thousands of resources. Everything from coal to rubber bands can produce energy. But water is a single source entity—the only water we have is the water we’ve got.

So, therefore, I officially decree that water trumps energy.

All of which has given me an idea. What if I can invent a fresh pasta that cooks in cold water? Anybody have any ideas?

Manana, y’all.

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Save The Mother Ship: Fuck Rick Perry!

Monday, August 22nd, 2011

 

So. Today is to be a work day for me. That is to say that I need to go to my office out to Mooners Compost Plant and push some paper around. It’s been too hot for people to do any gardening or landscaping so our compost sales are really slow.

Mulch sales are brisk since one way to prevent the dehydration of your soil is to cover it with mulch. With water rationing an every-summer reality, I find it interesting that people keep watering un-mulched beds with bare soil.

Of course I also find it aggravating to see people watering the street with their automatic sprinkler systems. And people who run their fucking automatic systems more than the allotted number of days piss me off.

OK, now I’m mad. Will everybody please wake the fuck up and think. Rick Perry is wrong. God did not create Earth so that big business can rape and pillage it for profits. Wasteful, casual environmental practices are killing our planet. And our abuses of the limited potable water resources are likely what will be the end of us.

Of the many things that I find incredulous about the Christian right politicos, their attitude about the environment is the one I can least understand. All of this talk about love and nurturing and family and peace and all of those platitudinal rhetorics that those silly shitballs espouse are, in my fevered brain, negated by their positions on the environment.

Ever since I had a peyote button experience when I was seventeen, I have held the strong conviction that our Earth is a giant Mother Ship—the spacecraft that carries all of the lifeforms on our planet on a long-term trip. I’m unsure if the trip is a perpetual travel plan with no final destination or if we’re headed someplace in particular.

But I have absolute certainty that we are quickly fouling our spaceship’s operating and life support systems. I don’t think we will ever get to whereverthefuck it is we are headed.

OK, stop a second. The aforementioned “peyote button experience” wasn’t a one-button weekend. It was a month of July spent in the New Mexico dessert with Streaker Jones and His daddy. Streaker Jones’ father was a Peyote Indian medicine man, a spiritual guide of his people who was plucked from his reservation by the army to serve during WWII. Somehow he ended his army journey dropped—broke and friendless—from the troop train in Austin, Texas at war’s end.

He took Streaker Jones and me on a trip to collect the peyote buttons he needed for his medicine. We spent the days of that month walking the dusty earth of western New Mexico plucking the fruit of the peyote cactus, and the nights were spent drinking Carta Blanca beer and listening to the old man tell us the Peyote Indian version of history.

We didn’t ingest the drug every day, but after the first week I remember that I managed to maintain the desired state of enlightenment that a “seeker of truth” needed with just a few buttons a week. For me, one desired effect of the peyote was that my ADHD calmed to where all the thoughts in my head organized themselves. I still had the same numbers of thoughts, but I could organize them to where only one or two were primaries and the others blended into the fabric of my mind.

Anyway, this one night we were leaning against our sleeping bags, listening to a story of how Earth first became inhabited with near-human inhabitants. Talking Feathers, that was his abbreviated name, was telling the story and I was enraptured with it. With a full bladder of Carta Blanca, I got up to pee and walked away from our little camp, the desert’s night sky bright with stars.

I closed my eyes to pee, enjoying the feeling you can only get from a good pee event. At some point I opened my eyes, stared at the stars and was hit smack-dab in the face with a truth. I was hit with a true epiphany.

“We humans are marooned on a space ship just like those two guys in the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey. And pollution is our HAL 9000!”

Holy shit. Judging from the rate of my digressions in less than two pages of story, I could use a peyote button now.

OK, look. What I’m trying to say is this. If a man truly believes that God created the earth and all of its creatures—creatures both great and small—then don’t we have the fucking OBLIGATION to protect that earth and its creatures? If I truly think that God made me the earth’s shepherd, don’t I need to be sure that I don’t ruin the farm?

Shouldn’t I be concerned that my wasteful uses of water will run the stock tanks dry? Shouldn’t I be concerned that my ruining the ozone layer will create climate changes that lay my soil fallow?

Shouldn’t I have just a teeny-weenie-itsie-bitsy bit of concern that my reckless, wasteful environmental habits are killing my spaceship? Shouldn’t I worry that me being an asshole will cause my spaceship to suffer a shift in its planetary relationship with the sun and that we’ll start spinning out of control and squish everything back into primordial stew under the crush of gravity?

Ugh.

Folks, Texas governor Rick Perry is an asshole. An asshole in many ways. While most of his co-runners on the Republican side of the presidential race are lackadaisical towards the environment, the little prick Rick Perry is the environment’s serial killer. He has systematically killed the Texas environment since he first took office, and he’s looking to start killing an environment near you.

FUCK RICK PERRY before Rick Perry Fucks you.

Now, save a few gallons of water and go pee in the sink. Spaceship Mother Earth will be grateful. Manana, y’all.

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